The Gift of Old Ragged Socks

Today my daughter found another "treasure".  In a box of crafting material that she had taken from Brian's house she found what appeared to be a large bag of old worn out socks.  When she opened it and removed them there were 42 very rough versions of Brian's famous sock puppets!  We all knew Brian's had made these infamous sock puppets but none of us had any idea there were so many or that he had kept them.  What another true gift. 


As a general rule he was a neat freak and his house was completely clutter-free. (Probably a holdover from having a mother that couldn't turn loose of anything!)  Unlike me - he purged. His house was immaculate. His bills, his household files and old income tax records looked as though they belonged to a really picky accountant.  But he, like me, still had a sentimental streak in him especially when it came to anything to do with his children. 


Neither of us could believe he had saved all of those ragged home-made sock puppets.  But how thankful to God I am that he did.


It all began when the kids were young as he was purging old badly-stained, unmated socks or socks with holes. He put one on his hand and started it "talking" to the kids - which was kind of always his thing. Everything when placed in Brian's hands "talked" and had a personality; bagels, tortillas, diapers - everything.  The kids just loved it.  So began the sock puppet menagerie and as everything tends to do - what started as a fluke took on a life of its own. He started drawing faces and funny mustaches on them.  Then he began to give them names.  Then the kids got big enough to get in on the game.  Thanks to Hobby Lobby the sock puppets got brightly colored pompom noses, wonky eyes, yarn hair and even straw hats.  He gave them all different voices and distinguishing characteristics and he began to make up fun stories "starring" the socks.  And this was how a single dad entertained two active kids without a mother in the household for almost 10 years.


One day he got the idea to use the sock puppets as a teaching tool to help the kids learn the stories of the bible.  With the sock puppets he made the stories come alive to them so that they could remember them, relate to the characters and understand the stories better. 


He told stories of Daniel in the lions den; David and Goliath, Joseph as his brothers threw him in the pit and sold him; Joseph  interpreting the dreams and how he went on to save his father's household through the famine. He told of the story of Boaz and of Moses in the bulrushes, then how he was rescued and later in life killing the Egyptian, He also told the story of Moses and Aaron leading God's people that had been in bondage in Egypt and the story of the plagues that God sent to the King when he would not let them go and later how God gave Moses the ten commandments. I'm sure that is not all but all I can remember. 


The kids ate it up.  They even reversed roles and the kids presented the puppet bible stories to him.  So obviously his plan worked pretty good and consequently they probably knew the stories of the bible better than most Preacher's children at their age.  The only difference was that in their eyes Moses will always have bright orange feather hair!

It was one of the sweetest memories to me and I just had to share. 

Whatever you do for the least of these...

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I have felt abandoned by God in all of this misery. 

So I got to thinking about where I have found my comfort and support.  Of course my family first and foremost my daughter, my son in law, my husband, my sisters, my brother & my best friend but where was God in all of this?  Well the first help and comfort I received was from my church family – all of whom were with us from the moment we found out and there for us throughout that entire horrific day.  Then throughout the week following their deaths – we heavily depended on them for so much.  There was the Preacher and his wife – to preach the service and play the piano and to be there to sit with us, cry with us and pray for us.  There was a steady stream of Deacons and their wives, and the rest of the church family all there, at one time or another bringing food, drinks, paper goods, hugs, tears, offers of help in any way we needed.  They continued with phone calls, cards, emails and sporadic visits for many months even bringing us fresh vegetables from their gardens.  And even this past week a drop in visit as they remembered that the anniversary was coming up and they thought I may need someone to be with me.

Then there were all the cards and the beautiful and thoughtful “comfort basket” from my daughter’s Sabbath School class.  A group of ladies from the Seventh Day Adventist Church my daughter attends – all women that did not know me but sent me inspirational books, cards, a special coffee mug, picture frames, soft cuddly throws and CHOCOLATE!  It was the sweetest gesture.


I have even received, right along with my sister, a steady stream of funny, sweet, uplifting cards for a solid year now from the mother of the preacher at my sister's church.  

