In This Room

When we first moved into this home, this room was the first one we changed.

When I was about two weeks pregnant, we redecorated in a soft blue and yellow theme.  I painted puffy clouds on the ceiling (with good ventilation so we wouldn't damage the baby's growing neurosystem).

It suited us well.  It was Tucker's room, and then it was Tyler's.  Until we sold the crib and bought bunkbeds.  Then they became roommates down the hall.

Then, what to do with this powdery blue and yellow room that suddenly was so whimsical it made me nauseous? 

It became The Office.  Earth tones, greens and browns.  I think the wall color is something akin to 'butternut toast'.  We transformed the room on a dime, borrowing tricks from Trading Spaces.  The monstrous oak desk  migrated in here.  The 'changing table' became a credenza.  We made it work.  A shared space for the two of us: the filer and the piler.

But now, though, what to do with this space, now? 
Now that it's all mine. 

I kept the earth tones.
I kept the credenza.
I added bookshelves.
I added a reading corner, complete with a small table, a cozy (red floral) chair, and a reading lamp.
I took out the monstrous desk,
and I replaced it with a streamlined work space
just big enough for my laptop,
a picture frame,
and a bud vase.

With a daisy.

I knelt to the floor tonight, my face to the carpet.
I pictured dozens of clips from the many scenes in this room.
I rocked my babies, when they were sick or well, sleepy or not.
I wrestled many a boy into a fresh diaper.
I worshipped in here,
silently or loudly,
most often late at night.
I have journaled a million words.
I have danced in here,
alone - in praise,
with my boys - in silliness,
with my husband - in love.
I received the call from the coroner's office in this room.
I slipped away to this room many times on the day I became a widow, just to say that word to myself again and again.

Tonight, I dedicated this room once again.
"God, may you fill this space.  I give this to you, along with every word and thought that will come through this room.  May words land on the page.  And may you receive the glory."

Before we changed anything at all when we first moved in, Robb splattered 'R loves T' on the biggest wall, in splashy blue paint.  Beneath all these earth tones, there's a love note written to me.

I believe I can work in this room. 
I believe I will write a book in this space.

This Competitive Spirit

How can Tucker hold his fork just like Robb, when he hasn't seem him do that in over a year? 

He just looked at me exactly like Robb would have.  I just said something to which the answer was obvious.  He knows that look already.

We play a marathon of MarioKart; Tucker will take the liberty to not only prepare the game's setup, but also to choose the characters and vehicles he knows we each prefer, so all we must do is pick up the controls he has arranged on the coffee table in player order. 

He's pretty sure that he thinks through things more thoroughly than I do.  He may be right, on occasion.  He raises his eyebrows in the same way that Robb did, the expression that says, "Betchya didn't think about that, didya?"

He is his daddy.  Through and through.

And I understand his growing personality because I studied his daddy's so closely, because I loved him so much.

Somehow, each of them is less a puzzle to me as I learn to know them more.

Tucker has a highly competitive spirit.  He does not get this from me.  I wish I were remotely competitive; I think this may come in handy.  But I'm not.  Robb was. 

This competitive spirit has begun to get the best of Tuck sometimes.  A darker side of him emerges when he's losing at something - either against someone else or himself.

I carefully chose my timing to talk about this.  I learned when I was married to his dad: timing is everything with such topics. 

"Hey, Tuck?  How come it's so important to you to win?"

"Because I just like to."

"But what happens if you don't win?"

"I don't like it."

"What if somebody else wins?"

"Then I want to play again so I can win."

"Hey, buddy?  You know who else was like that?  Daddy.  Daddy loved to win.  And sometimes he loved it too much.  He had to work really hard to be kind when he really wanted to win."

"Daddy liked to win?"

"He did.  And sometimes he didn't win."

I didn't go into great detail, especially with regard to the ramifications in our home if his beloved Buckeyes took a hit.  But I assure you: Robb had to work really, really hard to be kind when he wanted them to win.

I see Tucker's shoulders soften with this new knowledge of how he is like his dad.  It could be easy to memorialize Robb in a shrine of perfection, and the boys could grow up thinking they live in the shadow of a man who had it all figured out.

