Anna's Rare Bird

Typically, I never would've left a comment.  There were already hundreds.  Anna had so much love pouring in on her blog already after the accident.  What difference could one more "I'm so, so sorry" possibly make?

A world of difference, actually.

To me, to their family, to the wall of grief threatening to swallow them whole.

When a twelve-year old boy is swept away in a neighborhood creek, never to return home again, all bets are off.  Everything is wrong.  The world is no longer playing by the rules.

Adding my voice to the many hearts opened and hurting that day led me to care and awkwardly pray for a family I've never met, for a boy I couldn't fathom was gone, to a God I wasn't sure was listening.

The Donaldsons haven't left my heart since.  They haven't left the heart of millions.  I believe our voices mattered to a family needing to see miracles.  To feel unearthly love.  To know compassion on a larger scale than they have ever known before.

And we need them in return.

After Anna's book, Rare Bird, comes out that circle of hearts will widen and more people will be forever moved by their story and their boy named Jack.  More people will learn how to bring comfort when the worst thing imaginable happens to a family.  More people will understand how to keep waking up when the act of living does not feel like an option.  More people will have hope.

Rare Bird: A Memoir of Loss and Love 

By Anna Whiston-Donaldson

Anna's grief unfolds real time in Rare Bird, just as it does on her blog.  Her shock is delicately transparent as she tries to process the incredible trauma it is to lose a child.  Anna does not hide how she and her family suffer, fight, and struggle to be the cohesive unit they just were.  She allows us to see how every little detail of her life, even the privacy of her own driveway, is brutally unrecognizable.  There is no point in pretending.  Anna doesn't need dramatic words to help us understand her pain.  She simply describes her days, layer by layer, while we walk with her and force ourselves to breathe.

I rest a bible underneath my copy of Rare Bird while I read.  As if doing so will negate the outcome, somehow bring Jack back to her.  It's an unread powder blue-of-the-softest-leather-bible I bought at a thrift store.  I know Anna would give that purchase a thumb's up and coupling it with the story of a mother's greatest pain seems right to me.  It is my crutch when I want to deny the details of that terrifying afternoon.  Anna's words gently lead up to that indescribable moment when she feels in her soul that "...Jack is gone forever." A moment that riddles your arms with goosebumps that flush through to your toes.  Anna's honest disclosure is both horrifying and divine all wrapped in one. That glimmer of knowing without understanding how you know.

One of the first impossibles.

Anna goes on to reveal many more inexplicable moments.  Signs of Jack where there should only be trees.  An unexpected visitor who brings her peace when she only knows anguish.  Premonitions that would typically be cast aside as coincidence.  A deep connection that escapes reason yet somehow brings comfort.  Despite crippling heartache and constant longing for Jack, there is a connection.
 

 

Things that should be impossible but are not.  Because once you get to know Jack, you understand his life verse in new and fascinating ways. "Nothing is Impossible with God" is more than a collection of prophetic words.  It's a glimpse into a vast inter-connected place with the kind of beauty you only get from a boy with such soulful eyes.

You will fall in love with the entire family.  Anna has such gift with words that allowing you in to her world feels like a visit over tea.  Add to that her refreshing funny bone and you just want to ask The Donaldsons to wait up for you for their next camping trip.  They are each unforgettable.

But it is Anna's daughter, Margaret, who shines like a comet for me in this book.  She is a witty, real life broken-hearted warrior who inadvertently inspires her parents to keep going.  As you would imagine, Margaret tends to her own overwhelming loss in private ways, right for a 10 year old girl.  Her natural charm springs off the page, intimating at the humor she shares with her brother, the one that forever glues four people together, not three.

Living without Jack is not something Anna, Tim, Margaret, or anyone who loves him ever planned on having to do.  Nobody ever dreamed it would be a reality.  But now, after reading Rare Bird, I can see it is a daily reality they each must make on many different levels.  A choice that will never feel easy or right.

But one that is somehow, beyond all understanding, beginning to feel possible.

Feverish Time

Abby's fever is hovering between 101.7 and 103.5.  I've already texted a trusted mom friend asking which number do we hit before DEFCON ice cube bath.  We agreed 104 is the number.  104.5 is grabbing car keys and screaming directives to the dog sitter.

