Today at work, I was helping an older woman who can sometimes be a challenge. While I was walking her from my office and to the lobby, she continued to make small talk while I worried after her and her cane. Then she turned to me and asked if I was pregnant, her gaze resting for a moment on my mid-section. I laughed and told her "no, I wish!" Then I mentioned that after 4 pregnancies I still had a little baby pouch. That's what we call it in my house - that leftover baby bump - my baby pouch.
Apparently, what this old lady said upset my two co-workers much more than it did me. In fact, my assistant hugged me sweetly and told me not to forget that this woman is often quite icky to us. She said the customer she was helping was appalled for me. I reiterated that I was cool; it wasn't a big deal to me. Honestly my loves, as I've mentioned to you in the past, I would love to have another baby. But I have another birthday looming on the horizon, and reality is rising in my throat. Also, not to brag, but I'm only 14 pounds away from my college weight at this point in my life. I've got suit pants I need to take in so I can stop using safety pins. I look pretty good.
But guess what, I looked pretty good 16 pounds ago, too. Aside from being mindful of kidney stones and my back, this body can still get things done. Work, chores, errands, walks, extra curricular activities (bow chicka bow bow), more work, more chores ... I just keep moving. Yes, I have a baby pouch ... ok. It doesn't stop me from getting done what I need to do. It doesn't bother the male I made the babies with who created the pouch. And not for nothing, but I've had other offers, so it's clearly not bothering anybody else either.
So why were my assistant and the other people within earshot bothered for me? Probably because we've been taught at a very young age that our worth as women is 100% tied to our appearance and, in correlation, our age. The older we get we learn that we better keep ourselves as attractive as possible to the opposite sex, lest we incur irrelevance in direct proportion to our lack of desirability. That's why in 2016 a woman running for President has her pantsuits critiqued and her appearance mocked. Whether you like her, and by extension, her experience and policies or not isn't the point I'm trying to make. Have you heard people make fun of her appearance, her clothes, her age or her weight? Of course you have. And that is born from misogyny, first and foremost, and second from her refusing to conform.
I own my baby pouch. I will work that baby pouch. Far from allowing myself to be embarrassed or chastised by someone else's words or perceptions of what I should be, I will know what and who I am and how that is so much more than the sum of my parts.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Secrets
At the grocery store this weekend, I saw one of my secret fears. This little older lady was putting single frozen entrees into her cart. Now, it could be she and her significant other don't eat very much, or her oven is broken and this is a short term solution, or she's buying for a friend, or she hates to cook, or maybe even a dozen other possible paradigms. But I think the reason she was eating single serving frozen entrees is that she's alone ... all alone.
I'm going to let you in on one of my deepest, darkest fears, my loves - being alone when I'm older. The kids are grown, the grandchildren (if there are any when that time comes) aren't interested in me, the husband is dead, the cabana boy has moved on (that's what we call humor) and friends are few and far between. I'm still working, because a. why not if I can, b. have you seen my 401K and c. cat food does not taste good. I'll still be cooking for myself, because I really enjoy that, but it'll be single servings. So, I can see myself resorting to the simplest things like eating cold cereal for dinner.
I love quiet moments for contemplation, to work through my personal philosophies, to write, to read, to craft, but most of the time, it's not really that quiet. Even now, the tv is on for background white noise, my son is practicing electric guitar six feet from me, the youngest is laying down a funky beat on her drum next to him and the eldest is typing on her laptop. I can function amidst the wall of sound. If there was silence, I'd be left alone with this brain of mine, and that might not be a completely pleasant experience. Now before someone chimes in and tells me that time alone with myself will help me grow as a human and have a greater appreciation for any number of things, from the creator on down to staying in the lines when I paint my toes ... no, no it won't. I have lived inside this head for 43 years, and in all actuality, I quite like it in there. It can be a fun time, but I need to share my thoughts, to speak them out loud in order to not get stuck in the flowchart in my noggin.
Someone I love told me recently that I was one of the strongest people they know. Seeing that little older lady in the grocery store with her tiny collection of boxes made me question the veracity of that statement. Because when I looked into her cart, it was like looking into a chasm of loneliness and despair. It was me in 35 years, trying to navigate through the crowded store, picking out the smallest package of chicken and two onions, the small bottle of mayo and individual potatoes. How do you even do that? I buy the biggest bag I can put in the cart now, because I make five pounds at a time. How do you cook one damn potato? Some of you know full well that I will be having this conversation in the grocery store with myself in front of those potatoes. I'm going to have to learn how to hide that part of me better. An old lady having a talk with a potato is going to attract unnecessary attention.
