Max has been home sick with croup since Wednesday. He sounds like a San Francisco Bay harbor seal crossed with a wheezy broken accordion. He's happily resting in my bed with his iPad. I'm constantly amazed at how big he's growing. At 76 pounds and 54" tall, I can no longer pick him up.
A most precious glimpse into his developing maturity, kind nature, and sharp mind is listening to him teach and coach his sister on her reading and spelling. A few days ago, he was quizzing her on sight words by writing them on the magnetic erase board, then he'd have her read it. He taught her that if the word ended in "e" the "'e' reaches over and tickles the vowel to say its own name."
May had her kindergarten music program last night. She was excited to wear her pretty dress and performed her songs like a pro. She takes her school work very seriously and wants to do well in everything...mainly because she loves praise and likes the feeling of success. She is very conscious of what her peers think (of her and the world) in a way that Max has never been. She is more susceptible to peer pressure than her brother. Max says, "she's a diva." Hahahaha!
Friday, November 14, 2014
Thursday, November 13, 2014
The Original Secret Service
They'll always be my little babies, even with size 4 feet...whiskers one day...boyfriends...all those big things. I'm their Secret Service. To get to them, you have to go through me. No hesitation. I will shoot first, f*&kers. I am the job: I am Mom.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Friday, August 22, 2014
Grieving, wishing for peace
Grieving. What is there really to say? It is horrible, dark. But, I have found that there is a lot to say. I've never had to grieve for someone before, not really. Looking back, I know the grieving started long before her death. Every day of worrying about her, wishing I could make things different, watching the pain and suffering...that was all full of grief. I had to stay strong, though, for her and for me and for our family. Going on and keeping our lives moving in the midst of the nightmare was so important.
When she finally passed on, there was almost no feeling. It was surreal that my powerful, independent, ferociously loving mother could be gone from the planet. Where did she go? Was she still with me as she always said she would be? Others cried and wanted to provide comfort. I couldn't accept their emotions; I wasn't ready for comfort and felt awkward showing the weakness of my heart.
When my 90-year-old grandfather died nine months later, it seemed peaceful and right. It was easy to mark his passing; he had lived a full and vibrant life with so many children and friends. My little daughter kept saying, "I wish my Grandma was lucky like Grandpa Gene."
So now, over a year later, the grieving seems more poignant, more piercing. There are days when I think of her only in abstraction (each chime of the grandfather clock says her name) and others, like today, that I can't stop the guilt and sadness from seeping into everything. Why hadn't I been able to be a better daughter?
In her untrained, innocent way my daughter prays for her each night before bed and at breakfast every morning. My son seeks her comfort when his feelings are hurt, crying, "I want Grandma! I wish Grandma was here." There is no answer for this; I can only hold him and rock.
Grieving still. Standing vigil for her memory. Wishing for peace.
When she finally passed on, there was almost no feeling. It was surreal that my powerful, independent, ferociously loving mother could be gone from the planet. Where did she go? Was she still with me as she always said she would be? Others cried and wanted to provide comfort. I couldn't accept their emotions; I wasn't ready for comfort and felt awkward showing the weakness of my heart.
When my 90-year-old grandfather died nine months later, it seemed peaceful and right. It was easy to mark his passing; he had lived a full and vibrant life with so many children and friends. My little daughter kept saying, "I wish my Grandma was lucky like Grandpa Gene."
So now, over a year later, the grieving seems more poignant, more piercing. There are days when I think of her only in abstraction (each chime of the grandfather clock says her name) and others, like today, that I can't stop the guilt and sadness from seeping into everything. Why hadn't I been able to be a better daughter?
In her untrained, innocent way my daughter prays for her each night before bed and at breakfast every morning. My son seeks her comfort when his feelings are hurt, crying, "I want Grandma! I wish Grandma was here." There is no answer for this; I can only hold him and rock.
Grieving still. Standing vigil for her memory. Wishing for peace.
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