February 2010 Archives

I try to wrap my mind around my grieving. What is grief? How does it work? I find comfort in understanding. In the knowledge behind actions. Grief, like love, is less easy to define, box, examine, or explain.

Most of the time, I live with my grief. I give it a nod. I close my eyes and think silent words to my brother. I press a finger to my sadness, give it a hello and walk away to one of the various obligations I have in living. Obligations that go on, even when something so horrible as the imagine of his body in a coffin bob in the back of my mind. I don't have the option of giving up, spending all day in bed, screaming and raving. I have my son to care for.

But occasionally, with no warning, my sorrow bird lands on my shoulder. It sings in my ear and the pain of my brother being gone takes over. I have to really work to function, to eat, to do the dishes, to remember this and that. I am easy to anger and easy to tears. I don't have the strength to go anywhere, do anything, see anyone.

My sorrow bird demands attention. I need to shut out the world and listen to it sing. This is the way I explain my grief. A benign sparrow I imagine landing on my body. My little sorrow bird.



I have had multiple people share with me that this sudden grieving is normal. That years and years and years later, they have their own sorrow birds come to roost and find themselves overcome with a grief that isn't new, maybe old, maybe even ancient. Fathers that lost daughters, daughters that lost a parent, a sister who lost her brother.

I find great comfort in their sharing.


Jason told me I should write my stories about Bryan and since I am here already, I think I will.

When I was nineteen, spring right after completing my freshman year of college, Jason treated me to a vacation. I chose Disney World having never been and so, enraptured with the idea that this is where every kid wanted to go. Long story short, instead of getting on the train in New York City to go home to my mother's, I accompanied him to Boston to meet his mother and brothers. Extending our vacation quite suddenly with no warning to my mother until I was already there.

I guess at the time I figured that I had been away most of the year anyway at college and if I wanted to extend my vacation, there should be no problem with that. We'll see how I feel when my child is nineteen.

Long story short (again)/ in a nutshell--my mother flipped her shit.

When I was home again at week's end I got quite the scathing "talking" to while sitting at my mother's dining room table and her gesturing around me in an Italian fury of fierce proportions. I could do nothing but bow my head and take it. (my usual approach at the time).

There came my brother, my teenage brother, to sit beside me. He didn't touch me. He said nothing at first, but I could feel his concern. When I didn't defend myself and started to cry he jumped up out of his chair and confronted my mother, cursing, telling her to leave me alone, that she was acting crazy. To back off.

My little brother always, always protected me.

He was the more tender-hearted in so many ways. The one who took in the stray cats, who worried over my father, who cried at the drop of a hat and he still stood up for me. The one who would come up to me later and say, "Don't listen to her, Autumn." The one who would ask, "Are you sure about him?" when he first met Jason. The one that never pushed, that never yelled, that never judged me to my face but always had my back and a faith in me that I would make the right decision.

Sing little sorry bird sing.




When I was twelve or thirteen a neighborhood boy came to my house looking for Bryan. He wanted to fight my brother over some offense. I was sick at the time, standing pale at the door. Because Bryan wasn't there, he insulted me calling me a bitch. I told my brother and when the boy came by again, Bryan fought him in the spring snow. Dumped a pink sleigh full of slushy mud over the boy's head and then...

Oh, Bryan, I'll always laugh about this.

My brother picked up a steaming fresh pile of dog shit and pressed it into the boy's face and his open mouth.

The kid cried himself home.

My brother reigned triumphant.

When I remember him like this I smile through my tears.


My brother and I shared a room when we were young. Bunk beds with me on top, since I was oldest and had right to first claim. I had a grand mal seizure when I was eight or nine. I climbed down the ladder to get help and I shock with convulsions. I lost conciousness at the bottom. I was told by my parents that my brother ran out crying begging them to "Save my sister." My father had to pry open my mouth. I was gray from choking on my own vomit.

I like to think he saved my life that day. That maybe, had we not shared a room, I may have died.

I wish I could have saved him.

Now that we have our new bed, our old bed got moved into the office/guest bedroom to be used for...guests and....cats. Do Baby can usually be found curled up on the bed. Soon it will be white with her fur. Now we don't want guests to sleep with fur. Not at all. There is a giant sized gate up on this room but two cats can get around all the gates we own. Do Baby, our master jumper, can leap over the gates. The one for this room is up to my chest! Babette, the contortionist, can get through the bars. But this room is claimed by Do. Babette stacked her claims to our bedroom. Sorry guests, she really does think this is her room and can get quite wiley about sneaking in even if you shut the door.

Usually I try to take River with me if I run an errand in the evening, because just like me he's cooped up inside all day. If an errand is brief and he has a book, he's usually good company. Especially if I can find some way to have him help me while we are out and about.