Then we attended Grief Share classes at one of the largest Church of God churches in Atlanta where we were given books, advice, comfort and support while we met in a group of people who had all experienced loss and watched inspirational, helpful & hopeful videos to give us hope and teach us ways to survive this loss.  I also made a good friend there that has kept in touch and I’ve had dinner with several times.

And when my sister went home and the grief blind-sided me again – she (as if she had nothing else to think about!) contacted a church sponsored group called Stephen Ministries.  Where they have volunteers that train to be paired up with someone in an emotionally trying situation of loss to listen and offer friendship and comfort.  I have been meeting weekly with the sweetest lady that sits for a couple of hours a week and listens while I tell her the details of this horrific story.  A heavy burden emotionally for her yet she keeps coming back.  She actively listens.  She isn’t judgmental or disgusted.  And, when I want to talk about my love for my son, I don’t get “The Look”.  She is kind and considerate and thoughtful and she also meets with a group of “prayer warriors” weekly in a Prayer Shawl group and they knit or crochet shawls or afghans and the entire group prays over it and then they give them to someone in need of prayer.  She brought me the most beautiful blanket that all of the women in her group had prayed over for me!  They are from a Methodist Church fifteen miles away.

Days after the kids were found, we received a letter in his mail box addressed to the "Family of Brian, Kara & Paxton" expressing sympathy and telling us how sorry they were and how they were praying for us.  It was from a church fifty miles from us.

I have spent days and days listening to the comforting messages of Charles Stanley, a minister from the largest Baptist Church in Atlanta.  He is on the radio and his sermons are broadcast on TV and online from their website.   I listen every day to what has -- at times been a life-saving message.

I have also for the first time in my life begun listening to Praise and Worship music.  I am a Southern Gospel old Church Hymnal kind of girl and have never cared for the new age modern worship music but the very first person to contact me from my blog sent me a link to a song by Mercy Me called the Hurt and The Healer and I fell in love.  And I’ve been listening to them and all praise and worship music ever since.  It has become such a comfort and such a help to me and I have found a new love that I will no doubt hang onto from here on out.

So what is the common denominator here? 

Yep, God.  That same God that I felt had abandoned me. 

There have been Churches  -  Baptist Churches, Seventh Day Adventist Churches, Methodist Churches, Church of God Churches, Presbyterian Churches – all sending help and comfort my way continuously.  All God’s people --doing God’s work; “being Jesus to the least of these.”  God was bringing me help and comfort in my grief and pain – through the kind acts of His people.  I couldn’t feel Him or find Him but He was there all the time; sending His earthly workers to be the music that soothed my soul, the inspirational teaching that got me through that day, various formal ministries to be my listeners and my guides through the strange and hostile world of catastrophic grief, new friends and even strangers to be my comforters and my own church family to be my physical help. 

He has been there for me --through all of you!

If you ever think that what you do does not matter – think again.  If you have a talent (and everyone does) whether it be carpentry, gardening, crocheting, knitting, talking and being an inspiration to someone, or listening to give someone an outlet for their pain, cooking to provide a meal, singing, preaching or praying – God can use it if you let him.  And trust me when I tell you, it makes a difference.  Some days the difference between life and death.

Sometimes You are all of the God some people ever see.  I know because I have been one of them.

 

My Very Eventful Weekend

It has been a very full and positive weekend.  I got out and did several things that were way out of the norm for me since last August.

I actually hired a man to take care of a repair job on the ceiling at church.  I spent the day working on a grief-related memorial project for someone else; I went to see my two granddaughters that live about 100 miles from us, stayed over-night and got in two good days visits with them and also a good visit with their mother my ex-daughter in law.  I got to visit and have lunch with my cousin that I dearly love but haven’t seen in a long time;  I got to test my theory about whether I would actually step up and say something of comfort to someone in an uncomfortable situation of loss – cancer in this case.  And...I met with Kara’s mom for the first time since last August.

The Memorial Project - I spent five hours editing photographs and putting together a photo book of memories of my friend’s brother that passed away suddenly just last month.  He wanted to do it as a memorial gift to his family but did not know how.  I got it to the draft stage.  He was very happy with it and it was a creative release for me and it felt really good doing something positive and comforting for someone else.  And I think it turned out beautifully.

