break out the playground shivs

July 2nd, 2009 § 0

The employee at Top Foods meat department rolls his eyes at me. He says, “It’s nice to see parents teaching their kids.”

I stop. What is he talking about? I’m distracted; first day wearing my new miniskirt and I’m wondering if my ass is hanging out. I realize this employee is referring in irritation to another parent close by: she has a child in her cart that is on occasion omitting a rather impressive shriek. The child is easily under two years old and likely bored as hell.
The butcher continues, “Good job,” (meaning my kids). “It’s rare to see, believe me.” Nodding sagely.
I laugh nervously as my eyes cast about and I spy my own children who are, for the moment, relatively calm and innocent-seeming. I don’t know what to say. First off, I don’t really agree with this fellow if he thinks a two year old shrieking is a big problem. Secondly, I always get a kick out of people complimenting my childrens’ decorum. At any minute my kids could be saying, “If you don’t mind sir, would you please direct me to the restroom?” or they could be pulling down their pants to piss in the parking lot - honestly, it’s a coin toss either way and I’m always curious and amused to see which way it goes.
So since I can’t agree nor accept the compliment I just smile and wander off.
After shopping we take the kids to the park; Sophie having spent the day at my mom’s boyfriend’s place - she impressed by the outdoor shower and lack of indoor plumbing - missed her brother immensely. Now the siblings are clambering all over one another, tumbling down the slide as one unit, Sophie somersaulting off the edge and then instantly up with a handful of wood chips to fling in her brother’s face, who expertly dodges and laughs (nice one!). “Jesus,” Ralph says from our seat in the car, looking aside at me. It looks alarming but I know my kids have context; they play much rougher with one another than with anyone else.
It’s Nels’ turn at Grandma’s tonight for a sleepover; upon our return Ralph helps him pack his backpack and spirits him away in the car. I’m making up spaghetti and meatballs and a delicious cake with my favorite frosting for our company (third time this week) tomorrow night. I’ll miss Nels, I have to admit. My favorite thing in the morning is him coming down the stairs, his blonde hair huge and his belly empty and his arms full of hugs.

if you really think about it, it makes perfect sense

June 30th, 2009 § 0

“Mama, mama, mama!” I’ve run a bath for my son in the middle of the day; he and our kitty Mabel just spent a solid hour in our greenhouse exploring and eating tomatoes. They are both filthy upon their return. Now he’s calling for me, his voice audible over the sound of rushing water.

“I need a knife,” he tells me when I come in. He’s crouched in the tub, naked, his hair blonde and skin golden as the sun, with two of the dirtiest heels I’ve ever seen.
He needs a knife - in the bath, while naked - because the bar of soap is cemented to the bottom of the clawfoot tub. I decline the request for cutlery and peel it loose, hand it to him.
“Did you see me pee in the greenhouse?” he asks presently. This is funny. Because he knows on some level I’d tell him not to urinate, you know, right on the food we eat. He can’t figure out a way to ask me if I spied this naughtiness (I did not) without coming out and outing himself.
“Oh,” I say, declining to answer the question (this child, I’d hope to keep him in the illusion Mama is all-knowing, all-seeing).”Do you think you should have done that?” I ask him.
“Well, I put Mabel outside when I did it,” he defends.
So… pissing in the greenhouse, totally fine - as long as you don’t subject the 14-week old kitten to the sight of it.

"typically followed by functional impairment while awake"

June 30th, 2009 § 0

Today’s ill-timed wakeup at 4:30 AM doesn’t seem to have an upside. At first I felt merely deliciously sleepy; padding downstairs to use the bathroom, washing hands, and slipping back to bed next to the other three members of the family. My children sleep snapped together like a magnet set. Today right in between Sophie’s curved small of her back and Nels’ tummy was our little kitten Mabel; purring and happy as a clam in the sand.

Getting back to sleep might be an impossibility but at least I get something done: petting this little creature, who has benefited not only from proper diet and medicine but also more love than seems possible for her tiny frame to absorb. Her narrow little rib cage feels flexible and fragile, housing only the guts she needs to eat and shit, and some kind of intense purring machine. She stretches her paw out over my chest and puts her face down, the picture of contentment. Is petting cats therapeutic? I’d read this somewhere. It certainly seems therapeutic for her, and is definitely pleasant enough.