My Ninjas (in-laws) are here visiting and I have no idea how to keep an arsenal of preschool germs from entering their immune system.  I'm protecting mine well with gin from a second Tom Collins.

There's a fan Andy brought in to our room (sickbay) that is both keeping Abby cool and me hard of hearing. This white noise brings me back to teenage years.  My brother, Eric, sleeping in 'til noon after a late night at the restaurant.  It was never less than 64 degrees near his bed so I'd curl up on the futon, snuggling close the afghan with diamond holes in it.  Sometimes I'd get in a whole episode of Saved By the Bell before he ever stirred.  Then his feet would wiggle Hello.

Sadie's on high alert with Abby's fever.  She stays close by which is typical when things go awry in our house.  As if her presence alone will bring strength to some invisible structure only she sees adding up.  She's right.  Love molecules do accrue when she's near.

She's a walking shield of healing.

Lately, I've wanted to sit with time instead of curse its passing.  There's no sure-fire way but stillness comes close to damming the steady flow of minutes.


Abby's calling for me, calling for "Mama" and when I'm with her she thanks me so profusely it's bordering on hallucinations.  "You're the best, Mama.  Please no more wet cloths on my shoulders, it's so, so hot.  Thank you for taking good care of me, Mama.  Will it hurt when all these colors break?  What did you say, Mama?"

Nothing, Baby.  Close your eyes and try to sleep.  The fever calms when you are resting.  

Growth Spurt

As usual, it is a race against the clock to get myself out the door for Abby's preschool end-of-year program.  While Andy waits in the car for his snippy wife, I am locking doors, grabbing lip balm, and circling back for sunglasses.  I head for the tissues just in case.  Too little, too late.  Ready tears push down my face and the only thing Andy is waiting on now is for me to pull my sh*t together.  

Wasn't I just holding Abby's little hand as she jumped into puddles at Grayson's preschool?  I was.  I can see her little impish grin.  She was wearing her tiny brown sandals that squeaked.  Didn't I just have to figure out how to get green paint out of her bellybutton or decipher her cries when Grayson wasn't around to read her mind?  Weren't we just hugging our friends and families goodbye in driveways of Virginia?  

Time flies isn't really accurate.  It's more like Time crawls, stalls, then lunges forward in one pitiful pile of tears at 8:45 one sunny Monday morning.  

"Mommy, are you OK?" asks a worried graduating preschooler. 

"Yes, Baby.  I think it's allergies, all this pollen."

"I think I have pollen, too, Mommy."  Oh my dear hearted sympathy-crying baby girl.  You're my last shot at getting this right or wrong or just getting it at all.  After you, I stroll into a new plateau of scary unknowns and itchy years of aching for these days.  I don't want to ache for them and had convinced myself I would most certainly not but the twinge is already here - a pang of please come back and let me rock you to sleep, sweetheart.  The new life won't be awful, I know I'm looking a gift horse in the mouth, but it's going to be different and right now, I just want it to all be the same.  Why can't we ever rest in sameness?

The tissue-searching meltdown helped me get through Abby's program without one gulp of tears.  She sang out proudly in tight jeggings and a rainbow zebra-striped tank top.  She stood out and stole the show for me among her peers of summery dresses and neatly parted hairdos.  My girl isn't like the others and my heart can hardly hold itself still when I watch her beautiful difference up there - signing with those little hands for all she's worth:  "Yes, Jesus Loves Me." If pride feels like a panic attack then I was as proud as I've ever been.  Vertigo threatened to take me down but I talked myself into a standing ovation instead. 

Ah, Feelers and all their inconvenient Feelings.   

I'm sure my real breakdown won't happen until the fall.  The summertime still affords me many crazed and frustrated hours of aimless hours to fill.  I cannot wait.  It will be one of our last summers where they'll call me Mommy, where we'll have adventures in our backyard, or they'll be ok with not hanging out with their friends all day long.  It'll be one of our last summers that this familiar trio will be connected at the hip for weeks on end.  It will be sweaty but it will be cozy and good.

Soon after, I'll have to plunk them both down on the school bus and be useless to anyone for 8 hours a day. Is this the quiet I've been pining for when it's 4pm and I can no longer read a recipe to its completion in the din of living?  Is this the sense of being benched and no long integral in the upcoming years?  Am I bummed to retire my role as the nucleus of all of their sweet needy little molecules?   Yes.  Yes.  And so much yes.  