If I give him ample warning that I have to leave without him, he's often fine. "Bye, Mommy. Bye," he'll call. He'll run to give me a hug and kiss and then go back to doing what he was doing. By now, he's getting used to me saying that I am going to the doctor.

Last night was different. He whined and pouted and then clung to my neck like a monkey yelling that I could not go without him. When I had his father yank him off my person I said, "I'll be home soon River. I love you."

I left with a teary wail of "I love you!" howled out behind me. My heart twisted in my chest but I kept going. I had a tour of the hospital I plan to deliver at and a list of mental questions to ask. While I was running from the parking lot to the birth center and asking random hospital staff for directions during my jog, I kept thinking that I would have to leave River overnight for the first time when/after the new baby comes.

Nothing about the new baby gives me anxiety but this minor blip. I have to leave my baby alone for my new baby. I have to choose between two though really, I have no choice. If River wants me, he can't have me.

Of course, I know he'll be fine. He won't explode. He won't wither. Plenty of children stay a night away from their mom and dad at this point.

But not my son.

I think the longest we have been apart is maybe five hours, maybe only four.


In the hospital we walked past the nursery. Two little babies were curled up in bassinets. Small smooshed faces peeking out from under knit caps and little bodies swaddled in blankets. A baby burrito. I practically pressed my nose against the glass looking at those babies with hungry eyes. The other expectant mother, there with her husband and mother, was round with her first born. She wasn't slavering over newborns. No, she doesn't know yet. She doesn't know the overwhelming appeal of a new little person. How precious and sweet.

Her eyes widened when the nurse showed us how the birth bed worked. It drops there. Stirrups there. And there I am working my way past this family asking, "So I can have a bar? Can I push in alternate positions? Does the baby stay in the room with the mother? Is food available for the mother after the birth even when the hospital kitchen is closed? What is your policy on children visiting?"

And her husband is drooling over wi-fi and cable and ice cream availability. The mother-in-law and I exchanged glances. "You won't care about the ice cream," says the mother. "You'll care about the baby." He laughs and disagrees.

"Dude," I say. "You're going to be scared for your wife. You really won't care about ice cream."

The triad rooms, surgical unit, c-section recovery ward, family waiting room, snack room, delivery and recovery rooms...

A newborn baby is wheeled down the hall past us. My eyes latch on the little red face, the awkward small movements of her swaddled body.

"I can't believe I am going to have another one of those," I say aloud.  I'm insanely happy. I'm like, I can't freak'in wait to give birth again. I'm going to rock it even more this time. I'm going to be hard core and then have new little person to love. A whole new person!

Then I think of River without me for however long he has to be without me and I'm determined to go into labor during the day and give birth before visiting hours are over. To send Jason home for the night with River and to manage the first night on my own with the aid of the nurses. To come home as soon as possible so my entire family can be together. Both my babies.

Because River will always be my baby, always.

I think I finally understand how it is that the human heart can grow to fit love. Love is not a land mass, finite and divided between people. It changes and expands.

Soon there will be two. Two children for my two arms and that seems perfect. I would have fulfilled one of my major life goals and will continue to fill it the rest of my days.

I love you babies. My sweet babies.

I am slogging through "A Gathering Storm" at the moment and lucky to get in a chapter or two a day. My personal library is piled in heaps and boxes so I couldn't go a'hunting for something old to review today. Instead I will share my favorite blog, Sweet Juniper.

Jim is one of the few dad bloggers I read and the most talented writer (in my humble opinion.) He doesn't blog often or consistently, but many of his posts have made me cry or laugh out loud. I have shared several with Jason. 

Jim is what I would consider an intelligent blogger. Although he blogs about his children, he also blogs about the run-down and abandoned buildings in Detroit as well as the Mom and Pop shops he frequents. He is frank and confident in his writing.

Here are some of my favorite posts that I could quickly find before moms and babies start showing up for a  play date.

Gratitude, a post about parenting that we can all relate too. Sweet and hilarious all at one time!

The Most Magical Place in Upstate New York, I think I almost peed myself reading this one. Had to share it with Jason. We both got a good laugh over Jim's interpretation of the rather frightening statues at this family theme park.

One More Summer, a post about grief that touched me before I even knew what it was like to loose someone precious to me.

Do you have a blogger you can recommend to me?

Spring is on its way, which might not be so obvious here around Baltimore... what with the remaining heaping mountains of snow left over from the two blizzards that hammered us this past month. As a former upstate New Yorker locked into winter till well into April, I can see those early signs of winter letting go.

The birds outside are different than the winter birds and they are ecstatically singing in the sunshine. Sunshine that has a purer, brighter color. The temperature is remaining in the 40's. My opinion is we're only going up from here. This also means that my first trimester is coming to a close over the next few weeks.