The meeting with Kara’s mom - This was a long-time coming and it was not without mixed emotions on both of us.  It was so good to finally get to see her and talk to her face to face but I have to admit I was terrified thinking about how emotional it would be; fearful of how she would react to us; and wondering if we would be able to talk --really talk –about all of this at all. 

She and I both were hesitant and a little fearful of whether it would be good or extremely uncomfortable.  I don’t think I could have custom-designed it to go any better than it did.  It was a tangle of emotions; a little sad and emotional at first, a little bitter-sweet yet extremely comforting though I can’t explain why and such an emotional relief to finally get to be with her.  We met for dinner and stayed and talked four hours!   It was, to me, one of the most gracious acts of love and kindness I’ve ever personally been a part of.

The visit with my granddaughters and daughter in law - My granddaughters are both grown and on their own.  Have their own homes and one is married so we don’t see them as much anymore and in most cases there would be no reason to ever see my ex-daughter in law again…Except that I will always love her.  I appreciate the fact that she always allowed me to be a part of their lives and I have the other side of that coin and know better than most how much that means.  It was really good to spend quality time with all of them.  We had individual time with each of the girls in their homes; shared a meal with both and also had time with them together as a family.  We laughed and reminisced and talked until we were falling asleep.  It was a great weekend.

Then at the hotel where we were staying the next morning when we went to check out I noticed the clerk was wearing a scarf on her head and I heard her mention a rash she had that she thought was caused by the chemo.  My first and most natural response “before” would have been to pretend that I did not notice the scarf or hear her refer to “chemo” since she was not talking to me and just quickly turn in my keys and leave.  But I remembered my own sister and all of those other people in the clinic.  I remembered how isolated and alone cancer can feel because it makes everyone uncomfortable.  I remembered how I felt in my isolation and how my friends “discomfort” with “this” hurt me and made me feel so alone and abandoned.  And while I said I would never again walk away – I wondered how I would really do when put to the test.  Well, I didn’t just do what I probably would have done before.  I actually stopped acknowledged her and told her I overheard her mention chemo and told her how sorry I was to hear about her illness.  I told her about my sister and that I understood a little of what she was going through.  And she was clearly thankful to have me acknowledge her.  It was like a dam had burst.  She started talking non-stop like she was so “full” and I know personally, that she probably was.  We both teared up and I just let her talk.  I asked about her doctors and her treatment plan and if she had a good support system.  And she talked on and on.  And then as confirmation, she actually said, “It’s weird.  Like some people have a hard time relating to me anymore because of the cancer.  It’s like they don’t know what to say or how to treat me anymore.  I guess because of your sister you seem so open like you understand.”  I just said, “Yes, that must be it.”  I wished her well, told her I would be praying for her and left. 

It was not hard.  It didn’t take that much time.  And it literally made my day!

More Grief Lessons

I wonder if everyone thinks like I used to and has sort of a line drawn in the sand about what you think “can possibly happen to me” and what “simply can never happen to me”.  For instance when I’d hear of a certain tragedy that befell someone, I’d think either “Oh my God - that could have been me!” or it would simply never cross my mind because things like that “just can never happen to me.”  There was kind of an “awful” factor that determined where everything fell under one of the two categories:  - Could possibly happen although I hope and pray that it never does and - Much too horrible and can never really imagine “that” could ever happen to me. 

Seriously, is it just me or does everyone kind of think like that?

I mean realistically I knew you could/would lose family members and that if you lived long enough everyone would experience loss to some degree.  I had lost aunts, a cousin, my grandparents, two brothers in law and they were all terrific losses to me.  But there still were certain things that I thought were kind of off-limits; just not the kind of thing that could ever happen to me.  Like: I will never get cancer; I will never lose my mother or a sibling; I could never lose a spouse; I will never lose a child or a grandchild and maybe still a little bit of “I will never really die”.  Unrealistic?  Absolutely. But true just the same.  Like the average sixteen year old that thinks they are invincible.  They know death exists, they know what the risk factors are: like drinking and driving, experimenting with drugs, jumping from a nine story building with an umbrella etc.  They know other people die from these things.  And yet, somehow they magically believe that it can’t happen to them??? As parents of that sixteen year old, we drill home the fact that that is magical thinking and it certainly can happen (“so don’t do them!”) but as adults in the secret recesses of our own heart, we think at times just as illogically about what can and cannot happen in our lives.