And the breach in my system is taking me by such surprise I can hardly think past it.  

Oh sentimental me, didn't I know this is the whole point?  It's not making snowflakes out of coffee filters and stacking Max & Ruby Save The Day back onto their bookshelves.  It's not Tic Tac Toe on napkins in restaurants, building fairy houses out of cardboard tubes, or catching frogs in their good school shoes. 

Didn't I know the better job I do, the less they will need me standing next to them for help?  

Yes.  I knew all of that.  But somehow I thought I'd have more time. 

The rub is that we always think we'll have more time.  

Be Not Small

 

 

As 2014 points its fireworks at us, I can't help but shield myself from any New Year's Resolutions.  How about you?  I just don't like them because I will never remember that I've made them.  I can barely remember I have tea steeping to the point of asphalt most of the time. 

In lieu of New Year's Resolutions, I made a list of self truths to pass on to my kids in case I perish in a freak kennel accident.  How's that for fresh-faced optimism?

Dear My Kids:

• Know your worth.  You mean more than any self-doubt, craving, ego, depression, or apathy.  You're no accident, sweetheart.  Many things conspired to see you got here safely.  Honor your life by appreciating your worth.
• Be not small.  Feel pride, not shame, of your skills, desires, and passions.  Move forward with them enthusiastically.  You may be humble but not small.  Only you can give the world your piece of its puzzle.  Walk tall knowing you have nothing to quiet along the way.  Your friends will support you and your doubters will be your guidepost that you've almost arrived. 

 

• Believe in the power of restorative sleep.
• Trust your instinct, I believe it's God talking.
• Look for miracles.  They are playful and divine.

• Study the things you don't understand.

• Try hard not to get hooked on caffeine, it does weird things to your body that will cause undue concern.  Chocolate's ok in moderation.  Peppermint patties are medicinal.
• Fight fairly, not passive aggressively, and clear the air quickly.  You are not a doormat for explosions, nor are you an explosion for a doormat.   
• Listen, really listen, to your friends.  This will mean the world to you both for years to come.

 

 

• Hike whenever you can with friends or family.  Bring your dog. 
• Nap in the sun

 

 

 

 

• Screw around often throughout the day, no matter what your dad says.  He's a Marine, they revolt against silly but need it even more than you.  It's those moments that will mold you, not your well-made bed.  But don't make the man crazy, please still make your bed.   
• Be kind and patient with your parents as they age.  They still love you more than they love themselves.  Way more. 

 

 

• You both already have a lot of friends and that's good.  Remember to say no to more things than you say yes to. 
• Know you do not need to give a reason as to why you can't make an event.  Even if the reason is that you'd rather stay in your pjs all day and watch Rodeo Girls.  It was an invitation, not a test of friendship.
• Skip empty carbs when you grow up.  Believe me when I say it bogs down your brain. 
• Feed your body the things earth gives you, not science.
• Try healing yourselves with the things earth gives you first, then science.  However, Grayson you will probably still need to travel with ibuprofen for your migraines and Abby when she's about...oh...twelve on up.



Sensory Bliss - Know how to heal yourself when the world overwhelms you.
 

Hormones are no joke in this family.





• Drink more water than you think is necessary. Throw lemon in there when you feel a cold coming on.
• Risk and opportunity are vastly different.  Learn the difference early on.
• Treasure homemade gifts.  Someone was thinking of you from start to finish.

 

 

 

• Never take anyone's affection for granted.  Even if it's coming from unexpected places.  Yes, even that funny boy sending you personalized comic strips during Philosophy to keep you awake.  Especially him.
• Try not to confuse attention with affection.  People show their affection in many ways other than the one way you want it.
• Help your fellowman and fellow animals.  We have no reason to feel more important than other creatures that feel.  If you do feel more important, that's your ego talking, not your heart.

 

 

• When you're not sure about something, make a quick decision.  If it feels wrong right away, you have your answer.
• Floss.  Please honor thy mother and floss.
• Recycle, repurpose, and restore whenever possible. 
• Be the first to help anything or anyone suffering.  Both of your souls need it.
• Practice teamwork.