Everything feels like it is happening faster this time around. My belly is larger and I'm already uncomfortable. I sometimes feel a lot of pressure on my bladder that makes it very hard to fall asleep at night. I can't feel the baby moving yet, but I think my innards can based on how many times I had to pee last night before I could fall asleep.

I know things will pick up speed. That my stomach will stretch at an alarming pace. I can recall trying to pull on a pair of over-sized overalls that had always bagged around my body. Suddenly I couldn't get them over my hips, let alone my new belly. I called Jason in a panic--shocked and horrified by how much and how quickly my body was changing.

With River I made do with a cheap Wal*Mart body pillow and groaned and complained my entire pregnancy that next time I would invest in something better. Wincing at the price and completely overcome by the options, I finally settled on this one.
The only complaints I read were that the pillow made some women hot. I figured I will be hot no matter what. I was hot in December wearing nothing but a pair of underwear and the fan blowing over me. I might as well have support while I am hot. I could have purchased a simpler pillow without support on both sides, but I can distinctly remember using Jason's back to lean against in the last few months. At least a pillow doesn't produce its own heat.

Also on my agenda was shopping for a pair of crocs. You know, the ugly plastic shoes that come in an array of colors? The ones popular blogger Heather Armstrong despises? They were the only way I had any kind of relief during pregnancy. My feet were so sore and swollen I couldn't walk anywhere in anything without paying for it later. That is, until I was given crocs for my birthday. I loved them so much that I wore them in the freak'in snow. Snow came through the holes and wet my feet. I didn't care because by that point I was putting off so much heat that snow sizzled into steam wherever I stepped and flowers bloomed in the patterns of my footprints.

Lucky me, they now make crocs that are a bit less ugly bold. There were so many cute little leather barely there sandles I was lusting after, but I might as well walk on jagged shards of gravel if I force my feet into those this summer. So crocs it is and maybe a cheap pair of flip flips for the beach/to avoid crocs-like tan lines.

One of the many blessings of a summer baby will be the ability to slip on all my shoes. It wasn't pretty to watch a grunting pregnant woman try to put on a pair of sneakers.

This isn't all I need to make it through my second pregnancy, but its a start. I still have some time to pass as a non-pregnant woman and I plan to enjoy it to its fullest and hope I don't stretch out my pre-pregnancy shirts...too much. 

I am very lazy when it comes to food. If I could possibly live off a series of pills like the Jetsons, you bet I'd love that option. Not choosing. No thought. Just a perfect nutritional pill gulped down and I could return to my true passions: reading, writing, and assorted other nerdy pursuits.

Confession:

I HATE grocery shopping

I HATE meal planning

I HATE HATE HATE to cook

And while Jason doesn't really mind any of those and surpasses me in skill in all three areas, Jason isn't so great at planning and consistency. He also hates vegetables. Most nights we all scavenge our own foods and eat when we feel hungry. Family dinners just don't often happen here. Occasionally, after bitching about it, I might take the reins and meal plan (tell Jason what to do or make lists of what he can cook each night) or even attempt to cook. I quickly bore of both and go back to convenience eating: whatever is easiest, fastest, most readily available to go in my mouth.

I love to eat healthy though. Which seems odd given my style of eating. I just prefer healthy foods.

In an ideal existence I would be filthy rich, own my own farm to raise my own meats and produce, and pay a cook to provide balanced meals full of vegetables and fruits and whole grains. I'd also have a personal trainer to keep me fit so I could spend the bulk of my time sitting under a tree writing away.

I don't aspire to vegetarianism (been there and tried it 3 times. Failed quickly each and every time) because I do think meat is important to a healthy diet--in small, indulgent amounts. I don't find it wrong to kill an animal for food. I would, of course, prefer it to have been raised humanly. If we had the money I would only buy from local farms. Back in New York we had a friend who raised two calves, several pigs, and rabbits for meat. She also had a mess of chicken for their eggs. Those animals lived and live happy, healthy lives and then end up in her belly. Sometimes she would pass along a cut of meat and (oh boy) it was the best meat I ever tasted. Happy animals taste so good. I have no moral qualms about having a cow slaughtered that I raised. Maybe one day my dreams of petting my future hamburger will come true.

I write this in a fit of giggles because I know how callous it is to write something like that. All part of being cynical. I make fun of myself for watching the pig being beaten in the head with a metal pole on PETA.COM. I sobbed the entire time and then...went and ate a hot dog a week later. How horrible!

I was the little girl running buckets of water back and forth to dose the dying fish my father had caught and laid out over our porch. I was the preteen making petition signs to save the mouse that was to be fed to a giant lizard later that day at my friend's house. "SAVE FREDRICK!"

