Showing posts with label missing our son. Show all posts
Showing posts with label missing our son. Show all posts

Monday, February 3, 2014

Cancun Getaway!

We are back from 5-ish days in paradise. Based on our friend's recommendation, we booked a tropical vacation to the Moon Palace Resort in Cancun, Mexico and I'd have to give it two huge thumbs up! In fact my thumbs might be especially huge today because of all of the delicious food we ate. Three meals a day with dessert? Yes, please.

The room was even fully stocked with an open bar! It was wasted on me. I traveled with my own Constant Comment tea bags as I am known to do.

I didn't take as many photos as I wish I had, but maybe these will warm you up on a cold, snowy day. Either that, or they'll  make you seethe with jealousy. But I hear that seething is warm, too, so that'll work.

And as much as I love a nice break, it's always good to come home. I'm so glad to be back here with you today.

 Not afraid to rock the long sleeved Land's End swim shirt. No sunburns here!
 Margaret started reading The Glass Castle as soon as I finished it. Maybe she'll think Tim and I are awesome parents now!
 Love that face!
 A drip castle, like old times.
Speaking of old, old friends are the best. So happy to see my friend Ana who lives in Cancun after so many, many years.
 View from our room.
 Why I could never move to a tropical paradise without a personal hairstylist.
 Weather was perfect! Not hot or cold.
 Painting pottery.
 How fun would it be to have a little thatch umbrella in our back yard?
Or maybe one of these?

Oh well. There's no place like home!

Friday, January 3, 2014

Ages and Stages

You might remember that Jack didn't like looking young for his age.

I told him he'd appreciate it later, much later;  lucky Tim looks about a decade younger than he is. Stinks for me. But being small and looking young rankled Jack. In his (obligatory) letters home from summer camp in 5th and 6th grade, he lamented that there were a few boys in other cabins who made fun of him. They would call out insults as Jack and his buddies walked around camp, "What are you doing with them? You look like you should be in the 2nd grade cabin!"

I know it sounds weird, but it really bothers me that Jack is "stuck" as a 12 year old in so many hearts and minds, not just because of the obvious sadness that he's not able to be alive and well with us right now, but also because I hate that he didn't get to have the growth spurt that he wanted that so badly. I wonder if he'd be embarrassed that he's remembered as a boy, not a teenager or a young man. Souls are souls are souls, and even from the first days of mothering Jack and getting to know him, his soul struck me as wise and mature, as if he'd known me for 1000 years. But in our memory, Jack is 12, and always will be.

All around me are markers of what his life could/should be like now because I see teenage boys all the time, but the truth is, we don't really know what Jack would interested in at this point. I mean, it's pretty obvious that he would have liked Minecraft or an iphone and PlayStation 4 if he'd lived long enough to experience them. But what would he be involved in in high school? Debate? Would he be running cross country? What would be his hardest class? Would he be driving us crazy? Would he have joined the youth choir at church, even though his singing was a joyful noise more than anything else?  Would he have a girlfriend? How many of our interests and loves at age 12 can define us for the rest of our lives?

***
We spent time at my sister's house for New Year's Eve. Jack's favorite cousin, just 9 months older than Jack, had gotten his learner's permit 3 days earlier. We sat in my sister's little car as he carefully chauffeured us around the neighborhood. We praised him for how long he stopped at the stop sign and how he smoothly pulled in and out of the garage. It was wonderful to share this moment with our nephew, and we are so proud of him.

But oh, the absence and lack. It was painfully obvious that he was pulling ahead of Jack once again. As he must. We discussed grown-up movies and told slightly off color stories, that would have been unthinkable just 2 1/2 years ago, but that made my nephew grin. We included him more in our adult circle than ever before. It was time. But it hurt.

And that's really what Christmas and New Year's were like. Honoring the past AND moving ahead in necessary ways. Embracing traditions like Christmas Eve lunch at Chevy's, the candlelight service at church, and watching It's a Wonderful Life together on the couch. The poem scavenger hunt to find that one last gift hidden somewhere in the house.

There is stability in knowing that I'll cry every time I hear: "To George Bailey, the richest man in town!"