• Charge up, not with time at work but time with your family, friends, and hobbies.  Work doesn't miss you when you're gone.  Projects and deadlines aren't going to your funeral some day.
• Vacation without guilt. 
• Sing loudly, dance wildly, play as often as possible.  Invite others to do the same with just your energy.
• Please hold on to each other. 

 

• Try your hardest not to mistake firmness with harshness.  Your mother is still working on this.
• Snuggle

 

• Hang with your parents, no matter how weird they get.

• Publish your stories, frame your pictures, record your concerts, hang your artwork.  Surround yourself with inspiration and celebrate your life and the lives of those you adore. 
• Own your quirk.

 

• Throw impromptu campfires, dinner parties and fancy social gatherings and only clean the kitchen and bathroom.  

 

 

• Try not to save your passions for "later."  They are cumulative, not exhaustive.  Go ahead and delve into them daily, they only get better!
• Always open your mind and your heart when talking with children.  They have so very much to teach you. 

 

 

Curling Time

At the end of every night, when the living room TV has been turned on to Duck Dynasty or American Pickers and it's my turn to give the final sweep of evening kisses, he asks me,  "Mommy? Do you have time for curling?"

Curling means swirling my tired, frizzy hair around and around in his fingers until it makes a curl.  Or a rat nest.  Or until I whimper because he really got into it and tore some out.  Grayson has used my hair as his lovey for years.  When he was very small, he'd take my ponytail out, hold a hunk of mommy freedom hair in his grasp, and growl like a kitten practicing his cat.  My mom always called this "The Passion" which is just one of the many things my mom names that have become our family's indigenous language. 

The Passion was such a crutch for baby Grayson to soothe himself that I co-slept with him until well after a year.  When we finally braved up to stick him in his own crib, Dude was pissed.  In desperation to reclaim my own scalp and space, I bought the only doll I could find with dark hair like mine.  She was basically a Spice Girl knock-off in a shiny green, painted-on catsuit.  A ho bag we named Lolita.  Grayson wasn't fooled.  This imposter was no mommy hair replacement and she was chucked at the wall faster than I could make it downstairs to watch through the baby monitor. 

Those nights kept me awake for more hours than anyone else in the house.  Watching my baby boy and his plumped up nursing lips at midnight, then at 3, then again at 5 and 7 (He was a VERY hungry baby.  He was hangry.) was the only reward for the loss of brain cells and sanity happening in my own milk-bloated body.  When I think back to that time in his soft nursery, I remember the beige slider, Iroquois drum/chanting music on replay, and the way his baby socks always looked too small on those chunky baby thighs right before he fell asleep in the crook of my arm.

Somehow, throughout the years, we got Grayson to sleep in other ways.  Now, he rarely gives us any trouble at night and goes to bed without a fight.  Like clockwork, he asks me to kiss Abby first and then come back for him.


"Mommy?  I have to ask you something.  Do you have any time for curling?"

Most of the time I say yes, crawl in bed next to him and lay my head down on his Lightning McQueen Pillow.  He makes curls in my hair while we chat about "Luke Skywalkers," a bad call from the umpire in his last baseball game, or if I think he should be a Marine he grows up.

Lately though, Andy and I have been bustling, hustling and plain ole desperate for extra kid-free minutes to get housework done or even an adult conversation about which fundraiser to fill out or "recycle" for the next morning.

On those nights Grayson hears:
"Oh Honey, I have to go make lunches."
 "Maybe tomorrow, Mommy is SO tired."
 "I would but your sister is still milling about in her underwear."

Immediately, I hate myself as the corners of his hopeful eyes lower in acceptance.  "Ok.  Maybe tomorrow.  Goodnight Mom.  I love you."

That little meatloaf love muffin turns seven tomorrow.  I don't wistfully wonder where the time has gone because I've been right here inhaling the minutes and exhaling out the seconds for nearly every speck of it.  The decisions we've made for this family - me staying at home with our kids have made us beyond frustrated, without frills, and with somewhat funny medical side effects of fatigue.  For me though, they've allowed a keen understanding of shifts going on that I might otherwise overlook.  The subtle changing going on every day I can't see but can feel without that extra look back at the bus stop.  All this helps me fully appreciate that soon our Curling Time is coming to a close.