Maybe it's an unfounded fear. Maybe the children will always be near, if there are grandchildren, they will come and help me clean, the cabana boy and I will vacation together while the husband writes his 57th novel, and I will have dark purple hair. My sister and I, along with multiple friends will routinely get together to tell raucous jokes and curse like sailors. Maybe they will improve the taste of cat food, too.
I'm going to let you in on one of my deepest, darkest fears, my loves - being alone when I'm older. The kids are grown, the grandchildren (if there are any when that time comes) aren't interested in me, the husband is dead, the cabana boy has moved on (that's what we call humor) and friends are few and far between. I'm still working, because a. why not if I can, b. have you seen my 401K and c. cat food does not taste good. I'll still be cooking for myself, because I really enjoy that, but it'll be single servings. So, I can see myself resorting to the simplest things like eating cold cereal for dinner.
I love quiet moments for contemplation, to work through my personal philosophies, to write, to read, to craft, but most of the time, it's not really that quiet. Even now, the tv is on for background white noise, my son is practicing electric guitar six feet from me, the youngest is laying down a funky beat on her drum next to him and the eldest is typing on her laptop. I can function amidst the wall of sound. If there was silence, I'd be left alone with this brain of mine, and that might not be a completely pleasant experience. Now before someone chimes in and tells me that time alone with myself will help me grow as a human and have a greater appreciation for any number of things, from the creator on down to staying in the lines when I paint my toes ... no, no it won't. I have lived inside this head for 43 years, and in all actuality, I quite like it in there. It can be a fun time, but I need to share my thoughts, to speak them out loud in order to not get stuck in the flowchart in my noggin.
Someone I love told me recently that I was one of the strongest people they know. Seeing that little older lady in the grocery store with her tiny collection of boxes made me question the veracity of that statement. Because when I looked into her cart, it was like looking into a chasm of loneliness and despair. It was me in 35 years, trying to navigate through the crowded store, picking out the smallest package of chicken and two onions, the small bottle of mayo and individual potatoes. How do you even do that? I buy the biggest bag I can put in the cart now, because I make five pounds at a time. How do you cook one damn potato? Some of you know full well that I will be having this conversation in the grocery store with myself in front of those potatoes. I'm going to have to learn how to hide that part of me better. An old lady having a talk with a potato is going to attract unnecessary attention.
Maybe it's an unfounded fear. Maybe the children will always be near, if there are grandchildren, they will come and help me clean, the cabana boy and I will vacation together while the husband writes his 57th novel, and I will have dark purple hair. My sister and I, along with multiple friends will routinely get together to tell raucous jokes and curse like sailors. Maybe they will improve the taste of cat food, too.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Margaret & Bobby
Margaret came into my work today looking for help. It wasn't going to be difficult to do what she needed, but I had to make a phone call to get it done. She apologized for the inconvenience, and as I put the phone to my ear, I told her I was sure she had more than enough going on in her life ... let me try to make something easier. That's when she told me I didn't know the half of it, so I decided to hang up the phone and ask for the story.
She said that her significant other had died two years ago, and she just couldn't move forward. In fact, she had just come from her beloved's grave - that's what she called him throughout our talk, her beloved Bobby. As she started to cry, she looked up at the ceiling saying, "not now, Margaret, not now." She said she was trying to sell their condo, but couldn't find anyone who would come close to the asking price. Her health isn't good and she needs to sell it to take care of a variety of issues. In fact, she told me that she was currently dealing with a urinary tract infection and had a hard time being able to afford the medicine.
But every other thought she uttered kept bringing her back to her beloved. She told me that they had had 22 years together, a true love affair. One where he showed her daily how much he loved her and needed her. She said he was quite romantic, with a smile that stopped her tears instantly. She had been married before him for 25 years to a good man, but she said that was a marriage. Not what she had with Bobby. She said that her friends would ask her, how could he die and leave you ... you two were so in love. Bobby was 89 when he died, she 10 years his junior.
Eventually, there was a point in the conversation where it felt ok to make the call and get her situation resolved. She thanked me immensely and rising to leave, took my hand in hers to say goodbye. Her hands were so soft. I thanked her for telling me her story, for telling me about Bobby and their love. I told her that some people never get to experience such joy in their lives with someone who loves them completely, let alone have that for 22 years. She smiled and left. Then I went to the bathroom and wept. I cried for Margaret, for my mother-in-law, for all the Margarets and their male analogs I've met in the last year, for love and loss and the unknown.