I just needed Tuck to know: Daddy had a hard time with that too.

Handkerchief

Robb carried a handkerchief in his pocket.  He rarely needed it; it was largely for me.  He married a teary girl.

When I needed it, in church or in a movie, he had one handy for me.  I needed one recently.  (Tears are fresh and plentiful these days.)  I couldn't find it.  I groped blindly in my handbag, wishing upon wishes for something to dry these streams of mascara.

And then something prompted my mind to travel down a linear path:

I took it out of my purse when we traveled to Ohio,
I wanted it with me on the plane,
I put it in my red bag,
my computer is in my red bag,
my red bag is sitting at my feet in this coffee shop. 

I reached into the big pocket of the red bag.  Sure enough: the familiar, worn linen of his handkerchief, monogrammed in the bottom right corner.

It was as if he had handed it to me once more.

"Thanks, honey," I whispered, seemingly to myself, but not to myself really at all.

Listen (...again).

It has been a year since I said these words, spoke them to an audience of hundreds, with my wedding handkerchief in my hand and my brother at my side. 

As I listen, I feel like it's someone else talking.  Who is that girl?

It's good for me to listen again.
To hear my voice,
to hear the scripture,
to hear the poetry,
to hear the truth.

Perhaps you heard this a year ago.
Or perhaps we have met since then.

I invite you to listen (...again).

Paper and Tags

This morning after The One Year is also Christmas Eve.  In so many ways, this feels like the first Christmas without him.

Did you know Christmas Eve was his favorite day of the year?  He most loved being a dad on this day, every year.  We stayed up late, putting toys together.  We had a gift-wrapping assembly line: he wrapped, I tagged and bowed.  He was the practical; I was the pretty.

I haven't wrapped a single gift yet.  Wrap without him?  I haven't done that in twelve years. 

Wrapping without Robb: that is the metaphor for anything good that's lacking the very best part.

And yet, two little boys are sure they've made the Nice List and Santa is bringing some amazing things.  Indeed he is.

Mommy needs to wrap them.

And so, it has been a Year.

Months ago, I began reading Henri Nouwen's book, The Genessee Diary.  

It is his published journal from inside a Trappist Monastery; he felt his life had become too mechanized, too secure, too predictable, too busy, too much writing about prayer instead of actually praying, too much thinking about theology and not actually worshipping, so he stepped away for a season.  He became a monk.  And he wrote about what this was like, what he learned.

In an ironic turn of the pages, he finished his seven months in the monastery just as I am finishing my first year as a widow.  Both he and I had sidestepped our lives as we knew them, reluctantly embraced a new season, and now together we embark on the end of the year.

(Never mind that he took his journey in 1981.  When I read your writing, your story becomes my present day.)

Henri, as I like to call him since we are now dear friends, wrote in his journal:

"I will have to ask myself what these months have meant to me.  I am still in it, but I see the end and the slow moving away to new experiences."

I set down the book with pause.  The same is true of me.  What has this year meant to me?  I am still in it, but I see the end.  And I see the turn of 2012 bringing new experiences.

I want to say I have learned nothing.  I want to say Robb's death was without meaning, these months have been empty, and I am bitter and angry because I got screwed hard out of everything I had planned for the rest of my life.  I want to say these things, boldly, with the strength that only comes from vindication.

But those things are not true.  I have learned much; these months have been sacred.  I have long said, if I will tell this story, I will tell the truth.  

So, here are my thoughts.

I have lived an entire year of winter.  There were sunny days that peeked through on occasion, but my heart stayed cold, bundled, protected.  Still, there are things to enjoy only in winter: good books, shorter days, enveloping blankets, and isolation.  I have relished in these.

In January, when I began speaking to God again, I made a deal with him: if he would just get me out of bed and safely to Starbucks, I would visit with him there.  I might not talk, but I would listen.  My mornings have been my sacred hours.  Starbucks has been my sanctuary. 

God has met me there.  My journals are filled with schizophrenic psalms, from temper tantrums to triumphant praise.  His companionship has been nearly tangible, certainly a presence I could feel strongly enough to know I wanted more.  In reading the Psalms, again and again, and again and again, I have let the psalmists cry out on my behalf, when I had no words left.

