Jul
12
That last post needs to be archived, I think. Too depressing. Until I have time to write a proper entry of sorts, please enjoy:
It’s still real to me, dammit!
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(Later)
Lately Riley has been sitting upright or kneeling in his crib when I go in to get him. This morning he looked particularly cute, his little face peeping up over the jail-bars like a curious raccoon, and I wanted to take a photo but by the time I’d located the camera, unplugged it from the computer, and found a new battery for the flash he looked like this:
Is that not the most pitiful sight you ever saw in your entire life? Man.
The boy has been rather piteous the last 24 hours; his daycare called me yesterday afternoon (giving me a non-insignificant CARDIAC EVENT) to let me know he was running a fever. I about broke every damn traffic law in Washington getting there, and took him home where he whimpered for the rest of the day. He’s eating like a champ and shows no signs of illness other than the fever and general cantankerousness, and his slobbering has gone into overdrive, so my suspicion is that Tusk Number Five is making its unwanted debut. You know, those baby books and websites all say that fevers and teething aren’t related, but my personal experience has sure been otherwise.
I rocked him to sleep last night for the first time in months. Normally he just doesn’t tolerate being held for that long, but in his discomfort he burrowed into me and clung like a marsupial, and I walked with him and rocked him and sang his favorite sleeptime whisper-song in his warm ear:
One little two little three little suctopuses
Four little five little six little suctopuses
Seven little eight little nine little suctopuses
Ten little suctopus boys…
Poor, poor kid. I think he’s on the mend, although JB has the honor of staying home with him today. This seems only fair, as JB will be backpacking for THREE DAYS with his brother, leaving me to a thrilling weekend of solo diaper duty. I believe the man will owe me a lengthy, expensive spa pedicure upon his return.
:::
More random links:
• The lost Mac ads
• Either a humorous sketch or the world’s most cringeworthy interview
• Awesome: a list of problems solved by MacGyver
• FEAR OF PICKLES! (Thanks Jolene!)
Jul
11
July 11, 2006
When Cat was missing I started thinking she might never come home, and how shitty I would feel about that. I told JB how frustrating it was not to have any idea what happened to her. “I’d rather just know,” I said, “even if it was bad news.”
“Really? Even if you knew she was dead?”
“Well. In that case. I guess not. Maybe. I don’t know. Yes?”
This inevitably led me to think about people whose children go missing. It’s unthinkable, but what would be worse: not knowing, ever? Or finding a body?
If you knew they were dead you’d have closure. But if you didn’t know, you’d have hope.
Sometimes I get weirdly focused on the various tragedies that can happen to children. It’s like having a permanent canker sore in my mouth and every now and then I can’t help poking it with my tongue; I read some horrible news story and think, what if that were my family? What if that were Riley? – and I have to physically wrench my thoughts in another direction because what good can come of it, what’s the point in trying to peer in the darkest shadows, in trying to imagine a living nightmare?
Last week JB’s brother, who is a funeral director, was talking about his experiences embalming and preparing bodies for viewing (I suppose it sounds like a creepy conversation, but I usually like hearing his stories) and he happened to mention that grieving mothers always want to change their baby’s diaper one last time. “Not 99 percent of the time, but 100 percent of the time,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “I can see that. I’d want to. I’d feel like I needed to, one last time, to ready him…” and it was like my brain caught up with what my mouth was saying and my voice cracked and fell apart and I had to stop because I was suddenly clogged up and blinking hot and fast to hold back a flood of tears.
To ready him for a journey, is what I was going to say. To make sure he was clean and comfortable and my hands were the hands that went through the motions I could do in my sleep now, the same routine I’ve done so many times a day since his birth. Yes, I’d want to do that.
(Okay…that was a horrible thing to write. Excuse me while I just kind of sob into this wad of toilet paper, okay? Jesus.)
I know Joe didn’t say that with any idea that it would bother me, and I’m sure he regretted it as soon as he saw my reaction. I’ll tell you, I haven’t quite been able to forget about it. A last diaper change. It’s just one of those tiny details that makes the looming specter of death monstrously, horribly real.
I know it’s awful to talk about it. It’s awful to think about it. It’s the flipside to all of the miraculous doors Riley has opened for me; in doing so I find myself unprotected and raw; my world’s most precious fortune is vulnerable to all which life offers, the good and the bad. I mostly think of the good. But at times I’m fucking haunted by the possibility of the bad.
:::
In lighter news (whew!) Cat is so glad to be home she’s positively brimming over with affection. Right now Riley is sitting on the floor in our new home office (a Work In Progress, hence the boxes) and he’s actually pushing Cat away from him, so annoying is she with her head-rubs.
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