I don't think it is funny that animals are inhumanly treated in food production. I think it is horrifying, but getting up in arms and forgoing meat isn't going to save those animals. The industry is still there. I do think one person can make somewhat of a difference and I see those changes out there in supply and demand. But I don't want to put farmer's out of business. I'd rather give my money to the little man than THE MAN, if you know what I mean.

There had been change on a local level. More natural meats in the super market. Organic sections too. Only all those things are more expensive and sometimes people can't afford to be more conscious in their eating habits.

I'm afraid that better eating is really more of a socio-economic phenomenon.

Even though money can be an issue over here, I want to try to change things up a bit.

My ideal diet would be based around the nutritional power of foods. National Geographic has a great chart in one issue that I tore out and hung on our fridge much to Jason's annoyance. It was a ranking of foods based on the amount of good stuff you get for what you are eating. Things like blueberries, coconut, and avocados got very high rankings (99-97 points or so). I consider these foods SUPER FOODS. The more processed foods are, the less you are getting for what you are eating which may cause you to eat more to try to make up for what you are lacking. Funny that the power of foods is pretty similar to the good 'ol food pyramid we all know (or knew. Didn't they change it to a weird circle?)

So, I am going to try again as I have on several occasions to give a damn about what I eat. Or at least put my food intake on the same level as River who out does me in fruits every single day. This means meal planning. This means some work. But it has to start somewhere and for now it needs to be baby steps. Switching to only whole grains (maybe making my own bread or dishing out more money for better breads that rape my wallet over at Whole Foods). Forcing more fruits and veggies into my diet (which I love but always seem to require more work to eat). Maybe even attempting cooking dinners... *shudders*.

I'd like to cut back to meats only once or twice a week which I sometimes do anyway. Shouldn't be a big deal. I'm not a huge meat eater to begin with. Although when I want a greasy burger, I really want that damn greasy burger. I already try to buy only natural meats (but what does that really mean anyway? Is it actually any better? I have no idea).

But here I go, trying again. Maybe this time it will stick?

River is growing out of all of his 2T clothes. They still fit him, but only just. Everything is looking too small, too snug, too tight. I can't believe he fits in "three" year old clothes now. He wakes me up by talking nonstop. I love this age. He's so wonderful. I still have a hard time believing this is the third year he's been in our lives. I try to savor each moment.

I got him to pose with the promise of a heart candy. He was throughly enjoying it by his last couple of photos.

I'm almost done with this one. Usually I don't review books until I'm done, but when I've managed 1000 pages out of 1072, I think I can confidently tell you that this book rocks. Besides, it's Stephen King-- you know a bulk of people enjoy his work because he's a massive best seller and one of my favorite authors of all time since I was twelve. These two facts are totally equal, of course.

I've been keeping busy over the last few days. On Saturday Jason and I took advantage of the sales and our tax return to buy a new bed. Not only was our old bed old and bent, uncomfortable and dented but it was only a Full. Fine for tiny me, not so fine for the longer Jason or the growing toddler taking up more and more room in the middle. We bought a King and I can't wait to lay my pregnant self in that monster.


Since the bed is being delivered today, I had to get to painting. The old bed got moved into the guest room/office and I spent nearly all of yesterday morning painting the master bedroom and listening to the radio on my brand new ipod-- a Valentine's gift from Jason.

Let me just explain, we don't buy each other gifts. So it was shocking and guilt inducing because the only thing I bought him lately was a new wooden spoon to replace the old one I destroyed since he complains about it at every opportunity he can. Valentine Day's fail on my part. Big time.

I also picked up some cheapo colored frames for River's room and hung up some of his masterpieces and our handprints. A couple other frames finally housed some prints that have been sitting around for six months or so. Sales at Target found us with a new comforter for only $23. I think I am about done with my home improvements for awhile. Though the break can't be too long. My belly keeps growing and spring will be here before we know it. Not only do I not want to be lugging things and balencing on step ladder during my second trimester, I also want to be outside enjoying my favorite season.

Operation Get-Shit-Done-Before-The-Bean-Arrives is going rather well. 

I am a day shy of a full eleven weeks. On Thursday I have my second appointment. The one is which I interrogate the nurse who is supposed to fill me in on the policies of the hospital where I may or may not force a newborn out of my vagina.

Overall, I feel pretty damn good most of the time. I don't nap every day anymore. This pregnancy is (thus far) so so much easier than my first one.


Now I just need to build that damn bookshelf, clean out the closet in the office, and begin my balcony garden... 

I don't know what grief is like for some people or how it is supposed to be. Most of the time I can feel happy, function-able, fine. Then grief swoops down and smothers me. I realize my life since Bryan has died is a scum of ice over a pool. I try to skate oblivious, but there are cracks and moving water an inch beneath the blades. To me, it feels like he's already been dead forever. For months, ages, years. Then I think it's been three weeks? No, it's been more like two and change and here I am thinking, why can't I get my shit together? Why am I feeling this way? I know I should give myself a break.