There's a reason why Psalm 88 made the cut into the final manuscript.

I have learned that there's no one way to be a perfect mother.  But there are a million ways to be a good one.  And, with God as my witness, his grace as my strength, I have been a damn good mother this year.

I have been willing to learn this year.  I have trudged ahead with my eyes open, insistent that this wrenching pain would not be wasted.  I have written a million words, unafraid of anything that might show up on the page.  I have found honesty and the beauty of saying things out loud.

A friend of Robb's recently wrote to me.  He said, "Tricia, when Robb talked about you, he always said you were an amazing woman who could handle anything."  My precious husband... he knew me well.  I never imagined the strength inside this frame.

I have learned firsthand that love is greater, stronger than the grave.  No matter what happens next, no matter the path I take or who walks beside me, I will forever love Robb Williford.  

This year has been the closing chapter of our marriage: I honored him, even after death parted us.

I choose to borrow some words from Henri, because great words should be shared, and because I can't say it better.

"For me, this is the end of a most blessed and graceful retreat and the beginning of a new life.  A step out of silence into the many sounds of the world, out of the cloister into the unkept garden without hedges or boundaries.  In many ways, I feel as though I have received a small, vulnerable child in my arms and have been asked to carry him with me out of the intimacy of [this place and] into a world waiting for light to come. 

Why was I here?  I don't know fully yet.  Probably I will not know fully before the end of the cycle of my life.  Still, I can say that I have a most precius memory which keeps unfolding itself in all that I do or plan to do.  I no longer can live without being reminded of the glimpse of God's graciousness that I saw in my solitude, of the ray of light that broke through my darkness, of the gentle voice that spoke in my silence, and of the soft breeze that touched me in my stillest hour."

Thank you, Henri.  You write my heart.

Thank you, Robb.  You hold my heart.

Thank you, God.  You heal my heart.

And so, it has been a year.

Best Christmas Pageants Ever

The boys are pros at the Christmas Pageant scene.  

Two years ago, we had a cow and a (self proclaimed) pig.  Tyler wasn't really in the pageant at age two, but he was convinced he should be.  He even stepped up to the microphone afterward and said, "Merry Christmas.  I'm Tyler.  I'm a pig."

Last year, we had a 'shepherd' and a 'long road.'  

Tuck was so delighted to see his daddy sitting with me in the second row - he cried when he saw Robb.  "My Daddy!"  It was the first time I saw my son cry tears of joy.  Robb scooped him up and said, "Of course I'm here, buddy.  Of course I'm here."

This year, I cheered for the wiseman.  He delivered his line flawlessly.

 

 

 

That's sacred space, next to those Christmas trees.

Well done, little wise men.

It's not just a role to play.

You are my heart's joy.

Dozen Hours of White

It's snowing.  "Blizzard conditions," they say.  Midnight tonight until noon tomorrow.  A dozen hours of white.

I am wearing his sweatshirt tonight.  The Rose Bowl souvenir from Ohio State's 1997 season.  The one he never let me wear.  I'm wearing it tonight.

I turned off all the lights.  I read in the dark.  I lit the pumpkin buttercream candle.  I listened to the freezing rain on the windows.

I felt the draft from the windows he never liked, the ones he planned to replace.

On my way to bed, I looked outside.  There's already an inch out there.  I'm pretty much in denial over that.  I don't think I'll really believe the forecast until the cold nips my nose in the morning on the way to school (provided there isn't a snow day, which I am praying whole-heartedly against).

I rested my forehead against the sliding glass door that leads from the kitchen to the deck.  I could see him in my mind, his black snow pants, his subzero wardrobe that left nothing but his eyes exposed.  He was prepared for the arctic.  If we lived there, I'm pretty sure he would have plowed the driveway everyday.

I remembered how he loved to startle me by throwing a snowball straight at the window.  I would watch the ice slide down the glass.  He would laugh and make a teasing face, as if he were more my 13-year-old brother than my knight in shining armor.