An acute case of insomnia seems all the more cruel given yesterday’s perfect ritual of hard work, exercise, and functional menu. Last night we hosted two extra children for a sleepover; a long bike ride, a big dinner with guests roughhousing and up late. 6:30 AM and one of the children is awake. 6:30, really? This is taking me back to those days with infants; my own children usually rise anywhere from 9 AM to 11 AM. I tell myself that after the extra kids are gone I’m going to try to recover some rest; no, really I am. And I almost believe it.

cooking, a manifesto

June 29th, 2009 § 0

I wanted to write a bit about my cooking but I wasn’t sure how to approach it without sounding arrogant or navelgazing, because the simple truth is:

I am a good cook.
Yes, I realize “good” is subjective. Let me be clear about the type of cook I am not. I am not a home chef who has a bunch of erudite knowledge, or someone who puts together lavish spreads centering around a perfectly-prepared expensive and tender cut of meat. In fact, I can barely cook meat and I certainly don’t know my way around it (my husband’s preferences run to vegetarianism and that suits me just fine). I am terrible at providing cocktails (or even beverages); my guests drink out of bottles or mason jars. I don’t know wines - I mean at all. I am inept at the little fiddlesome details that create perfectly identical enchiladas. I can’t plate nor garnish a meal in a way that takes my guests’ breath away - and I really should learn to do these things, and maybe someday will.
But despite all these failings - and likely many more - I know I am a good cook. How do I know this?
Besides the compliments - and I get many - I know I’m a good cook from what I experience while preparing the meal. I enjoy cooking. I am always excited to learn a new dish and I usually succeed in the effort (if my guests’ reactions are to be taken at face value). I love every part of the process, from picturing how the meal will come together, to finding the ingredients in the shop or in my garden, to washing and cutting them, putting on some music, wiping down the table, beginning to bring last night’s soaked beans to a gentle boil, starting my bread by stirring yeast and sugar into warm water to watch and smell it as it proofs (breadmaking is one of the best olfactory experiences I know of). I literally enjoy cooking more than I enjoy eating.
I am a good cook because I can be quick, and I can be flexible. I appreciate both the skill that comes with practice and the on-the-fly abilities that create the lunchtime dish for my children. I can take shortcuts with the right storebought pizza sauce or spend days brewing a sourdough starter to serve a friend for their birthday.

And speaking of this, I am a good cook because I can bake bread, and I’m only getting better. Naan so fragrant and belly-filling that a friend who visited over a year ago still rhapsodies about it. Bagels that never deflate, waiting to be stuffed and devoured. A pita recipe that makes its rounds in my social circle, a legend of modest proportions. Tonight, eight loaves of Cuban bread delectably sour, spongey, dense and soft.

I am a good cook because I honestly care what my company, guests, and family enjoy and prefer. I am only too happy to cook for those with allergies or preferences or even someone who says, “Man, I’d love a strawberry rhubarb pie”. Done and done.
I am a good cook because my ego does not suffer if I turn out a failure. Nor do I feel the need to apologize much when this happens. In tonight’s fare (Cuban sandwiches, black bean refritos, aromatic Cuban white bean & butternut squash soup, homemade cheese, cucumber and tomato salad, chips and salsa, crema superior, oven-roasted tomatoes, chocolate fudge pudding with whipped cream, and yellow cake topped with fennel candy) I screwed up - of all things - on the pudding (made from a box no less). Minor embarassment; top with whipped cream, serve, and let’s move on.
I am further blessed in that I am not too likely to stress about preparing or entertaining. Cooking for many - in my small kitchen with my one frying pan! - yes, sometimes I find myself running about the kitchen feeling a bit frantic. When I feel this I can straighten up, pull my hair off my forehead, and say to myself, “Let it go.” I’ve done my best; I’ve prepared as well as I can. Shite, the sandwiches are going to come to the table five minutes later than the rest. Oops! And that’s all.
I am a good cook because I like using quality ingredients - and love the search and culmination of acquiring them - but I also understand I am not entitled to them. I am glad that at no point in my career as cook and hostess has someone labeled me a “foodie”. I abhor food elitism in all forms. I will not feel smug at my friend’s ill-salted green bean casserole or talk smack about the tuna wraps that represent another person’s best efforts. I feel only deep gratitude for food - all food, especially that given from the heart or grown by my neighbor. At home I like to cook well, if I can; in another’s house my eyes fill with tears that she has made this meal just for me - no matter what it tastes like.
I am a good cook because I always want to learn more, and to please my family and friends with my cooking.
I’m not an amazing cook, or a fussy cook, or someone who needs to be praised for my efforts. I will say “You’re welcome” when complimented, but I do not require ass-kissing, because I did it because I enjoy it. I am not a martyered cook, or an egocentric one:

I am a good cook.

what a great day! no, wait. shit.