That isn't something I am good at.

I'm the type of person that bottles emotions I don't find pleasant. I try to shrug things off that hurt or anger me. I try to see it logically for what it is. But sometimes there is still hurt. So I shove it down, ignored and tell myself "Get over it." I have a lot of trouble clearly asking for help or being selfish by sharing my wants/needs (because sometimes that is selfish). I look at Jason's back sometimes as he is on his computer and I scream, "Don't you see how much I'm hurting?!". But I only scream that in my own head.

I better understand unhappy people I've known. It's hard to be around joking laughing people when you are barely holding yourself together.

So I drop hints instead of just flat out saying what I need. Then I wonder how people close to me can act like nothing is wrong around me. I'm just that good at pretending and even when I say how hard my day has been, I say it so calmly no one must be able to see that I've spent the last four hours trying not to burst into tears. That I am so frustrated with my emotions unraveling out of control that I want to kick and scream and throw shit around.

Since Bryan has died, I've been good (maybe astoundingly so) about being happy. But then I get tired, run down, and too many little hurts and stresses build up. Then I explode. I exlode in rage and frustration. Without conscious thought, I strike.  There is no excuse for hurting someone even if you are sad, angry, frustrated, stressed...grieving. There is just no good reason for spreading around "miserable pie".

I need a warning label. A "Tough skin missing today. Please no teasing." Or "Liable to explode in your face, if not handled with care."

Sometimes it just seems like too much effort to tell someone "I'm so sad. Please understand today, I'm just not my normal self." I think I avoid those kind of confessions because they make me feel vulnerable and I will do whatever I possibly can to avoid crying anymore. I am so fed up with crying.

Out of nowhere I think of playing Battleship with my brother. All the ways we changed the rules of board games to make them more fair. I think of his huge feet in his skater flat-soled shoes. I think of the funny bend to his right pinky finger, just like my father's that I have only in the smallest bit. I think of all these things and how I'll never see him anymore. How much he'll miss. How there will always be this gap in family photos where he should have been. How lonely it is without my brother. Autumn and Bryan. Now just Autumn.

I want my brother back and that is just something I can't have no matter how much I wish I could.

It makes me so helplessly angry and so very sad. 

I'm a big supporter of the boob as food (when possible). My only claim to expertise is the horrible pain in my nipples from successfully continuing to nurse my two year old while I am two months pregnant (and counting). That's twenty six months total of milk production!

There are a few breastfeeding myths out there that make me twitchy and I think they stem from a simple lack of knowledge.

Let's be frank, breastfeeding isn't a widely embraced public practice or social phenomenon. I base that on the scowls, blushes, and shocked expressions when some boob exposure happened to me at the local Laundromat.

The medical community may now support breastfeeding, but not too long ago that wasn't the case. My mother was not a breastfeed baby.  In those days they gave new mothers bottles and formula right there in the hospital. My grandmother was so curious about the hows and whys of boob food that she asked if she could "watch me" with open curiosity while I breastfed my son.

New mothers, without proper support, are often frustrated with breastfeeding. There is a negative history towards it. Plus all those nice clean bottles and containers of formula offer new babies instant and covenant nutrition.

But here's what you should know before you shut down your own milk production:

1.       My newborn isn't getting enough milk. She's nursing all the time. I must need to supplement.

FALSE!

First, it takes a few days for your milk to come in. So yes, your baby needs to nurse very often to take advantage of its first food, colostrum. Trust me, it's there even if you can't see it. Proof? You can watch your newborn swallow as he/she nurses. No lie, colostrum is all your newborn needs over those first few days.

Consider colostrum a super vitamin packed full of nutrition and immunities to help your baby fight off sickness. It isn't as fat-rich as milk, but don't worry this is the way it is supposed to be. Boob food is specially designed by your body for your needy newborn.

Even after your milk does come in (and you will know it because it hurts like hell), your supply is not fully established. It can takes a couple weeks for this to happen and supply fluctuates with demand. Reflect back on your high school economics class for this one. Your baby's demand is established by nursing. Nursing stimulates milk production which increases your supply. More tit time equals more milk making. That's it in a nutshell.

When mothers supplement they are taking away crucial nipple stimulation and thus compromising their supply.

Now some women do have supply issues, but supplementing should be a last ditch effort. Increasing the types of food you eat and drinking plenty (and I means gallons upon gallons) of water can help with some supply issues.

If you must supplement, I suggest consulting a professional lactation consultant before doing so. It should always be nurse first and then offer formula. And yes, unfortunately breastfed babies tend to nurse more often. Breast milk is digested better and thus faster. Sometimes, like during that first major growth spurt at two/three weeks, you might experience marathon nursing. Perfectly normal. Keep with it.