I remembered his boots, traipsing snow from the back door to the front.  I remembered how I felt a little guilty for picking at him about that, since he was doing me an enormous favor of shoveling at all.

I remembered the morning I was to drive with L to visit J in Arkansas, how the snow piled high the night before we were to leave at 6 AM.  He got up at 5:30 and shoveled the driveway to ensure we got a solid start at least into the street.  And he didn't even pester me about changing my plans because of the weather, since he knew I can get pretty thickheaded when it comes to canceling my plans.

I remembered how I stayed moled away in the house for a week after our first miscarriage, how he begged me to come out and see the sunshine.  He called from work to check on me.  He encouraged me to go outside and shovel the driveway, promising sunshine and exercise.  And I told him to please not ever suggest that again, to please keep in mind that I had had surgery to clean out my uterus and that shoveling wasn't the way to nourish my spirit.  And he brought flowers home.

I remembered how he was always willing to bundle up with the boys to go on a snow hike, build a snowman, and engage in the warfare of a snowball fight.  He let me stay inside with my book and coffee, which I much preferred over being cold.

It occurred to me that in a few hours, the boys will awake to snow, they will want to rush out to play, and they will want me to be their playmate.  And I will miss Robb in a whole new way.

My forehead felt cold on the glass.  My heart felt cold in my chest.

His memories dance in my mind.

"The Game"

Beloved Buckeyes,

I regret to inform you that I will not watch the Ohio State game today.  I am flooded with annual  memories of this game day, even without your fancy footwork on my TV.

I remember when Robb took me to Columbus for Skull Session, how I got chills as the band entered the stadium, and how badly I wished I had known him when he was a man in that plumed uniform.

When we were engaged, and along with the diamond on my hand, he gave me an Ohio State jersey with 'Williford' streamed across the back.

The time we rented a small theater to host a televised Game Day Party.  Now that was a great day.

When our son was born on September 10, 2005, in direct conflict with the Ohio Sate game vs. Texas Longhorns.  Robb was torn between his allegiance to the delivery room and the waiting room television.  (I'm not kidding.)

Your colors ran through his veins.

Today, my children and I are dressed in our scarlet and grey finest, and I hear that band playing on the sidelines.  I hear them on the TV in the next room, and I hear them often in my mind.  If Robb had ever gotten a tattoo, I'm pretty sure it might have been TBDBITL across his heart.

If anyone in heaven cares about the score today, my husband is at the top of that list.  And I promise you: he can cheer the roof off any mansion.

O-H,

Tricia

It's Not That I Hate It

I care deeply about the meaning of Christmas.  But that has very little to do with the vast majority of how Christmas arrives in every inch of space around me.  Perhaps I am ambivalent toward the actual day, December 25.  But it's not that I hate it.

This was Robb's favorite time of year.  He came alive.  If his favorite season were summertime, then I imagine I would have these flashbacks and waves of emotion attached to warm breezes and the scent of suntan lotion.  But Robb lit up over Christmas.  Everything about it.  That man could stretch one holiday in to a full two months: one-sixth of the year.

How beautiful is the irony that there were Christmas trees at his funeral.  How beautiful the gift that he got to be in heaven for the real Celebration.

In part, Christmas will forever carry the anniversary of the day everything changed.

And in greater part, the Christmas season will be forever sweeter in my heart because of my husband's full embrace of all things red, green, sparkled, snowy, tagged, and wrapped.

In Every Good Marriage

What most people don't know is that Robb and I had just worked our way through a marital valley, a long line in the desert.  We had fought hard for us, even though sometimes that looked like we were fighting against each other.  We had trudged through the hardest conversations, and we were on the other side.

And it was good and healthy and lush and beautiful again, for the last two months of his life (that we didn't know were the last two months of his life). 

Had we not fought hard, he could have died in the midst of the season.  He could be gone with conversations undone, decisions unfinished, knots untied.

But by the grace of God, we were on the gracious side of the valley, the upward climb in the sunshine. 

How much harder this path would be, if we had not found each other again, just in time.