June 26th, 2009 § 0

It sometimes occurs to me that many days I get to do the sort of things other people consider day-off activities. Probably the first amazing thing the kids did for me today was, upon leaving Sophie’s swim practice, they ran over to the landscaping and asked me to come look at a bush with them, some unremarkable shrub with tiny clusters of purple lilac-smelling blossoms. “It’s the bee bush,” my daughter tells me. And indeed the thing is prolific with these insects - many and varied, we count at least four different types of bees - and most magical of all, we got close enough we could see the tiny, perfect little parcels of pollen on their legs. This is the sort of miracle I technically already knew about (thanks to nature shows or public school), but had never really discovered for myself. Each little bee busy collecting smaller-than-grain size bits of pollen, hoarding a little share. The three of us blissed out just a few minutes outside the YMCA and I thought, without these children I would not have even noticed.

This afternoon the kids suggested we go “exploring”. First we had to stop home to grab the necessary requirements. Each child found a backpack and outfitted it appropriately. Sophie donned Spongebob Squarepants gardening gloves (and they did come in handy in navigating through blackberry bushes) and brought bottled water, a sketch pad / observational notebook, a science field book of some sort, and a bug net. Nels brought a “rock collector”, extra shoes, “a napkin in case something smelled bad”, and magnifying glass.

I chose to take them to the beachy / semi-wooded / train track spur of land we called “The Flats” when growing up here in Hoquiam. It was a lovely little afternoon jaunt, one where my kids were so deeply happy they had no behavioral problems and as we clambered through grass and up hummocks they regularly and fluidly delivered several factoids about how much and why they loved me. They also foraged through bushes and stopped to view flowers and insects and go “fishing” in a brackish little pond and they climbed around driftwood fortresses and scaled trees with an almost alarming alacrity and skill.

Things change so quickly as a parent; only an hour or so after we’re home and I’m busy in the kitchen, finding myself increasingly anxious, tired, overworked, and pissed at the kids’ occasional fights or accidents. Ralph got home at five and I had all four burners of the stove going and the kids spied a fraction of a brownie I was snacking on and (charmingly, but persistently) commandeered it. I was feeling overworked and claustrophobic and though the kids did nothing wrong in clamoring for my one thing I’d tried to keep to myself - well, I just gave in and cried, a little. Everyone deserves a collapse now and then.

Tonight: company, cooking a bit, packing up for tomorrow’s 30 mile family bike ride.

are you human / or a dud?

June 25th, 2009 § 0

Silly Facebook. I posted this list last night and have received several interesting and heartfelt responses - including gratitude (I also likely made a few people feel smug at how un-awesome I am). I was encouraged to share here. So I will!

I was debating compiling a list of, “25 Things That Make Me Feel Like a Bad Parent”. But it’s different to be “mom”. WAY more judgment entailed in the label / identity of “mom”, so when that word is leveled against me it’s nuanced differently than “parent” - most moms understand what I’m saying here. I do hope some dads fill this out as I’d love to see their lists.

So, I am going to write things I feel bad about. Some, pretty bad. Some, only 1% bad. Don’t be reading into how “bad” I feel because maybe it’s not all that much. Or maybe it’s WAY more than you’d think. Oh, and I’m not going to write anything that sounds “bad” that I am secretly smug about, because that is gross.

25 Things That Make Me Feel Like a Bad Mom

1. Pretty much any time my kids talk to me I respond with, “What? No, pick that up.” or “Wash your hands”. I am truly inspired by gentle parents who listen to their kids fully first, instead of barking out orders at them all the time.

2. I completely expect (and receive) full household support from my partner. You know, I think other mamas have been threatened by, jealous of, or annoyed by my egalitarian household and the lip service I sometimes devote to it. Suddenly I’ll feel like I *expect too much* out of my man, which makes me sometimes feel more like a bad wife than a mom. But you know what, fuck it, this is how I roll.

3. I let my kids dress themselves and sometimes they look tres-shabby AND I allow this to make me wish I’d dressed them in tidy clothes - despite the fact I want to feel groovy with their autonomy.

4. Sometimes I think a good portion of the reason I’m a stay-at-home-mom is because I’m so irritated with how many people demean it and put it down.