Remember, breast milk is the best food for your baby. A good rule of thumb it to use the best food first.

2.       I have no one to help me. I don't know what to do!

FALSE!

There is help out there! Before shutting down your milk factory, I strongly suggest visiting your local chapter of the La Leche League(LLL). The insight of other mothers and a trained professional can help you through your rough patches. It is also quite the experience to be in a room full of lactating mothers feeding their infants and toddlers of all ages in completed acceptance and comfort.

Also, ask your hospital about their lactation consultants. Most delivery floors have one right there for you to speak too, but sometimes you do have to ask. In most cases LLL leaders are trained lactation consulates.

The book, "The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding" is a great resource to skim through while you are pregnant or to use as a go-to tool for any questions you might have. It proved a wonderful one for diagnosing myself with Mastitis (a breast infection) at seven weeks postpartum.

3.       I have to breastfeed till my baby reaches his/her first birthday.

FALSE!

Numbers are estimates. As parents we know our children do things when they are ready to, not when a sheet of paper or website tells us them ought to.

 The U.S. Medical community provides a few magic numbers for us to use as a baseline. Try to breastfeed to at least six weeks. Six months is better. One year is the best.  

The World Health Organization recommends 2 years of breastfeeding. Studies of breastfeeding in more traditional cultures show that breastfeeding has an range of anywhere from 2.5 through 4.3 years!

So, breastfeed as long as you like. Like most parenting decisions, you need to do what is best for you and your child regardless of what society, peers, and family might think of you. Believe me, with a two year old still nursing and while I am pregnant on top of that (or below technically), family has been more than a bit incredulous!

 

Breastfeeding doesn't work for everyone and you really all do get points for trying or doing what you can. It isn't easy. It's work, sacrifice, and sometimes pain, but armed with proper knowledge and with support systems in place more women can and will successfully breastfeed.

Good luck to you and good job to those amazing breasts of yours!

Oh, wow. Big surprise. Another amazing book by Brandon Sanderson!

I have to agree with Orson Scott Card on this one. The magic system does seem a bit convoluted. Like Sanderson searched for something original and far fetched. BUT (a big but) he pulled it off. At first I was a little, really? Really Brandon? I'm not sure this is going to work.. But I was soon drawn into the interwoven plots that tie together two princesses, a few villainous roguish type men, and a god or two.

In his world the tension comes from the use or forbidden use of breaths. A magic that relies on a collection of "souls" (of sorts) giving the holder a variety of powers. The more breaths, the more powers. For example the ability to animate inanimate objects or the dead or give consciousness to a sword. That mentions nothing of the power of colors. There is just a lot to explain going on in this one.

Now that I have read everything out there available by Sanderson (minus his Wheel of Time book), I am notici

Dear River,

I know this past month has not been easy what with mommy feeling sick and then Uncle Bryan passing away suddenly. I don't think I've been the best parent with my distractions and grief. I know it must be scary when mommy yells and cries. I am so sorry that this month I had to lean on you. Only two and you've done an amazing job bringing me comfort. You happiness has been a blessing to so many people. I started calling you my little ray of sunshine. At the funeral you ran back and forth over the chairs, laughed and played. Oblivious and contagious in your simple joys. I'd find your puffy curls in the crowd and tell people, "That's my son." But that means so much more than those words. It means you are my hope, my joy, my salvation, my redemption, my strength, and my world.

After the funeral when family and friends has gathered at my mother's, you charmed everyone. Up late way past your bedtime, you never slowed. At one point my mother put on Levon Helms and you danced happily in a circle of people bringing smiles to all our faces. Little boy, you saved us a lot of tears that day and night. You are a little wonder.

Maybe because of all the stress, you've been very cuddly with me. You spent most of the night in our bed now and show a preference for me before bed. You want me to stay and sleep with you. When I feel sick, you look at books on my lap. Not content to sit beside me, you must sit on me. My body is a roadway for countless cars and truck, the bare spot before me a good one for building towers, and anywhere you can manage a seat upon which to read.

Reading is still a huge thing for you and most of your play involves books. You have memorized a good deal of you favorites. I listened to you "read" an entire book this way. You can chime in with a large chunk of The Cat and the Hat. Once or twice we read the entire thing with me leaving off the last words and you calling them out. That is by far your favorite book. The one you don't want to share when other children are over and so you carry it around. The one you ask about as soon as you get up in the morning. "I need my book. I need Cat Hat!" You say as soon as your eyes open.


While we were at Grandma's house, Kevin asked you the title of every book we had brought. Some were our weekly library books that we'd only had exactly one week. You knew the title of every single one. I shouldn't have been too surprised. You do always ask for books by their titles. Your comprehension is also right on. You can answer my questions while we read and you can tell me what happened at the end. The other day you wanted to read a chapter book, but I don't think we're quite there yet. Maybe next year. I can't wait! I'm so excited to read long stories to you!