But when you lose a child, an in-law child and a grandbaby in one single horrific day – suddenly you realize you are open game.  If “this” in all its multiple layers of horror, can happen to me --ANYTHING and everything can happen.  The line between those categories has been erased and everything falls under the “Oh my God, that could have been me” side of the list. 

Though I’m pretty sure I never actually consciously thought that I was immune to horrible tragedies. I mean I’m of average intelligence and that is really not logical but being a Christian and fully believing in the goodness of God and the power of prayer I was somehow lulled into a false sense of security.  Maybe it was simply because it made life a little less scary and slightly easier to deal with.  But that is one example of those things that you can’t undo.  Like I said about being unable to go back and be five years old again.  I cannot go back to the innocence of believing ever again that I am safe and protected from anything.  Anything that the world has to throw at me without limits – can be my fate at the drop of a hat.  Instead of being immune to these things; I now feel like I have a target painted on my forehead. 

I think it is human nature to look for things that make the evils of this world make some sort of sense, or perhaps we look for something that may give the illusion of having control over what happens to you.  To feel that everything is just “random” is a scary thing. 

Like in the book of Job, when all of the tragedies that literally destroyed his life came on him; his friends, instead of comforting him, wanted to make the tragedies somehow justified by his own actions – I think it is human nature to believe that when you are inherently “good” or you do good deeds or you try and help people and you are not cruel or selfish or dishonest --that you will be spared the really horrific things life has to throw at you and if you are dishonest, intentionally hurtful, self-centered and cold – that those are the ones that suffer horrific loss.  This is both a logical assumption and a safety net of sorts.  It gives you the impression that you have some semblance of control over how much bad comes into your life.  However, If you are familiar with the book of Job then you already know not only was that NOT at all the case but God reprimanded Job’s friends for their assumption that Job had done wrong and was being punished for it.  Just like we jump to the conclusion like Job’s friends that when horrific things happen to someone that it is somehow their fault or repayment for some un-repented sin; we also believe the opposite is true if we are basically a good person we can somehow avoid the horrors of this world.  I think Job was as confused by the outcome of things as his friends were and frankly the book of Job has never quite set well with me and that would be because I believe it is human nature to feel that good should be rewarded with good and evil with evil but the truth is, just like in the book of Job, that is not the way the world works.  Good and evil falls on all of us just like the rain. And our belief in how we feel it should fairly happen is really our desire to be able to control what happens in our world. 

But, we are not in control.  Never have been.  Never will be.  And just because evil has not yet touched your life – it does not mean: 

A – That you are all good or that being good will ward it off

B - That you are immune to such horrific tragedies or

C - That it never will.

I learned that the hard way along with a lot of other things that the school of grief has taught me.  Like, I am stronger than I ever thought I was.  That what you think would absolutely kill you – does not – no matter how much you wish it would.  Your life can be forever changed with one phone call.  And there really is no security in life this side of Heaven. 

A Little Better Week

It has been a long time between posts I know.  I have been dealing with a lot of inner junk and truly did not feel that I could write anything edifying.  What is that old “Mama used to say” saying?  “If you can’t say anything good just don’t say anything at all”? Well, that’s where I’ve been – in kind of a dark place and unable to say anything at all.  It has been so bad until I have been considering taking the Blog down because I don’t feel that I can write anything that could be helpful and it is beginning to sound like I’m just “crying in my beer” all the time.  But with lots of prayer and lots of support from good friends both old and new – I’m a little better --today.

We have passed Brian and Kara’s sixth anniversary (July 11) and my first birthday without them and last week was a year since the last time I kept Paxton and he was singing “Haddy Dirtday” to me.  I know the day and time because I videoed him singing to me.  And I am so thankful I did as I find comfort in watching it and being able to see him even if for just a little while. 