His once chubby baby legs now reach past the middle of his twin size bed.  His Spiderman jammy pants are always too small.  There are Lego Batman books in his bed instead of loveys.  Books that he now can read to himself before bed.  Stuffed animal friends that he once meticulously lined up in order of who comforted him the most are now strewn about in the closet, forgotten until I hold them and cry vacuum.

 

 

This little hangry, loving babe has been doing a phenomenal job in becoming a beautifully intuitive, smart boy.  I could not be prouder or luckier to be this boy's mother.

And yes, you can bet your catsuit I will always say yes to curling whenever he asks.

Hourglass

It is a gift to start life backwards.

Growing up in my grandparents' home gave me a perspective not many kids my age get to have:  finite time.  From a very early age, I understood people did not keep indefinitely.  The facts were dictated before me in my grandfather's shaking hands as he dialed Sears' service department on our rotary phone.  In me grew a divine melancholy when I'd watch my grandmother's tiny frame curve as she used both hands to slowly bring a gallon of milk down to the counter.  There was no forever in the black and white pictures of people they stopped to touch with one finger, in the hallway, early in the morning when the house was just beginning to smell like coffee.

I'd listen for the clink tink tink of saucers and the clearing of my grandfather's throat before he started his morning soliloquy to his wife.

"{eh-eh-eh-hem} You know I was thinking we should probably replant those tulips from the backyard to the side yard next to the freesia so they'll get full sun..."  My grandmother would "Mmm-hmm" and "Ohhh, I see" in the right places while tearing small pieces of Kraft cheese into the dog's dish.  Her morning rituals started with others and her day followed suit.  She spent a lifetime caring for everyone and everything around her with the kind of magnetic love that drew wild deer to her back porch and stray kids to her kitchen.  Humming her Fred Astaire songs the whole time.  Old Blue Eyes made weak in the knees.

If I didn't have to get up to shower, I'd stay in my bed and record this soundtrack like my life depended on it.  I knew one day too soon all of this would be gone and I'd desperately need it to be real again.  So I listened with the intensity of passing an exam.  My ears became open tunnels, filtering and memorizing specks of their voices and the rhythm they made together;  every word blazing its own path inside my memory.  I took in smells the same way:  Folger's brewing, toast browning, sweet wet grass trailing through an opened screen door, new sticky asphalt of our driveway.  I stayed perfectly still like this for probably hours.  Storing it all up for later.




"Mommy, put your hair down,"  my kids ask me every morning as they reach for my black hair clip.

"Just a minute, babies, let me get my coffee first," as my sleepy hands grope the counter for one more filter.

They plop their wiry bodies full of hunger and happiness onto our bar stools.  "What's for breakfast?  Can you make it not Paleo, please?"

I go about my business quickly but not before seeing them.  They're watching me as I deftly pour a carton of milk with one hand and close the refrigerator with my opposite ankle.  Their faces radiate all the warmth they've held onto overnight.  In their eyes there is expectation, hope, and a twinge of entitlement.  I stage their little dinosaur cups and clank around the silverware drawer with my free hand, searching for a pink fork for her and a green one for him.

My kids don't know the hourglass like I did.

And for that, a big piece of me rejoices.

How Not to Mend a Broken Heart

We were so sheltered in Virginia. 

I thought we were worldly.  Urban.  Right from the street, son.  But now that we're in Louisiana country, down where the "water don't move," I have changed my tune. 

First major difference is how kids physically run back and forth between homes to play here.  What?  People still do that in this day and age?  News to me.  In Virginia, we have play dates where parents almost always attend.  Some of us hover or at least spy-plane during the entire play date to make sure our kids are not making murals from Sharpies all over their walls.  Moms drink booze chat, discuss perimenopause, and occasionally referee an argument to save any child's feelings from getting smashed into pulpy remains. 

I see youuu.

Here in the south?  So very different. These little buggars are largely on their own.  Kids play, moms need not always apply.  No mama girlfriend in tow with a bag of Veggie sticks in one hand and a bottle of Bailey's in the other.  No in-home cookie decorating to keep all age groups united.  No being a 39 year old preschooler along with the 5-year-olds so everyone plays fairly.

It's like going back in time.  Kids are allowed to be kids again, not inmates being policed and monitored by parents who worry for their children's safety.  Kids here are watched from behind closed windows as they scuttle across the street, then outside then inside, then mudroom, sunroom, driveway, back yard, front yard then back inside with their motherless snail rot shoes still on.