"Our love has been anything but perfect and anything but static.  Inevitably there have been times when one of us has outrun the other and has had to wait patiently for the other to catch up.  There have been times when we have misunderstood each other, demanded too much of each other, been insensitive to the other's needs.  I do not believe there is any marriage where this does not happen.  The growth of love is not a straight line, but a series of hills and valleys.  I suspect that in every good marriage there are times when love seems to be over.  Sometimes, these desert lines are simply the only way to the next oasis, which is far more lush and beautiful after the desert crossing than it could possibly have been without it."

~ Madeleine L'Engle, Two-Part Invention

Flu Shots

"Have you gotten your flu shot?"

"Flu Shot Clinic this weekend."

"The shot will cost less than the illness."

There seem to be signs everywhere, reminding everyone to take care of themselves and take the preventive steps to keep that blasted influenza at bay.

Every fall, Robb got a flu shot.  Actually, every fall he said, "I'll get mine when you get yours."  So I got mine; he got his.

A couple of weeks ago, when I first saw one of the ads for the flu shots, my instincts jumped to remind Robb to get his.  He won't need one this year.

Those posters remind me of how this whole thing started.  They remind me that we did everything we could do.  They remind me that some curveballs come out of left field, and there's just nothing you can do to brace yourself or avoid them.

I don't know if I'll get one this year.  I honestly don't know.

Wedding Rings

I took off my wedding ring.

I felt like the time had come.  It felt like something that no longer encouraged me; it felt like a memory. It felt like the last thread of something I was holding on to, carrying it just for the sake of carrying it. 

It felt like a lie.  It felt like pretending, like I was playing a role.

I took it off, polished it, and put it away.

Then I got it back out. 

Then I put it away.

And I got it back out again.

I haven't been without it for 12 years.  There is an indentation on the ring finger of my left hand.  Common health lore says the cells of the human body are completely regenerated every seven years.  If this is so, then this ring has been on my finger longer than the finger has been on my hand.  The flesh has given way in the last many years, sure this fixture was here to stay.  I wonder how long the line will remain, like a reserved seat.

It's a trio of gifts tied into one:
the day he asked me to marry him,
the day we said 'I do,'
the decade's anniversary of thousands of every days.

And it's just so beautiful, especially after the gentle polishing.

It's one of the most beautiful gifts Robb ever gave me.  It is the token of our vows, the memory of our marriage.  But on a new finger, it no longer means I am married.

I decided to put it back on: on my right hand, this time.  It looks lovely there.

Perhaps I'll put a different ring on my left hand.  Maybe I'll buy myself a new one.  For now, it feels best to let it breathe for a while.  It's another absence to accept.

I Resorted to Throwing the Broom.

So, either the spiders have gone overly crazy with their web designs in the lofty corners of my front porch, or that is something Robb routinely took care of without telling me.

I suspect the latter is the case.

I suddenly realized that the cobwebs were visible from the street.  That doesn't make a home so inviting, but more like the haunted house of the neighborhood.  No need to start any of those rumors.

So I headed out there with my broom, and I began sweeping away at the corners, clearing out all the muck.  I reached as I high as I could.  But the spiders had reached higher.  I stood on my tiptoes.  I reached with my broom. 

Finally, I resorted to throwing the broom at the cobwebs, hurtling it up in the general direction, and ducking out of the way before the broom or the cobwebs hit the ground.   Repeatedly.

In the end, I resolved to bring the step stool outside - the task I was avoiding as if it involved a donation of my bone marrow.  By the time I finished, I had cobwebs in my hair, in my flip flops, and I'm pretty sure in my teeth. 

But my entryway is inviting again.  All to make room for the autumn wreath. 

I took on the cobwebs.  (Robb would never believe this to be true.)

Six years in Five Pictures

Tucker brought an assignment home:

Complete a timeline of your life story, with five pictures and simple captions.

Now this is an excellent assignment.  Brilliant, really.  Personal, timely, and filled with learning objectives about self, milestones, and sequencing.  They will hang their timelines in the hallway, and their oral presentations begin this week.

(Why didn't I do this when I was a teacher?)

Six years in five pictures.  That's a significant task, and it calls for some seriously careful selection.