5. I give my kids so very much freedom in so many ways, especially their manners. In public sometimes they will be running down the aisle, or talking loudly in a restaurant. Half of me thinks, Oh shit my kids should behave better, but the predominant part of me is completely content to talk to them about their behavior later, and suffer the glares from grownups in the moment.

6. At home when they are driving me crazy, I yell at and spank my kids.

7. My kids have cavities and I can’t figure it out. The dentist says we’re doing everything right (but then I am so guilt-laden I will think he and the staff are being pantywaisted or lying to make me feel better!). I vacillate between knowing it’s awesome I take them to a good pediatric dentist, and “knowing” somehow I am the World’s Shittiest Mother for having kids with cavities.

8. I can get annoyed easily with other people’s kids.

9. Out of every family I have ever met, my kids have the absolute fewest toys. OK, on one hand I know this is the right choice for me. On the other hand sometimes I feel like other mommies judge my ass (which means on some level I must feel guilty?)!

10. I don’t advocate for fairness for my kids if they get in some scrap. They can handle it.

11. Even though I am creative and sew, bake, etc, I do not put together cute little crafty shit with my kids. Why, I don’t know. I do know, because in the thirty minutes it takes to put it all together they’d have torn apart some OTHER thing I’d have to clean up. Jeez I am getting pissed just writing this out.

12. My kids run around outside in their underwear (we live along a highway) and I truly just think the world should deal with it.

13. When my first child was young I was competitive and judgy about her clothes / manners / development level as compared to other babies. It was like a (thankfully temporary) insanity. I hate to remember what it felt like in my head.

14. I bake with white flour and sugar and yes my family loves it.

15. Sometimes I get this glimmer and feel glad my children are so slim (and not “fat”). I almost hate to write this, because I know this is so wrong of me. I am actively working on it though (thank you Kate Harding and co. at Shapely Prose…)

16. I smoke.

17. I get annoyed with bathroom talk / fart talk (theirs) even though I know I shouldn’t.

18. I still sometimes do Time Outs. Although I think they are dumb, and I am just being lazy when I do it.

19. I am sweeter to my youngest than my oldest. Working on it, people! As I type this I realize I am a crappy excuse for a human being.

20. I let my kids flat-out ask for things (sleepover at Grandma’s, a quarter from strangers, etc.) without “managing” them or stopping them. Again, usually I just talk to them about it later.

21. I don’t care if my kids eat one hundred million cookies, or a full pint of ice cream (as long as they eat some dinner first).

22. I let my kids watch scary movies with me. They can handle it.

23. I send my kids out with my husband to do errands so I can have some time to myself. Yes, I know this is not “wrong” - but I still feel like a “bad mom” when I do this. That is f*sked up!

24. When we go to a park I don’t play with them, not much anyway. Hey, I’m awesome that I took them to a park!

25. I honestly, when it comes down to it, am completely not offended if my kids swear.

time, part 2

June 24th, 2009 § 0

Sometimes I get asked by a woman I know in town, “So what are you up to today?” I never have anything to say. I probably sound like I do nothing, really.

Because what I’m “up to” is taking care of people. And an increasing number of animals, but I’ll get to that in a minute. Yesterday immediately upon rising (at 6 AM) I’d made beds, finished laundry, cleaned the kitchen, prepared homemade strawberry shortcake, finished a kitchen sewing project, fed the animals, taken out the recycling, and made my husband a lunch. This was by 9:30 AM.

Today at 11 AM I’ve done the same as listed (minus shortcake) as well as taken our new kitty to the vet for a cursory examination ($119! That diseased little scrap!) and our hen Sophie to have her staples removed (I’m happy to say she is fully recovered although the experience has ruined my enjoyment of crispy skin on fried chicken). I’m riding home with my hale and healthy children and my healthy, happy animals (including a kitten rescue, which is feeling very noble and enjoyable to me at the moment) and I feel like celebrating. And all I’m doing really is taking care of them. I have no other body of work. It’s like I’m constantly feeding, sleeping, washing, rinsing, loving, carrying, listening to, talking, instructing.

I don’t even avail myself of the free childcare that is public school so I could get a break - or make some money.