But there were new parts, too, like giving Margaret the chance to connect more with friends, and our family socializing more with friends, some of whom knew Jack well, and others who didn't know him at all.

Invariably, each time we had people over to the "new" house over the holidays, someone would pull  me aside and say, "I can really sense Jack's presence here."

And it was true.

Not necessarily 12 year old Jack. Or almost 15 year old Jack. Just Jack.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

In the Weeds

I talk to Jack while I mow the grass. I don't say a lot, mainly just, "I'm sorry, Buddy" and "I love you." Over the years we've mowed the grass ourselves, or when the mower was broken for a few years, we hired it out. I loved coming home to a freshly mowed lawn, with the leaves and helicopter seeds blown off of our driveway by an efficient team of workers. It took the pros about 14 minutes to mow the whole thing, and I'll admit I sometimes wondered if we overpaid for such an "easy" job.  I'd forgotten how challenging our yard could be.

Two summers ago we bought a new lawn mower and canceled the lawn guys, because at 12 Jack was old enough to take over the job. His weight was still hovering in the 60's the last summer of his life, finally hitting 70 lbs the week he died. He took to the job quickly, and enjoyed earning extra money to save up for Legos.

After the accident, Tim and I picked the mowing back up again. "Do you remember it being this hard?" I asked Tim. "No. The roots and the hills! Our yard is so steep. How did he do it?" Tim wonders, shaking his head. We are silent. We both feel remorse. Jack hadn't complained, so we didn't know what a challenge our yard must have been for him at his small size. I remember his asking one day if he could get the mowing over with while I was at work. "No, it's too dangerous. Stay inside and wait 'til I get home." I pictured his losing a thumb to the blade like my friend Patrick had in high school, or running over his foot.

Now Tim and I take turns. I push the mower up over high, high roots, cursing as I use all my strength. I roll past the garden bed, along a steep slope, and feel the tension as the mower tilts and threatens to tip me over, down the hill. I let out a moan of exertion as I push through the tall grass. "I miss you" I grunt, my voice drowned out by the mower.

I wonder what it was like for him, at half my size, to do this job. "I'm sorry, Buddy," I say as I criss cross the yard. "I didn't know." Jack's and my relationship was based on huge love and respect, and I have very few regrets. It's as if we knew each other from the beginning of time and trusted each other explicitly. I'd always told Jack he was the strongest person I knew, but I meant his inner, moral strength. Now I think about how he must have been physically stronger than I realized. He never got the chance to spend his mowing money, but he seemed to enjoy earning it.

Weird thoughts go through my head as I mow, like how I'm glad I didn't let him mow that day when I wasn't home because "something bad" could have happened. And then I realize how stupid it is to still really feel that relief now, when something really bad did happen just a few weeks later.

And I realize as I mow, that when I say, "I'm sorry, Buddy" and "I didn't know" that I'm probably not talking about mowing anymore.

I love you, Buddy.

Friday, December 21, 2012

Before/After

I decided to start Christmas shopping on Monday. Yes, as in just a few days ago. The mall has been a tough place for me for the past year, and I guess I put it off as long as I could. My big mission was to get in and out of Abercrombie without crying.

There's a lot to cry about in there, between the music playing so loudly it feels like your ears are going to bleed, the lack of standard sizes (with Margaret ranging from an extra small to an extra large), the prices, and the fact that I have to beg the teenage employees to unlock a frickin' dressing room.

All of those factor into my tears, yes, but the main problem is that Abercrombie was the last store I took the kids to before Jack's accident.

Before. After. Before. After.

I've been thinking so much about the Sandy Hook families and how everything is now marked for them in that way.

Before. After. Before. After.

Our last trip to the mall that early September day was a happy one. We had gone to purchase Jack 3 Lego minifigures as a reward for finishing Oliver Twist for school. After that, we went to Abercrombie because Margaret was having a clothing crisis. Yep, I spent less than $9 on Jack for reading and annotating a 500+ page book (during his summer vacation!), then spent $80 on Margaret, well, because even if a girl wears a uniform to school she still needs cool clothes. This disparity in spending would have sent me into a tailspin as a 12 year old, but Jack didn't mind at all. To hear more about his gentle ways, read what his Auntie has to say about him here.