This month you are asserting your separateness. If I ask you to do something and you disagree with my request, your response is usually. "No. No. I'm River!" or simply "I'm River!" We've finally broken you of referring to yourself as 'baby'. Now your are always River and your proclaimations usually involve chest pounding like a cave man.

You are so curious about the potty now. The other day you asked me if you could watch my poop come out. I'm fine with having you in there with me and talking about what is going on, but not the whole directly watching bit. When that happens in a public bathroom while I pee you get the widest grin on your face and say, "Mommy's pee comes out!" And there I am in a public bathroom laughing hysterically saying, "That's right! Mommy's pee does come out!" You talk about other children using the potty and told a friend of ours (when she was going to take her daughter to the bathroom) "Mommy pees in that potty!" You were very excited. Only every time I change your diaper and tell you that you, yes you RIVER ought to try peeing or pooping in the potty, you argue. "Mommy and Daddy do that. I'm River! I pee in my diaper!"

Your language continues to flourish. There are more connectors in your sentences, longer sentences, a lot of discussion and explanation and flat out rambling. You have recently begun telling us to "try" or to "Thop (stop). Thop it, mommy. That's my hair (armpit, belly, head)" It depends on what part of you I am touching/tickling at the moment. You can express your fears and pains. The other day you cried hysterically before bed and told Daddy you were "scared of the dark". Yesterday you woke up whinning. You told me "my mouth hurts". I explained that I thought you were getting a new tooth. I tracked down where it hurt and massaged your gum through your cheek. I asked, "Does that feel better when I do that?" You told me, "Yeah." If you get a boo boo and I ask, "Where is the boo boo?" You always tell me what you got it on, not where on your body! "Right there." You might say or "I hit my leg on the table."

When we stayed at Grandma's house you began this conversation about a rubber ducky. I'm not sure where this came from, but I played along. I asked you, "Is a rubber ducky coming over?" You said, "Yeah." Then I knocked on a convient piece of wood and told you. "Oh, the rubber ducky is at the door. Let me go let him in." I walked towards the door, which was out of sight, and said hello to the rubber ducky and invited him in. Then I returned. You believed it entirely. Made your father carry you over there, looked for the ducky which I then had to explain that he had to quickly driven to the store. You insisted that the rubber ducky was still around somewhere. The only way to shut you up was to play a video about Ernie and his rubber ducky on youtube!

The last little story I will share for this month involves Kevin (my mother's partner/boyfriend/might as well be considered her husband after this long) who made you crack up by saying "uh-oh spaghetti-o's" Now when we try to use this instant laugh maker, you tell us, "No. Kevin say's that!"

I am loving you at this age. Your independence, your problem solving, your focus, and imagination. Somehow your skinny, long legged little self topped with those messy reddish curls is my pillar of strength. I love you so.

Your,

Mommy

The day of Bryan's wake and funeral, I was overcome by the kindness of others. Family, friends, and even those people who might have never met Bryan, but knew us (his family) turned out to give their support and sincere condolences. My mother's gym had a yoga class dedicated to Bryan and closed their doors the day of the funeral in his honor. Her co-workers came, sent flowers, and cards. Friends I had not seen in many years or kept close contact with, made their appearances.

I am not a touchy person. I prefer not to shake hands or hug or give kisses but on that day, each embrace was like a balm, each grip of hands a blessing. I took great comfort from the comfort offered me and I wanted to give it at the same time. I was more concerned with making sure people knew I was thankful for being there than I was about myself. I wanted all to know they were welcome. I wanted to try to spend time with everyone. I wanted to comfort his grieving friends as if I were their mother. In the midst of pain, there was joy. Joy in family and friends and even near strangers. Within grief there was an powerful love.

At one point, near to the end, I was walking when a woman called to me. I didn't know her face but from what she said, one word stood out--Mike Dorherty. The woman had said, "I'm Mike Dorherty's wife". I didn't feel entirely present as my eyes slid to the side and took in the girl standing by the woman. I said something like, "You must be his daughter" and somewhere in my grief I felt this awe.

Mike Dorherty had died when I was 18. He was a close friend of my father's growing up. He let my brother and I color on his car. After my parents were divorced, he used to stop by to talk to me. I always felt like crying. He was a source of unexpected comfort in a time of great pain. He gave me my first computer. He gave me money for my trip to Washington D.C. in 8th grade and then sat through and looked at all my photos with me. (my mom had to remind me of that one) When my father didn't give a shit, Mike did and he didn't have to.

With all that behind me, I looked up at his daughter and said, "I loved your father. He was a good man. When my parents divorced he would come see me. He always told me he wanted a daughter." I wanted her to know, your Daddy loved you. He wanted you. His wife said, "Everyone loved Mike."