Here's what we came up with.

Tucker was born.

Tucker became a big brother.

Our family went to Disney World.

Our family went to the mountains.

Tucker is in kindergarten.

And this brings us to today.  

We chose not to post Robb's death as a milestone.  Not because it isn't one, but because there's a lot more to Tucker's daddy than the fact that he died too soon.  Robb was in every picture except the current; he was present for every milestone except the current. 

I asked Tucker, "What do you want to say if someone asks about Daddy?"

"Well, he's not here anymore."

"Oh, but he was here.  And he's still in our family.  You can talk about him if you want to."

Tucker smiled.  "I will.  He's my dad."

I don't know if someone will ask.  I don't know if Tucker will choose to tell that part of the story.  But I wanted him to know he could. 

It's his timeline.  His life's story.

Too Big A Guest

I dreamt that there was yet another funeral for Robb.  This one was filled entertainers.

Street performers, ballerinas, a clown on a unicycle, a barber shop quartet, balloon vendors, a hot dog stand, a mime, and tap dancers. 

A full-on Busker Festival.

And everyone was invited to leave their gifts, wrapped in bright colors and frilly ribbons, in the Gift Room to the left.

It was one big celebration.

I revolted.  A complete temper tantrum, toddler style, worthy of an Oscar.  I kicked and writhed on the floor, pounding my fists.  "Stop making me celebrate!  Stop!  Stop making me celebrate!" 

Where did this dream come from?  What is my brain trying to say, other than I'd rather not have another funeral for Robb, and I don't want to invite all of Barnum & Bailey?

It is this: I cannot celebrate.  Anything.  I've tried.  I wish I could.  I miss the joy.

Birthday parties, anniversaries, milestones, anything loud and excessive, really anything bigger than a cupcake.  Others are welcome to; please, feel free, celebrate.  Thank you for inviting me, but I have to decline. 

Celebration is too big a guest; she allows no room for me.  So I have to step aside, slip out the door.

If I stay, I might revolt.  And that could ruin the party for everyone.

***

"Wearing mourning in the old days was not such a bad idea, 

because it took into visible account the fact of death, 

which we now try to hide, so that it won't embarrass others."

~ Madeleine L'Engle,  

Two-Part Invention

Same Moon, Same Song

"Tonight, we will both look at the same moon."  Ah, the language of love.

Cheesy.

But encouraging somehow to the two who are far from each other, perhaps hours away, states away, a world away: there is one moon, and it can connect our dots.  The plea for something in common between two, far separated.

I encountered anew a familiar song this weekend, O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing.

It holds this stanza:

Glory to God and praise and love
Be ever, ever given
By saints below and saints above,
The church in earth and Heaven.

I remembered that plea for commonality.

Somehow I don't think Robb looks at the same moon I do at night. Perhaps he does, but I suspect his sky is far more celestial than the one I can see. 

But, as I sang, I wondered about him singing the very same song, along with me.  Just as we have sung for more than a decade of Sundays beside one another, still we sing together, the church in earth and Heaven. 

He is where he is, I am where I am, and together we sing.  Maybe the same song, sometimes.  Always to the same God.

He connects our dots.

A Birthday Inspired

Dear Tricia,

So, Tuck's birthday reminds me of a great story that I don't think you've ever heard. Others have for certain, but I think you will cherish this little nugget.

Jason and I were married for a long time, really long depending on who you ask, before we even considered the thought of children. The truth is Jason didn't want children at all, and it certainly wasn't something I could see myself enjoying.

In fact, we were the last of our closest couple friends without children. They had all gone the way of parenthood several times over. Every time we visited to meet and adore the newest little bundle, we left with the greatest sense of relief that it wasn't us!

We would ride home and talk about how weird new babies were, how much work, how much money - how MUCH everything a baby is - and how grateful we were just to be us. We almost always talked about how they look like aliens.  We commended each other on how hard it is to lie and say 'oh, she's beautiful,' and then get in the car and remark that you need a full cup of coffee before looking straight at her.

We were also well aware of the cases of a couple who hasn't particularly figured out how to be a successful couple, and so they decide that having a baby will somehow help this scenario.