When the music and the waiting around got too much for him, Jack asked if he could stand right outside the door to the store and play on my iphone. I said yes and kept him in eyeshot. In that moment, I was struck by how much I was enjoying my kids, because I certainly didn't always remember to, especially when they were younger and far needier. It felt really good that I wasn't dying for summer to end.

On the way over in the car, they had both started sharing some of their weird traits and habits including this classic, "I always check behind the bathroom door in case there's a murderer in there." Each weird habit garnered more laughter than the next.  I glanced at them in the rear view mirror and yelled, "I love my quirky kids!" And I meant it.

This felt like progress, because I hadn't always appreciated my kids' unique personalities, likes and dislikes. 3 year old Margaret  afraid of automatic flush toilets? Sheesh! 9 year old Jack peering at us with sunken cheeks and glazed eyes as if we were trying to starve him to death when we gave him, God forbid, turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing at Thanksgiving? Puh-leaze.

But that September day, I just got a huge kick out of being with them. Of seeing how they interacted with each other. Of knowing where they were and where I thought they were going. In just a few days they would start 5th and 7th grades.

Until.

Before. After. Before. After.

So this past Monday, I steeled myself for Abercrombie. I didn't want my trip to end the way it had a few months ago when after about 45 traumatic minutes I started crying and Margaret and I left without any jeans. Skinny? Super Skinny? Dark wash? Ripped? I was pushed to the limit.

On Monday I felt like every act I did was somehow a testament to the parents in Connecticut who, while I don't know exactly what they are going through, may likely be feeling that they can not go on living, let alone function through the mundane stuff of life ever again. 

I tried to stay on the girls' side of the store, only once drifting over to a checked button down shirt, feeling the fabric between my fingers, remembering how Jack seemed to have been born preppy.

In the check-out line I looked up and saw the mom of one of Jack's baseball teammates. Margaret and Jack had also attended acting camp with her son one month before the accident. She held teenage boy clothes in her arms. I looked down at the floor, willing her not to recognize me. I didn't want her to feel guilty that she got to buy presents for Jordan when I couldn't buy any for Jack. That Jordan needed teenaged sized clothes but Jack never would.  I bit the inside of my lip so I wouldn't cry. I kept my eyes down, exchanged pleasantries with the teenage clerk, bought the clothes, and got the hell out of there.

So I don't really know how I did. And how much of a testament I can be for the moms and dads in Connecticut.

But I did buy Margaret's over-priced gifts. And they are now wrapped and under the tree.

 
That's something, right?

Monday, November 12, 2012

Monday Mash-up

A HUGE Thank you to all the veterans who have served our country and to their families who have sacrificed at home!

We had a pretty good weekend around here. Friday night was my 25th high school reunion. Thanks to Facebook, I did not have to tell my story to anyone. I was so very grateful for that. Friends bravely and quietly acknowledged our loss. I know that was probably scary for them to do, but it meant a lot to me.

There is never enough time to catch up with everyone, even when a group isn't that large, but overall it felt relaxed, supportive, and un-rushed. My friend Judy and I managed to stay up until 2:30, which I consider pretty darn good.

The camera part of my iphone "disappeared" early in the evening, brought back later by helpful texted instructions from my 14 year old nephew. Got to love a teenager who can figure out in 10 seconds what I'd been struggling with all evening. As a result, I only have a few pictures. Here's one with my friend Helen so you can see my $35.00 New York and Company wrap dress. Super easy and I got to wear cushy (Aerosole) black suede boots with it. Yay for being warm and comfortable! You may remember Helen from when I wrote about her here. Love that woman!




Saturday we got our family picture taken by the amazing Dorie Howell. Dorie is a professional photographer and a reader here at An Inch of Gray. I was reluctant to get the photos taken because I was mad at myself for not putting more of an effort in when Jack was here. I mean how handsome would he have looked out in a field with the sun going down behind him? Sheesh.