She said that her significant other had died two years ago, and she just couldn't move forward. In fact, she had just come from her beloved's grave - that's what she called him throughout our talk, her beloved Bobby. As she started to cry, she looked up at the ceiling saying, "not now, Margaret, not now." She said she was trying to sell their condo, but couldn't find anyone who would come close to the asking price. Her health isn't good and she needs to sell it to take care of a variety of issues. In fact, she told me that she was currently dealing with a urinary tract infection and had a hard time being able to afford the medicine.
But every other thought she uttered kept bringing her back to her beloved. She told me that they had had 22 years together, a true love affair. One where he showed her daily how much he loved her and needed her. She said he was quite romantic, with a smile that stopped her tears instantly. She had been married before him for 25 years to a good man, but she said that was a marriage. Not what she had with Bobby. She said that her friends would ask her, how could he die and leave you ... you two were so in love. Bobby was 89 when he died, she 10 years his junior.
Eventually, there was a point in the conversation where it felt ok to make the call and get her situation resolved. She thanked me immensely and rising to leave, took my hand in hers to say goodbye. Her hands were so soft. I thanked her for telling me her story, for telling me about Bobby and their love. I told her that some people never get to experience such joy in their lives with someone who loves them completely, let alone have that for 22 years. She smiled and left. Then I went to the bathroom and wept. I cried for Margaret, for my mother-in-law, for all the Margarets and their male analogs I've met in the last year, for love and loss and the unknown.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Car Time
Driving to work today, I started to think about seven years from now when I turn fifty. I actually have a hard time grasping that concept, because in my head, I'm still half that age . I'm in a good place physically, thanks to my urologist suggesting I triple my water intake to keep my kidneys happy and my amazing massage therapist who has eliminated the radiating pain from my back, making movement possible again. Due to the water and the movement, I've lost a bit of weight, which is always a good thing.
Yet, in the car, I couldn't get past that mile marker. It's not as though I feel some sense of lost possibilities when I hit that age. As long as I have energy and breath, I will do whatever I want to do. A new craft that intrigue me ... I'm trying it. Is that something on the car that I can replace ... let me give it a whirl. When we moved into this house, a small embankment wall beside the driveway was giving way. I pulled the railroad ties out and built a concrete block wall (it's pretty, trust me) to replace it. My point is not to brag, but to say as long as this brain works and the body cooperates, I'll figure out how to do it.
But what I can't wrap my head around is what this life will look like without my babies around me. In seven years, #1 will be 25, #2 will be 22 and #3 will be 15. #1 will probably have figured out what her path in life will be by then. She'll have finished school and might be on her own. #2 will probably have finished school, exploring the world in front of him. #3 will have finished her first draft on the constitution for her banana republic and what the military uniforms will look like. As I've said before, the less I know, the better. Although I do know that undoubtedly, there won't be three little people greeting me at the door. That's the thought I couldn't get out of my head this morning.
I know that if we've done our job, they will reach a point where they can function on their own in this big world. I know that they have to have grown up lives and loves; they can't stay with me forever. I'm not in any hurry for them to prove this ability. My philosophy is you have plenty of time to do it all on your own, enjoy this time now - read and write as much as you want, teach yourself hobbies and crafts, learn who you are. I'll feed you for as long as you want to eat my cooking.
My mother used to say that she never understood the moms that used to be ecstatic at the start of school. She always cried on our first day. She would say, if you don't like having your kids around, why did you have them at all. My kids are some of the best people I know on this planet. Sure, sometimes I take extra time when I run errands or 10 minutes more in the bathroom with the door locked - mama needs a break, too - but otherwise I'd rather spend time with them. I'm partial since they're half me, but they are incredible humans, simply marvelous. Theoretically, when they've moved out, I'm supposed to live for me, but that feels foreign, unnatural. Certainly, I'll be told that I'll adjust, but I haven't adjusted to mom's death after eight years, so I'm not thinking it's in the cards.
Today is my youngest niece's birthday; my brother's youngest. She is a glorious 1 year of age. Her middle name is mom's name, Laurel. I can write it, but I can't utter it without crying. Looking at pictures of her today online was happy making. It made me glad for my brother that he has a long time before their house will be empty.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Video Games
I wholeheartedly believe in playing video games, both for myself and for the children. Yes, it leads to the development of strategy, improves memory and fosters creativity, but for me at least, they also bring relaxation. I laugh at that thought too, because mom used to complain about Frogger. She'd say, "I can never get that fucking frog across the highway." Game play certainly wasn't relaxing for her.