When I’m not actively taking care of people - and this includes my time watching the kiddos swim, or riding bikes to the park - I’m usually cleaning. Oh wait, shit, that’s taking care of people again! OK, so occasionally I sew. And very occasionally I sew for someone not my kids. I don’t sit down all day except to type and maybe eat one meal. At the end of the day I crash out to a B-movie and snuggling, maybe a few pages of a book (just finished, Lessons From The Fat-O-Sphere and Killers Of The Dream - both excellent!). That’s my R&R. And yeah. I’m aware the “snuggling” is also part of the Mama work.

In other words, nothing I do all day is worth writing home about and I never find a way to present it - especialy to the inquiring friend who doesn’t do what I do, or finds other earthy distractions that always sound more exciting. My life? In the words of Ron Burgundy, “It’s boring.” It only means a whole, hell of a lot to four people, three cats, four chickens, a few friends, neighbors, and family members who receive my home-cooked and home-sewn goods and the favor of childcare, and the many who’ve told me they enjoy reading my blog.

time, part 1

June 24th, 2009 § 0

A paycheck represents time spent - for many of us, the best mental and physical hours we have to offer. This time - as converted to currency - then is distributed toward the things you care about. You may find them a pain in the ass, or say you don’t like them, or that they don’t cost very much, or whatever. But numbers don’t lie.

My husband keeps a rather complicated, and rather awesome, family financial spreadsheet. Today he sent me an email which included information on the check he’d be bringing home tomorrow. Keep in mind this is a breakdown for one pay period (out of essentially two for the month) so is a bit lopsided (I’ll explain more in a bit):

%’s of this pay period’s income:

25% Housing
19% Food
16% Clothing shoppinz
15% Bills
5% Transportation
5% Debt
15% Everything Else

Equivalent days of work (12 in pay period):
3 Housing
2 Food
2 Clothing shoppinz
2 Bills
1/2 Transportation
1/2 Debt
2 Everything Else

A few notes: We are paying all of our housing expenses with this check. This means next period we will allocate 0% to rent (our total Housing expenses are about 12.3% of Ralph’s take-home income). This pay period we are allocating money to clothing, rather than to savings (our Savings model is 25%). Ralph still hasn’t figured how to work clothing into the regular expenses - and thus we have some catching up to do (although I do find myself wishing society would sanction Nels’ preferred dress code of tightie-whities and… no wait, that’s it, nothing else).

“Everything Else” includes things like buying gifts for friends, going out to the movies, the odd bill that must be paid immediately (like today’s vet bill for our new kitty), a meal out that my food allowance doesn’t cover, a relatively irregular expense like fabric for me to sew or bike tires or chicken coop supplies and feed, an impromptu trip to Olympia or movie rental or what-have-you. I like our Everything Else fund. It’s what keeps our life impromptu and rather enjoyable, most of the time.

My husband is awesome for not only working so diligently - and doing a good job at his profession - but for coming up with our financial system, for reducing our debt (largely medical bills we ignored while trying to buy groceries, while living in PT), giving us a road map so that our money is an asset we have choice regarding - rather than something there’s never enough of - and reducing our instances of utility shut-off* and other equally unpleasant experiences to ZERO.

He works hard for the money. So hard for it, honey.

* I find myself embarrassed by my use of and defense of the phrase “white trash” - which I have deliberately exorcised from my vocabulary and my world view. I am a work in progress.

mabel.

June 22nd, 2009 § 0

Today we adopted a new kitty. She has been a little shy. And sleepy. Here she is conked out on my 50 lb. bag of flour:

Meet Mabel
(image taken by Ralph’s computer camera and adjusted slightly for “kitten glow” effect)

This morning, before we found her, I joked that in acquiring a third Hoga-cat we were crossing into “animal hoarding”. My joke was made a bit stale later that day; it was clear from the moment we set foot in the kitten’s house of origin that this woman was in fact a hoarder. There were at least twenty cats on the premises and she had two litters we could choose from. The trailer was very stuffy and reeked of cat and cat urine, and many of the animals did not look too healthy. Touching, and sad, just before we left this woman (who seemed very shy, giving only two-word replies in a sort of downturned mumbling speech) opened up her body language and darted forward to give us her name and number should the cat “not work out”. “I’d rather have these kittens back then just, you know, dropping them off to just any house,” she told me. I assured her we had two cats already we took very good care of, and that we adopted kitties for life.