But then.
Then we came to see you.
And Robb.
And Tucker.

He was brand new and peachy and angelic. He was wearing a blue and red onesie, wrapped in a yellow, snuggly blanket.

And, he. was. perfect.

And you were so natural, as if there had never been a Tricia not holding this baby.

And Robb was beaming. Literally.

If you could see the photo from my memory, there is light emitting from your joy. All three of you. Like when the clouds have sun behind them.

We got in the car and it was quiet. We probably got all the way to I-25 before there were words. And then Jason said, "That wasn't terrible."

And I said, "Yeah, that was weird."

He said, "I've never seen a man so content. That man was made to be a dad."

There was dialogue of how perfect Tucker was, how parenthood somehow seemed to further enrich you (this was puzzling at the time), how you guys were going to be amazing parents, how he was the luckiest baby on earth.

Whether it was you two, your solid marriage, your delight in the gift of this child, how beautiful you made it all look - whatever it was, that was the first time it wasn't scary for us.

And on that day, the tiniest spark of hope was born in both of us. Our son was born 12 months later.

That's a pretty big change of heart for two people who weren't even considering having children. I consider Tuck's birth to be a divine appointment, for my own selfish reasons. :)

Happy Birthday, Tucker.  You changed the world.

~ Jenn S.

She captured us in some of our happiest days.  However sleep deprived, we felt like we were staying up all night at the best slumber party ever. 

(The balancing act got {*much*} harder later, but those first few days were bliss.)

Now this is a beautiful story. Indeed, a nugget I will cherish.

It's Not Like That.

"Sir, sir, are you okay?!"

I look to the left of my pool chair, into the corner of the swimming area.  A man is lying on the cement floor; a young lifeguard is kneeling over him.

My heart races as I reach for my phone.  I know this scene.  I'll call 9-1-1.  I've been here.  I know what to do.

I watch closely, before I actually press Send and contact the dispatcher.  Why is nobody else responding?  Surely, they can see the emergency?

And then I look more closely at the scene.  The man is lying still on the cement floor, and the lifeguard is leaning over him.  She loops her long, cheerleader hair behind her ear.  Another lifeguard is standing next to them, and she holds a clipboard in her hand.

And she says, "Begin chest compressions."

The long-haired lifeguard pantomimes the lifesaving process, without actually touching the victim.  Her hands hover over his chest, pretending the rhythm of compressions.  She leans over his face and pretends to listen for breath.  Of course she hears it, because he's not in danger.  She audibly counts the breaths she would breathe into his lungs, if he really needed anything at all.

They're just practicing.

Part of me wants to fly wildly out of my chair and scream at them, "Can't you see there are people here?  Can't you see that I am here?  Do you think I want to watch this show of yours?"

But they're not putting on a show.  They are preparing for disaster.  And they don't know my story.  And it's awfully narcissistic of me to ask them to take their training elsewhere.  And if I had never had my own CPR training (through health class, summers as a camp counselor, and years in an elementary classroom), I would not have known what to do. 

But I knew.  I knew what to do.  And I don't have to wonder if I did all I could.  I didn't stand helplessly.  I knew what to do.

At the very least, I want to say to those calm, reserved, checklist-marking lifeguards, "It isn't like that.  It doesn't happen that way.  You don't count to thirty.  You don't do that 'one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand' bit.  You just do your best.  You do your damned best and you fight like hell."

Instead, I take my book and move to sit by the splashing fountain.  There, I can watch my big boys play, but I can neither hear nor see the practice rescue techniques. 

It seemed to me the pool would be a safe place for us to go.  I mean, aside from the water danger (which is in itself signficant, although I comfort myself with the false security that no greater harm can happen to us, that we have survived the worst).

I would like to have a written note dismissing me from all CPR training and exposure for the rest of my life. 

For the rest of my life.  Please. 

The Tag Team

"Listen to your mother."

"Don't talk to your mom that way."

"Don't ask her why. Just obey her. Because I'm your dad, and she's my wife."

I miss the tag team.

Big time.

I have missed that every single day for eight months.

Eight months today.