When I was a preteen and teenager, we'd save quarters to play at the arcade - and I use that term loosely - at the front of the local grocery store. There was a Ms. Pac Man that called to me, and a pinball machine that I bruised my right palm on once I learned you could slap the release for a faster shot instead of pulling it. How can you pass up a pinball machine? The lights, the marvelous sounds, the adrenaline from keeping the ball in play ... it's heaven.
When I went off to college, one of our friends off campus had a Nintendo. During parties when everyone else was pairing off or climbing the fire escapes and generally having a drunk and debaucherous time, I was the moody girl with the bottle of Boone's Farm in front of the Nintendo willing Mario to finish each level. As I look back on that time, another reason why those people were such good friends, and many brothers in the fraternity I later joined, was that they never gave me any grief about it. The party just went on around me. Also, I'll never drink Boone's Farm Sangria ever again.
During the summers between school, my husband stayed at my mother's house with me. We'd play shareware computer games that we picked up for a dollar a piece on the computer we set up in my brother's room. When my husband and I moved to Texas, we were quite poor and living off very little, waiting for my student loan refund check to come. We didn't have any furniture until a friend gave us a couch that came in pieces. You put it together like a puzzle. We slept on a pile of blankets, ate at a low metal table that he liberated from a condemned building on campus, watched a tiny black and white TV that sat on his foot locker. After the check came through, I bought a futon, a rocking chair, a color TV and stand, and a Nintendo 64. Mario and I were together again.
Long before we could afford a Playstation, I fell in love with Tomb Raider and Lara Croft on the computer. I tried Myst, but it never really stuck. I wanted adventure. Years later, when we had finally saved up for a Playstation, he could play NBA Live promising the baby that he'd win the next game for her, and I could play ... whatever, as long as I got to 100% completion. Our eldest likes certain games, but not as much as #2 and #3. The boy has been playing religiously since he was 3 years old. I used to hand him a disconnected controller so he could play beside me and not effect my outcome. Eventually we would play together or separately, but always pushing each to be the first to finish a level. We're always behind the most recent console by a couple generations, because I'm cheap, and I almost never trade my games in because you never know when you might want to play something again.
#2 has to collect everything too, obsessive like his mother. Now he likes the games where every time you finish the entire storyline, the difficulty ratchets up a notch ... so you finish it again. That's my boy. When he was six and broke his arm, we asked the doctor to put the cast on in such a way so he could still hold his controller. I think we both would have been disconsolate if he couldn't play. The youngest holds her own well on a console game or her tablet. I like to believe it's improving her reading and planning skills, so when she's running her banana republic one day, she'll thank me. We devour all the Lego games as a family. Although Mario will always be dear to my heart, I've become quite fond of the Assassin's Creed games. Nothing makes a long day at work more bearable than plugging in, pulling the cowl down to the edge of your eyes and dispatching some enemies in quick fashion. For some reason, I find the efficiency of sharpened steel more comforting than bashing my head against bricks - which may be a weird metaphor for adulthood. Or something I should embroider on a pillow.
When I was a preteen and teenager, we'd save quarters to play at the arcade - and I use that term loosely - at the front of the local grocery store. There was a Ms. Pac Man that called to me, and a pinball machine that I bruised my right palm on once I learned you could slap the release for a faster shot instead of pulling it. How can you pass up a pinball machine? The lights, the marvelous sounds, the adrenaline from keeping the ball in play ... it's heaven.
When I went off to college, one of our friends off campus had a Nintendo. During parties when everyone else was pairing off or climbing the fire escapes and generally having a drunk and debaucherous time, I was the moody girl with the bottle of Boone's Farm in front of the Nintendo willing Mario to finish each level. As I look back on that time, another reason why those people were such good friends, and many brothers in the fraternity I later joined, was that they never gave me any grief about it. The party just went on around me. Also, I'll never drink Boone's Farm Sangria ever again.