I thought of the cat-shopping advice I’d read - to pick a cat that was disease-free, clean, had her shots, bright-eyed. While we ultimately chose a little ginger tuft of fur who looked lively and seemed affectionate enough compared to some other kitties around the place, she also had a cold (eye discharge), ear mites, and seemed small for fourteen weeks of age (however, roaming older sibling litters indicated the family of cats might run small). Tonight I realized as Ralph and I gave her a bath - and he carefully pulled each and every flea off her body with tweezers - that if any family was going to be able to nurse a wretched little scrap back to full vim and vigor, it was us.

Sophie was an amazing little girl during this. She held the cat on the car ride home (I thought to bring a towel, worrying that using one of our cat carriers might have an upsetting odor to our little “orphan”), completely calmed the creature, and when we arrived home both helped her in orienting to the litter box and food dish, as well as spent a couple hours walking the cat in a sling against her chest (Ralph later reported he saw Sophie out in the yard cupping the kitten in the sling with one hand, then plucking a strawberry, putting it on the ground, and smashing the berry with a rock - all the while talking quite seriously to the cat about the nuances of this particular branch of science).

Most of the day I go about not thinking of the amount of neglect, suffering, and the lack of stewardship of the planet employed by the human race. This little tiny creature wrecks me. Her life is nothing, and yet it is all she has. I cannot personally adopt too many kitties, and of course adopting a domesticated animal (and sterlizing her, and caring for her all her life) is probably pretty damned insignificant on the list of ways to make the world a better place. But today we brought home a living breathing little spark, who has been bathed, eye drops administered, fed properly, and given lots and lots of love, and whose path will continue on with us for a while.

Welcome home, Mabel.

making it so hard to complete that you can’t even understand

June 21st, 2009 § 0

Written a year ago:

One of the chief good trappings of this day was that my father came along with us. He has been feeling better, despite new tumor growths in his lungs and bones. His good spirits seem largely due to the fact he’s had more than two months off chemo (his choice). It’s sad to see him off chemo because chemo keeps him alive (albeit tortured and sick). It’s almost, in its way, even sadder to see his hair thicken and his skintone liven and his skinny 6′ 3″ frame gain a few pounds. He starts to look startlingly good. I look at him and think to myself, imagine how healthy and hale he would be now without cancer treatment these last eight years. This is almost the worst kind of thought to think because it takes me back to What Could Have Been, a place I for the most part abandoned and don’t often glance at.

This is my first Father’s Day without my father. It hurts. I think to myself of all those who celebrate the day with platitudes or some kind of gift they know their dad won’t much care for. I think of the demeaning, silly, and two-dimensional stereotypes of “dad” that we sometimes laugh about or celebrate or grow maudlin about and how I’ve never had any use for them (dad likes fishin’ or football or let’s grill him something on the barbecue, har har, as if that’s in any way the summation of a man). I challenge us to look a little harder, to care a little more, to learn to be still and present with the ones you love.

My dad did so many things for me I feel grateful for. The gift I most reflect on is that he accepted me and knew me for who I was. He did not try to correct me or change me - even the parts of me he didn’t like. This probably means more to me than almost anything else about my upbringing. He cared for us and stayed with us and made money for us but mostly he brought us into his life and accepted us as his own. He knew me about as well as anyone. He did not pretend I was someone I wasn’t. He paid attention to me. I remember once feeling sad in a roomful of people and I knew he was watching; he was the only person who knew something was wrong. I remember when Sophie first started school and I was just about to drive off after visiting my parents and my dad came to the window of my van and said he’d done the math, and he’d figured out that since Nels went to preschool about seven hours a week, I’d had this many hours of free time in my life since children. This was something new to me too and I was amazed he’d plucked it out of my mind and given form to the concept of freedom, to the weight I’ve felt since bringing children into the world.

I think of how difficult it was, impossible really, for me to say to him with words what he meant to me and how much I loved him. Sometimes I feel terrible about this. Other times I think that it makes sense: neither he or I tend to be verbally demonstrative. He had to know how much I loved him. Because I know I said it with every other part of me, every other part. I bought and made him gifts, I hugged him, and spent time with him, and talked with him, I brought him music and made him food he loved, and enjoyed his company more than most anyone else I’ve known. He is one of the very few people I felt open, curious, and trusting towards when it came to advice - and I know he loved giving it. And I really gave, a tremendous amount, in the last week, days, hours, and minutes of his life. I gave a thousand percent and something broke inside me but was mended again even in the awesome impossible fact he’d left me for once and for all.

This morning my husband, son, and daughter wrote and recorded a new song:

it’s hard to complete - by ralph, sophie, & nels ( download mp3 file )


Happy Father’s Day!

« Older Entries