Since I am back to full blown pretending again I let those days slip right on by without incident. 

I was right in thinking that Paxton was going to be the first and the most intense grief in the beginning and then Brian would be the worst by far and the longest.  But it makes sense.   I’ve had him longer and he of course was my own child.  Kara is intermittent.  I think about her everyday too and some days are just “her” days.

I have still not touched any of their things.  Still not ready for that.  But I put away some of Paxton’s things from my house.  We have just a few to go and I am hoping that by the one year mark I can let go of them.  That is hard to even write.  I don’t want to let go of him.  They are all I have left and it feels like if I am willing to let go of them that in some way it is representative of letting go of him.  I think I am afraid that if I put them up and remove all evidence of him I will forget him or he will no longer seem real to me.  I didn’t have him that long and he might begin to seem like a dream.  Something far off that I imagined but that never really happened.  I don’t want that.  And, as bad as it hurts to think of him, I’d rather bear that pain than to forget or have him seem like a distant memory or a dream that wasn’t real.  I couldn’t stand for that to happen.  So I think I am hanging on until I am sure that his memory will not fade.  

Shortly after all of this happened and I was juggling devastating grief and caring for my sister, my friend Kathie sent me this saying that I really loved.  It has been on my wall at work ever since.

It said:

A woman's Strength isn't just about how much she can handle before she breaks.

It is also about how much she must handle after she's broken.

I don’t think many people could relate to this to the magnitude that I could at the time.  It is something that I look at every day. 

Where I am at this point - The short answer is –better - but the real answer is “better this week” but hey, I’ll take it.  Thursday of this week will be eleven months.  It, in no way, seems like it has been that long.  I still cry but thankfully, it is not every day and I also laugh. We are planning a trip to the beach at the one year anniversary and no, I did not intentionally plan it like that but it happened and I am actually looking forward to it – this week.  Last week I almost canceled it...again.  I do have a little fear that the timing is way wrong and that it will put a damper on the trip but it is not going to be an easy day no matter where I’m at.  I’m making myself get out and do some things and have found that they are not as hard as I had thought they would be.  It is still hard on the weekends when I am home and not working or around people or have responsibilities that I am obligated to.  I still think about them every single day.  The loss still pretty much dominates my thoughts almost all day - every day.   They are usually the first thought when I wake up and the last before I go to sleep.  And I have spent the previous six or eight weeks in deep sinking depression.  Over this past week, I realize it has lifted somewhat.  Lots of prayers I’m sure.  It was a really uplifting and positive week.  It was my birthday week and I had been dreading that but my friend at church brought me wonderful fresh vegetables from his garden and I enjoyed them all week long.  My new friend made me the most beautiful prayer blanket and gave to me with the message that all the ladies in her prayer shawl group had laid hands on it and prayed for me over it.  My sister came and took me to lunch and brought me a beautiful new blouse.  Another friend from work took me to lunch on my actual birthday and gave me a card.  My husband gave me a beautiful and sweet card and the new wind chime for the porch that I’d wanted.  I spent the night with my oldest and dearest friend and she took me to a great dinner and gave me a new pair of cute and comfy pajamas.  My daughter and son in law took us to lunch and she gave me a beautiful new blouse. 

I had dozens of calls, texts and emails and even though it hurt a little that I heard nothing from my youngest  sister, my brother, my other best friend or my oldest son – it did not ruin my day or my week.  I was thankful for those that I had that did care.  And even though I was sick the rest of the weekend – it was still a good week.

New Normal

It has been ten months now.  I wish I could say I'm completely resolved to again trust God & pray as before.  I am better.  I am beginning to pray a little from time to time though I can't say that I am actually sure who this version of God is yet.  And quite frankly I'm not real sure what I can pray for anymore.  But I'm trying to make a conscious decision to trust and have faith.  I am trying to find my way back from the darkness.  Some days --too many days-- it still overtakes me.  I am now closing in on that magical "one year" mark.  I remember reading over and over that "The first year is the hardest."  Leading me to believe it would be better after that first anniversary.  Ten months in I realize I can stop looking for that.  No miracle is going to suddenly take place and magically erase all the pain and emptiness that has become my constant companion.