During the summers between school, my husband stayed at my mother's house with me. We'd play shareware computer games that we picked up for a dollar a piece on the computer we set up in my brother's room. When my husband and I moved to Texas, we were quite poor and living off very little, waiting for my student loan refund check to come. We didn't have any furniture until a friend gave us a couch that came in pieces. You put it together like a puzzle. We slept on a pile of blankets, ate at a low metal table that he liberated from a condemned building on campus, watched a tiny black and white TV that sat on his foot locker. After the check came through, I bought a futon, a rocking chair, a color TV and stand, and a Nintendo 64. Mario and I were together again.
Long before we could afford a Playstation, I fell in love with Tomb Raider and Lara Croft on the computer. I tried Myst, but it never really stuck. I wanted adventure. Years later, when we had finally saved up for a Playstation, he could play NBA Live promising the baby that he'd win the next game for her, and I could play ... whatever, as long as I got to 100% completion. Our eldest likes certain games, but not as much as #2 and #3. The boy has been playing religiously since he was 3 years old. I used to hand him a disconnected controller so he could play beside me and not effect my outcome. Eventually we would play together or separately, but always pushing each to be the first to finish a level. We're always behind the most recent console by a couple generations, because I'm cheap, and I almost never trade my games in because you never know when you might want to play something again.
#2 has to collect everything too, obsessive like his mother. Now he likes the games where every time you finish the entire storyline, the difficulty ratchets up a notch ... so you finish it again. That's my boy. When he was six and broke his arm, we asked the doctor to put the cast on in such a way so he could still hold his controller. I think we both would have been disconsolate if he couldn't play. The youngest holds her own well on a console game or her tablet. I like to believe it's improving her reading and planning skills, so when she's running her banana republic one day, she'll thank me. We devour all the Lego games as a family. Although Mario will always be dear to my heart, I've become quite fond of the Assassin's Creed games. Nothing makes a long day at work more bearable than plugging in, pulling the cowl down to the edge of your eyes and dispatching some enemies in quick fashion. For some reason, I find the efficiency of sharpened steel more comforting than bashing my head against bricks - which may be a weird metaphor for adulthood. Or something I should embroider on a pillow.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Speeding up
I think I've figured out why time seems to be flying by, why it feels like the kids are growing up too quickly, and I think it all comes down to having a crappy job.
When you're a child, you spend your time getting excited for the next birthday or cool event in your life. I can't wait to be kissed. I can't wait to be a teenager. I can't wait to drive. I can't ... and so forth and so on. It used to seem like it was taking forever to get to the next event. Even if your childhood and home life wasn't ideal, you had these life goals to get enthusiastic for, to plan for, to daydream about.
As you moved into adulthood, maybe you were in love, starting a life together, even after you started a family, you were still anticipating. Maybe it was his turn to make dinner or the baby just learned how to roll over. You had things to look forward to, but they were just around the bend in time. As time passed though, all of it started to change and speed up. All of a sudden, your kids were teenagers and you had no idea how you got this old.
It finally dawned on me today. I was at work thinking, just 2 more hours and I get to go home to the babies. I've probably thought something like this a million times. Just this much longer until I get to go home to them, just this many days until the weekend when I can have a day and a half with them, just this many weeks until I can have a whole week off with them. I think it all comes back to the level of crappiness in your job. If you're unhappy, unfulfilled, you're probably looking forward to your "weekend" - whatever that translates to for you - and usually that's a couple days away. So then the weekend comes, and you're already thinking about the next one. And so on, and so on, and so on. Then you look at the baby, and they're 15.
We give our youth and energy to these jobs that barely appreciate us, and in return we thank them for letting us have 2-4 weeks a year with the humans we created, who we theoretically really dig being around. There's got to be a way to slow down the merry-go-round, because I need to jump off.
When you're a child, you spend your time getting excited for the next birthday or cool event in your life. I can't wait to be kissed. I can't wait to be a teenager. I can't wait to drive. I can't ... and so forth and so on. It used to seem like it was taking forever to get to the next event. Even if your childhood and home life wasn't ideal, you had these life goals to get enthusiastic for, to plan for, to daydream about.
As you moved into adulthood, maybe you were in love, starting a life together, even after you started a family, you were still anticipating. Maybe it was his turn to make dinner or the baby just learned how to roll over. You had things to look forward to, but they were just around the bend in time. As time passed though, all of it started to change and speed up. All of a sudden, your kids were teenagers and you had no idea how you got this old.