"Miss Lady, do you have any snacks," the new group of bellies ask me. 

"Umm...  Yes.  I mean...have you eaten lunch yet?  Are you allergic to peanuts?  What is your name again?  Do you like cucumbers?"

You guys, it's an entire new thing of beauty here.  Pretty much 1984 without shoulder pads and Speak & Spells.

"Grayson, please let me know when you leave the house, and make sure you walk your sister across the street she doesn't look she trips every time thank you!"  Our door closes, the kids shuttle each other across the street and I look sideways for another child to help but none are singing my name whilst on the john or inside a cupboard.  Ahh, such new found freedom in this retro lifestyle.

Until. 

Until the fight.  My boy and his new friend get into a tiff.  Not a fist fight but enough where I feel the need to halt my joyous cleaning frenzy to mediate.  I, however, make a very poor social worker and New Friend still leaves in a huff even after an apology from my own boy who stands at my left confused that "I'm sorry" does not work.

"Oh Bud, give him some time.  He might come back."

But New Friend never does come back.

Later that night, Grayson tries again but is denied.  He comes to me with chin quivers and tears pushing at his pupils.  "He's not home.  He went to his best friend's house to play with him instead of me."

Oof.  Zing.  Yeah, that one does hurt a bit, Little Man.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask praying he will rather play Lego Batman.  But he does want to talk about it so I pull out my best Maya Angelou and let him know that new friendships are fragile,  take time to grow into something more reliable and firm, and that no caged bird sings or some shit like that.

He lets me squeeze his little bony shoulders to my soft ones and brings his eyes to meet mine.

"Do you think he'll want to play with me ever again?"

Of course I want to say YES!  Every fiber of me wants to reassure him that this too shall pass and everything will be sunflower and coconuts once again but something stops me.  This time I resist the urge to explain away human suffering.  I refuse to give him any more empty promises.  Instead, I hold his face and let him know that I have no idea how things will turn out.

And man alive is it hard to watch my boy and those hurting eyes that, up until that point, believed I always had the power to fix any of his broken things. 

But this time?  I don't feel mending his broken heart is sound parenting.  That practice is getting much too risky now that he's getting older.  He must learn to navigate these sticky social spider webs himself.  And how can he practice that if I keep hovering/spy-planning/mediating the way I've always been?

Grayson and New Friend have not seen each other since the tiff but Grayson seems eager to try again.  His tenacity is admirable but scary.  Personally, I would not try again, after the second rejection. 

Luckily for him, he is not me.  Sadly for me, I must remember that I am not him.  And his heart?  It's his to run inside, then outside then inside, then mudroom, sunroom, driveway, back yard, front yard then back inside with his motherless snail rot shoes still on.

And my heart is to wave to him from behind those closed windows.

Rainbow

"Can you tell us another one, Mommy?"

"Ok, but this is the last one..."

I choose my very first memory.  I am walking down a sidewalk, making letters of the splits in the hot concrete.  Every other square brings a surprise dried-up curl that was once an earthworm.  I can smell lawns being mowed.  Something is glistening near the grass.  A gold rock, a gray rock, and one in between.  Making a cradle for them inside my shirt, I get these finds home to pour over.  Seeing how highly they are revered, Mom brings over a small white jewelry box with protective stuffing inside.  With curator's hands, I nestle my treasures in that box, close the lid, and open it every few minutes to stare.

"I bet they are beautiful," Abby whispers.

"Rocks." Grayson's eyebrows are low and flat.  "Um.  Can you tell us the one when Uncle Eric almost killed you because you forgot to change his turtle cage and the turtle ate all the fish?  You know, the one where Boompa was like, "There's been a masssaaaccccrrrreeee!"

"Was one of the rocks sparkly, Mommy?" Abby isn't ready to move on.  Her eyes are looking past mine and she's smiling for the first time today.


"Yes, as I recall.  And even a little bit gold." 

"You mean, rainbow?  Was it sparkly and rainbow?"

Even though my girl defies parental wishes in thirty minute increments, uses only her most operatic bellows 98% of the time, and charges through the house like a tiny pirate, at this second I see her through the eyes of an admirer, not only a responsible mom.  I recognize a fellow artist.  The way her mind sees without trying.  The way her heart accepts without questioning.  The way her imagination adds color automatically inspires me to remember.  Something in me stirs after a long hibernation...