In the beginning that is all I could think of --getting to the place where that would happen - muddling, struggling, hanging on by my teeth and toenails just to survive it and make it to that magical first year mark; which of course I knew would be very difficult in and of itself but after that very difficult day - I'd be all better.  We could finally move.  We could sell the house.  I could make major decisions again.  I could sleep.  I would stop eating myself to death.  I could stop sobbing at random.  I could be in crowds or attend social events again.  I could go through the kids things finally.  I would be healed.  By then, I would have learned to live with this horrific loss.  I would be able to trust, pray and find comfort in my faith again.  I could rekindle my shaky relationship with God.  I could enjoy family functions, holidays and vacations again. I would find purpose in all this pain, realize that something good has come from it and be able to thank God in it - not for it - but in it.  And all of my friends would come back - sounds kind of like a country song in reverse doesn't it?


And at one time, I actually believed all of this.


I now know better.  And I know that I am at least five months of "sitting in the bone marrow clinic" behind in the process.  And I know that since I pretended my way through most of the first year I have postponed any first year progress I might have made but besides all of that I have come to the realization that "this" will never be over.  There is no magical point in time that is going to make me not want Brian back again; no appointed date that will make me okay with never seeing any of them again.  There is no set time when I will not ache for that baby and want him back in my life and back in my lap again; no day ever when it won't matter to me what really happened. 


There will likely come, as there are now, days that I will be able to get through without dwelling on it, outwardly grieving for them or crying for them whenever I'm alone.  But I now realize that those days are fluid.  They are not here as permanent fixtures but only as much-needed reprieves.


The misery will return.  You adjust to the reality of the truth.  You do integrate the loss into your world.  You get up and you function inside the misery.  Sometimes giving in to it and sometimes not but you do not wake up one day and it is just gone.  There will not suddenly come a day when you are fine and you function just like before.  You are not the same person.  This is not the same life.  It can --I believe, I hope, I pray-- be good again but if so it will be a long, long time coming. 


I can no more be "healed" and have the same life I had before anymore that I can go back to being a five-year old again.  That ship has sailed.  I cannot go back to the innocence of childhood and I cannot go back to the innocence of life before this catastrophic loss.  I am not that person anymore.  Just as I am not that five-year old anymore.  My view of the world, my faith, my version of God, my trust, everything not only in my world but inside of me --has been forever altered. 


Whatever I next grow to believe and whoever I am when this shakes out - will absolutely not be who I was a year ago.  I may be better and I hope and pray that I am but nothing is going to magically restore me.  It may be new but it will never be normal.

Paxton

There was always something different about my relationship with this child.  It began in the dream that I had of him before he was even conceived.  I knew him.  I loved him with everything I had in me.  But I did not know even whose child he was in the dream.  I just knew I loved that child with a love that was beyond anything I had ever known. 

Not a big baby-lover as a general rule – so feeling this kind of love for a child I did not even know – was definitely memorable. 

When he was conceived and I knew he would be a reality I still felt kind of “nothing”.  I tried to be excited for Kara’s sake but I wasn’t really so much.  Her mom, my daughter and I gave her a baby shower and normally I detest those kinds of things but instead I embraced it with fervor.  Weird.  We decorated cupcakes that looked like baby faces with pacifiers (funny I did not know at the time how appropriate that would be.) And cupcakes that looked like baby rattles.  I made a "diaper cake" and strung a clothes line across the room and had new baby outfits and socks pinned to it with clothespins.  I had the best time doing something I normally hated.  I attended the sonogram to see what sex he was going to be – as if I did not already know. Which seemed weird considering I actually already knew what he would look like.  But I went and pretended to be surprised when they saw the "package" and announced to the rest of the world that they were having a boy.  I took "baby belly" pictures with bows tied around her.  I crocheted tiny heirloom baby booties.  And when she went in labor – I was there.  I took pictures.  Lots of first pictures.  But still my reaction was very subdued inwardly.  Outwardly, I was doing all of the appropriate things but I felt pretty much like I did with any other baby.  He was my grandchild, I would of course love him but for the most part I expected to be able to take him or leave him.  I was excited for them but he was our 10^th grandchild so this was definitely not my first rodeo.