It finally dawned on me today. I was at work thinking, just 2 more hours and I get to go home to the babies. I've probably thought something like this a million times. Just this much longer until I get to go home to them, just this many days until the weekend when I can have a day and a half with them, just this many weeks until I can have a whole week off with them. I think it all comes back to the level of crappiness in your job. If you're unhappy, unfulfilled, you're probably looking forward to your "weekend" - whatever that translates to for you - and usually that's a couple days away. So then the weekend comes, and you're already thinking about the next one. And so on, and so on, and so on. Then you look at the baby, and they're 15.
We give our youth and energy to these jobs that barely appreciate us, and in return we thank them for letting us have 2-4 weeks a year with the humans we created, who we theoretically really dig being around. There's got to be a way to slow down the merry-go-round, because I need to jump off.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
For Him and for Her
Yesterday, we buried my father-in-law's ashes. As you can imagine, it was an incredibly difficult and sad occasion for all present - but most of all, for my mother-in-law. Married for 58 years, she's alone now. She's not really alone, obviously, as she has friends and a tremendous amount of family all around her, but that's not the same. They married when she was 18, and she is in relatively good health. Now she has to figure out how to live without the man she has done everything with for an eternity.
After he retired, they did everything together ... church together, men's/women's bible studies together, errands together, the death of each of her parents together, vacations together, everything together. How do you live a separate life when you've never been apart? How do you go on when the one person you could tell everything to isn't there to talk to anymore? I know people do it, all day, every day, but how?
My mother-in-law is a good woman, a great cook, a crafter, an excellent grandmother and great grandmother. She has a fantastic memory. She is wonderfully sentimental and kind. We cry at the same dorky things. She remembered to bring a box of kleenex to the funeral. At his memorial in April, she received mourners for 2 1/2 hours. Just as today with the small amount of close family that came, she had to meet and greet each person. If the roles were reversed, and I had lost my greatest love, I would have been in sack cloth in the corner, unable to recall my name, let alone remind my son to invite everyone back to his house for lunch. She is an incredibly strong and resilient human, given what she is going through.
When I was in college and my husband was in graduate school, I spent many, if not most weekends at their house. I would drive over on Friday night and stay through church & Sunday dinner before returning to school. At least once a month, we'd have dinner at Howard Johnson's. He always had the fish fry with extra tartar sauce and black coffee. She would have something different or exactly what I had, which was always the cheapest thing on the menu, because he never let me pay. On the way there, we would pass an exit on the highway that pointed to a far off part of the state. She would sigh and say someday we'll go. He'd pat her hand and keep on driving. Now, they can't go together, and she has to decide if someday will ever come to pass.
At night, if my husband was in town or if another family member stopped by, we would put four of us at the kitchen table and play euchre into the wee hours of the morning. We always had to split them up; her and my husband, me and Dad. If we didn't do it, they'd run the table together time after time. Communicating with their eyes, they never had to say a word. Now, half the team is forever quiet.
After he retired, they did everything together ... church together, men's/women's bible studies together, errands together, the death of each of her parents together, vacations together, everything together. How do you live a separate life when you've never been apart? How do you go on when the one person you could tell everything to isn't there to talk to anymore? I know people do it, all day, every day, but how?
My mother-in-law is a good woman, a great cook, a crafter, an excellent grandmother and great grandmother. She has a fantastic memory. She is wonderfully sentimental and kind. We cry at the same dorky things. She remembered to bring a box of kleenex to the funeral. At his memorial in April, she received mourners for 2 1/2 hours. Just as today with the small amount of close family that came, she had to meet and greet each person. If the roles were reversed, and I had lost my greatest love, I would have been in sack cloth in the corner, unable to recall my name, let alone remind my son to invite everyone back to his house for lunch. She is an incredibly strong and resilient human, given what she is going through.
When I was in college and my husband was in graduate school, I spent many, if not most weekends at their house. I would drive over on Friday night and stay through church & Sunday dinner before returning to school. At least once a month, we'd have dinner at Howard Johnson's. He always had the fish fry with extra tartar sauce and black coffee. She would have something different or exactly what I had, which was always the cheapest thing on the menu, because he never let me pay. On the way there, we would pass an exit on the highway that pointed to a far off part of the state. She would sigh and say someday we'll go. He'd pat her hand and keep on driving. Now, they can't go together, and she has to decide if someday will ever come to pass.
At night, if my husband was in town or if another family member stopped by, we would put four of us at the kitchen table and play euchre into the wee hours of the morning. We always had to split them up; her and my husband, me and Dad. If we didn't do it, they'd run the table together time after time. Communicating with their eyes, they never had to say a word. Now, half the team is forever quiet.
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