"Yes, Honey.  Now that you mention it.  One was definitely rainbow."

 

 

 

14 Ways to Say I Love You

A friend of a friend of another FB friend had an awesome idea.

They thought to implement 14 acts of kindness in honor of Jack's birthday.

Who's Jack?  He is Anna's son.  If you don't already know him, go here. 

To honor Jack's life my family came up with 14 things we could do too.  Grayson came up with most, he was a rockstar.  Abby, Andy, and I were pretty much his roadies.

Grayson's List

• Take Jack and Eddie-Lou's garbage out to the curb for them
• Get bones for dogs in Humane Society
• Make a squirrel deflector (?) so birds don't have to fight for bird seed.
• Invite a friend to play at recess who usually doesn't play with others (Hello.  As your mother, I am wishing you already did this.)
• Give a card to the nice neighbor who is always picking up dog poop in his yard

Abby's List as dictated by her

• Painting rainbows, loves, and kisses for Sophie
• Help yourself
• Get worms for robins
• Give away my favorite book to kids who don't have houses.  Maybe Grayson's favorite book.

Andy's List as dictated by him

• Take newspaper in for neighbors
• Give $ to guy in front of 7-11
• Tip car wash jars all week even without getting your car washed 

My List

• Leave a really good book I've already read hidden somewhere for someone else to find
• Comment on blogs every day to let them know I enjoyed their writing
• Babysit my friend's kids so she and her husband have a night out
• Leave a card of appreciation for our mailman
• Give a small gift of appreciation to my really nice McD's drive-thru lady.  I just love her.

Three days later and my family has done pretty well.  We have, of course, ventured off our lists but the idea is in the kindess, not so much the act.

Here's What:

1. Andy took a picture in front of a sign for a fellow Marine and held the door open for her while she dragged some things inside the building.  (I happen to know he would've done this anyway but it's fun hearing about the nice things our significant other does throughout the day.  Also, I hope she did not look like Elizabeth Shue.)  
2. Abby helped me get dressed this morning.  HUGE act of kindness because it takes me nine million hours to wake up.
3. Grayson asked a new student to play with him and his friends at recess.  There aren't any new students at his school so I'm a little skeptical.  I did, however, catch him helping up a friend who had fallen after school.  
4. I have given a card of thanks to someone I appreciate.

Thank you, Jack, for helping us all move toward kindness in your name.  It is an honor.  You are a true gift.

Comfort

I think one of a parent's biggest and hardest jobs is comfort: hugs, snuggles, shoulder pats, leg taps, a look from across a school parking lot.

Comfort them. Let them know they can do something scary away from you, but that you are never very far. The hard part is that we, as their parents, don't really know they are going to do it well or be okay.

You'd never know from our face: steeled and familiar, no funny creases or shadows that might alert an observant girl she could be in trouble.

Yesterday I saw a dear friend of mine wear that comfort face for her son. Her son was being wheeled down a corridor for a surgery he had to have so his heart could function properly. It was a huge deal.

I saw my friend's face and while her expression was soft and happy, her skin was blanched. She was ready to pass out.

She didn't though, and neither did her husband. These parents held themselves together for their little boy, the same age as my own, so he wouldn't be scared. So he would not know fear.

Comfort: parents digging as deep as they go to find a way to make the terrifying seem normal and serene.

Every once in a while, I'm awed by the strength of my friends who have been forced to dig deeper, work longer, and bear burdens heavier than anyone should.

My friends' character rises above their circumstance, over and over again, for their children.

This particular friend of mine knows my comfort face by heart. She saw it as she went through chemo, ate crackers with cream cheese, and drank water from a straw with her perfectly round head on a pillow. She saw my skin blanch out a few times herself as we sat together quietly with her dog between us, radiating his own sweet heat. This sister friend of mine is a warrior of epic proportions who has come back from things not many ever do.  Not quite like her.

Her stubborn and fiery spirit is bequeathed to her by her father who took her illness from her (as far as I'm concerned) so she could stay here, with her then newborn baby boy.

The same boy who today is resting, comforted in his mama's arms, with a heart now as strong and steady as hers.