I bought a port a crib thinking that would "do" in the event they were here and he needed a nap or on the off-chance that I ever babysat.  However, before long I had ditched it and shuffled furniture around and replaced it with a full size baby bed and wicker rocker in what would become “his” room.  "This" I did not see coming.

As I’ve mentioned before I kept him as a newborn while they worked on the house.  So he spent the first few weekends of his life with me where I fed and changed and bonded with him like a parent.  I loved him of course.  I loved them all.  But the love that I felt in that dream – was so much more.  I went through the motions.  I rocked him.  I sang to him.  I took dozens of pictures.  I bought little outfits, blankets, socks and hats, shoes, pajamas and cuddly toys and somewhere along the way and I can’t actually pinpoint when it happened – he totally stole my heart.

I kept him regularly – something I had not done in 23 years since my first grandchild.  I took him with me wherever we went; to Sunday- School and Church even wrestling with a car seat and dragging everything he owned to do so.  And I bought for him – Oh my - did I buy for him.  Not big stuff ever – but lots and lots of little stuff.  And he seriously did not need one thing.  He had so much stuff that Kara began to give things away for lack of space. 

My husband thought I’d lost my mind.  I could not walk in a store without coming out with something for him.  I don't know why.  As a general rule, I just don't do that.  It was way out of character for me.  And still today I have a hard time going in a store because I was so habited to buying for him until it is a huge trigger for me.  I recall shopping for baby shoes (yet again) and the child had more shoes than I do and my husband looked at me with a puzzled look like “Seriously? More shoes?” and I distinctly remember barking at him “What?  This is what I work for! I work to buy for him. Okay?”  I said it as a joke but suddenly I realized at that moment that it was nothing but the truth.  That day I realized that almost everything I did – I did for him.  Suddenly, he had become the primary focus of my life.  When did that happen?  I really didn’t know.  It slipped up on me when I wasn't looking - but there it was staring me in the face.  When had I stopped playing the role of “Nana” and become the grandmother everyone hated to see coming with the photo album? 

Out of ten - he was the first baby that I ever sat up half the night to just watch sleep because I was so fearful he would stop breathing, smother in the blankets, get cold, get wedged between the rail and mattress...my imagination went wild – all the time.  I was terrified to give him a bath afraid he’d slip out of my hands and drown.  He was the first time I ever put child proof locks on my cabinets or safety plugs in my electrical outlets.  

For the first time ever I let everything in my house go and stopped to just play with him not for an hour but for the entire weekend I had him.  He could lead me anywhere and con me into doing anything.  He could shove me in a tiny linen closet to play hide and seek or have me in the floor on my hands and bad knees chasing him around the couch.  For him I ran up and down the 650 foot driveway in 100 degree heat because he never tired of pushing  his little toy up and down the driveway.  I never told him no and the first time I even tried – I said, in a deep voice to get his attention, “Boy, your Papa is going to get you.” as he was turning all the knobs on the stereo equipment – it was so unusual that he naturally assumed I was playing a new game and he yelled back at me --also in a deep voice, “MUHH!” (his version of “Boy”) and from that day forward that was our new game.  He went through the house yelling “MUHH” until he almost drove Brian and Kara bonkers with it.

He had me; hook, line and sinker.  He had me. 

As I sit here tonight and write this with a 20/20 hind-sight perspective,  it seems very clear to me now that somewhere deep inside me there had always perhaps been an inner knowing.  I would have never allowed myself to even think it but from where I sit today looking back; the nervousness I felt with him after having children in and out of my life and my house for over 40 years; the constant fear I had of some unforeseen danger and the feeling like I should not waste a moment that I had with him - it certainly seems clear to me now that somewhere deep inside I had always had an unspoken inner knowledge that he was not here to stay.