Everything felt connected, too painful, too bittersweet and somehow beautiful.

I wonder sometimes that if I could go back, down a pathway of years, could I fix Bryan? Could I change the future? Could I do better and more? But a child can't have wisdom retroactively and no one can change the past. The only thing any of us can do now is live, live better, than we have.

Was Bryan death preventable? Wasteful? Pointless? Stupid?

Yes. By all rights, he should still be here with us.

But we can make his absence better by being made more by his passing, not less, more. Grief should not winnow us to a sliver. It should not lessen us into bitterness and rage. Grief should inspire. Our love should inspire us to love fiercely without reservations. We should not fear or hate or sink into depression. We should love. We should forgive. We should live a cleaner, brighter existence.

And with that belief and that faith forming the backbone of my strength, I spoke these words to the people gathered to say goodbye to Bryan.

I hope that somewhere, he was proud.

Besides Bryan's burnt and still somewhat odorous brown mia, I got to pick out a t-shirt to keep. My mother also gave me a ceramic peace sign she told me he always displayed in each place he lived that she had bought him. Aside from the few things he actually bought me over the years, this is all I have left of my brother besides my many memories.

This T-shirt hurts more than anything because I know he wore it against his skin, against his beating heart, when he was living. One day maybe River can wear it.


The days before his funeral my mother and I framed tons of photos. One frame was just of the photos I had found of Bryan amongst my things. I'd never seen so many photos at a funeral. Many of them make me smile.

It's still hard to believe what happened.

In honor of my little brother, as all else has been in this blog over the last few days, I am going way way back to the single biggest book I can recall my brother willingly reading. My mother bought him the Kurt Cobain biography for some holiday or event. We all passed it around, impressed that Bryan has actually read the thing.

My brother loved Nirvana. I too, enjoyed some of their music. His entire living room was one tribute to the grunge band. Their music played, far too softly in my opinion, throughout his wake and funeral.

Though not a fan myself, I remember I enjoyed the biography. The downward spiral of Kurt's life was depressing and bit disturbing. The story engrossing and well written. A great buy for fans of the band. Besides a subscription to High Times, I don't know of my brother reading anything else!

Either my first trimester symptoms have lightened up already, this is some lull in the storm, or grief has overshadowed my minor complaints, because ever since I heard about my brother I've physically felt much better.  Which makes me think that loss has humbled me into sucking it up and dealing.

I have had a bit more energy and a bit less nausua. If I get a good night's sleep I feel like I can manage the day without a nap. Something I would have thought impossible over a week ago. My biggest complaint is the nasty taste in my mouth every single time I eat. I bought some peppermint gum and that helps. Now that I am further into my pregnancy, canker sores (always irritated by chewing gum) are not a concern.

My cravings have changed from eggs and beans to spinach and potatoes, peanut butter and jelly and lots and lots of toast. River sometimes talks about "the baby in mommy's belly button", though I know he doesn't understand at all what that means or will mean.

I've gone from feeling underwhelmed about this pregnancy to really really wanting this baby. This baby is hope in a time of sadness.  I feel blessed to have gotten pregnant so unexpectedly and so suddenly.

We hadn't seen much of you lately. You were depressed and avoiding family. You weren't answering my phone calls and after awhile, I pretty much stopped trying. The last time we really talked, I had a long 20 minute conversation with you about your new pinball machine when I called you on your birthday. I called on Thanksgiving and spoke to Dad and told him to talk to you. On Christmas you showed up late after we had not expected you at all. I gushed "Bryan!" and ran to hug you. I was so thrilled that you had chosen to come.

You bought River a toddler t-ball stand and helped put together the basketball hoop from our father. You ate some pasta and meatballs and then were gone. The next day we went up to your house. You weren't there yet. It was raining and foggy. You were late. We hung out with Dad for a bit in the cigarette reek of your apartment--our eyes and throats burning. I was afraid of the weather, so we left right as you arrived. We passed each other in the icy driveway and I said something about seeing you the next day for breakfast. You slept late, we hung out with friends instead. That was the end of that.

I have the blanket we bought you this Christmas. The brown silk lined type blanket we all call "mias" because that is what you used to call them when you were a little boy. There was a brown one once. You rolled yourself in it and said you were Doodis, the giant turd. So I purposely got the new blanket in brown. It was one of the few things my mother took from your apartment the day after you died and one of the two things I really wanted to keep to remember you buy. There are burn holes from your cigarettes where ash fell and cut the cloth with circles lined in black.

It still stinks, even after a washing. I've slept with it almost every night and wished you got to wear it into ribbons, pockmark it with holes, and rub the silky ends between your fingers till those fingers were stiff with age and shaky with years.

A review sent my way about my short story, "The Gone-By Quilt".