We did it anyway, and my Jack necklace hopefully keeps him in the picture. Here's the first one Dorie sent us. I am freaking out at how good it is. If I had known professional photos could de-jowlify me and erase the effects of a 5-ish beer 25th reunion the night before, I would have jumped on this sooner!

Looking forward to sharing more photos with you soon.


Love and light to you as you start your week.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Listen to Your Mother

Last Sunday was LTYM DC! Here's a show recap from the producer, my awesome friend Kate. I was honored to be part of this amazing spoken word show with a terrific group of women. I wasn't sure how my reading would go, because the day before I decided to practice with two of my mom-friends while Margaret and I were Girl Scout Camping.


I only made it through one line before starting to cry, so I figured Sunday's reading would be a crap shoot.

At the last minute I shuttled my comfy and uber-flattering dress jeans for a pair of black cotton capris. I was 8th to read, and by that time my pants were a soggy mess, having served as sweat-catchers for my dripping palms during the previous 7 readings. When my name was called, I stood up, tried to adjust my pants, and launched into reading this post.

The hardest part for me was not being able to see the people in the audience, because the stage was brightly lit and the house was dark. I stared into the blackness, knowing that college friends, prayer-group moms, blog readers, and many friends from town were there. Not being able to connect with faces was tough, and as I read I felt as if I were talking into a void, making Jim Carrey-like contortions with my face but unable to stop myself. The video should be a self-esteem crushing doozy.

This is the MOST NORMAL my face looked the whole time:

Even though it was scary...
Even though I didn't get to connect face to face with the audience as I would have liked...
And even though I read a shitty, horrible post that in no way reflects the future I thought my beautiful son would have...

The LTYM experience was wonderful and unforgettable. The remaining LTYM shows will take place tomorrow, and shortly thereafter all of the stories will be available to watch on YouTube.

The experience reminds me, once again, that we all have a story, or rather STORIES to tell. And in the sharing, through the belly laughter and the pain, we are able to connect with each other.

Speaking of stories, you MUST read this hilarious post written by a local blogger and reader of An Inch of Gray. She and her mom made the trek to see LTYM DC and you will not believe the tale she has to tell--- there may even be an Elvis sighting!

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Shower Power








We have two showers in our house. The one in our teensy master bathroom rocks! All four of us used it, although not at the same time, ever since the kids graduated from baths. Even Shadow got her rare shampoos in there.

The shower had the perfect water pressure—hard, but not, “I think I just lost a nipple down the drain” hard. Super, duper hot-- just on the edge of scalding. My sister called it “glorious” and invoked her sisterly privilege to use it when she visited.

Sometimes, when we were in a hurry, I’d see if the kids would use the other, perfectly serviceable shower, and occasionally Margaret would oblige, but Jack would not. The kids’ shower was newer, their bathroom brighter and more spacious, but the water pressure and showering experience just could NOT compare.

So a few weeks ago I noticed a leak. We now have a ripped up ceiling, and our master bedroom shower needs to be replaced. We have neither the funds nor the energy to deal with it right now. Tile shopping and grout color selection? No thank you.

So the three of us have been traipsing up to the kids’ shower. We balked at first, and Margaret is taking even fewer showers than USUAL, which is saying something, but, we have adapted.

While at first I couldn’t imagine using another shower, my desire to be able to go out in public broke down any lingering resistance. And now, after several weeks, the morning routine and sub-par skin-sloughing have become part of my day.

It made me think of Jack. Well, doesn’t everything?

Our new daily living has become a poor substitution for the life we wanted for our family. We trudge along, in a world that seems off-kilter, trying to adapt and make the most of what lies before us. We do it, but that doesn’t mean we like it. It doesn’t mean we don’t consider what came before to be far, far superior.

But we do it, out of necessity, and bit by bit we get used to it. It has been so long since the accident, I’ve got to say it would seem a little strange to have Jack come racing down the stairs today. To tell us about how the middle school dance went. To talk Margaret into playing outside.

Because we have started to adapt to his absence.

I suppose one can get used to almost anything.

But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.