I listen to him, happily, but with the wish that another were speaking too.
Fank you much for Celia's new hat, Grandma Jan!
Posted by Andy and Jenni at 11:20 PM
There are moments when the globe feels shaken, like we're just drifting around, flaky and upside down. There are also moments when contentment is like a blanket of snow and everything feels covered with a bright, seamless beauty. These happier moments are small, but they're wonderful.
Posted by Andy and Jenni at 10:39 PM
It's white outside and somehow, snow-covered, everything seems softer and more beautiful. At one point this afternoon Andy glanced out the window, fat flakes swirling, and said it felt like we were living inside a snow globe.
Posted by Andy and Jenni at 10:19 PM
There's no lie in the notion that life is not fair. We've known she was sick twice as long as we thought she was well. Two years ago I lived with dampness in my eyes. I breathed with heaviness in my heart, I managed with weariness in my soul. Two years ago, there was so much sadness that I fell away from regular feelings about regular things, into a universe with a different gravitational pull. Since then though, she has lived, teaching me a lot about living in the process.
I am no longer in that raw place where thinking about Celia's fate makes me cry every time. Maybe just every other time. But thinking about her lot is still what I do while I'm doing everything else. Now, more often than not, there is an alive feeling that the sadness brings. Not depressed sadness, but sadness that awakens, points, focuses. There is an exquisite feeling that gets stirred up by sorrow, that says today is for living.
Posted by Andy and Jenni at 11:42 PM
He communicates effectively, but there are still times that my translation, or telepathy, fail. As a result, he tends to perform a three part Greek tragedy. Other times though he really is scared, or hurt, or tired and when those tears come and his little lip trembles, my heart trembles too.
He can "jump so high" and "kick" a ball and march and hop and spin. He's over high-fives, and likes to fist bump. A lot.
Sometimes when he stacks blocks or scribbles on paper or completes nearly any ordinary task, he congratulates himself with a hearty “Good job.”
Lately he's developed the habit of saying thanks. "Fank you, Mama" for helping him with his shoes, "Fank you, guy" to the waiter at our favorite Mexican restaurant, "Fank you, lollipop" to the teller at the bank.
He likes to talk on the telephone, he has ticklish knees, and when he dirties his diaper he A) blames Aunt Kate's dog, Sebi, or B) says "Sorry guys."
In the grocery produce section, his finger points to oranges, his face as joyful as the helium balloons one aisle over. He likes to peel oranges and bananas, and usually eats the fruit. His current favorite foods are pizza and popsicles.
He has several books memorized -- Goodnight Moon and Now I Eat my ABCs among them. “Chicka Boom Boom letters all fall down, read it” his summary is impressive, his request irresistible. I read him one of my own favorites a few weeks ago and he perseverated on part of the plot all day --“Corduroy fall. Cord sad. Cord kiss,” empathy spilling from his little lips.
This week he's added a few new phrases to his repertoire. He'll tell everyone and everything, even trucks, they're "gorgeous." And instead of always saying "no," now he says "I don't fink so."
His routines seem rigid one moment, and then evaporate the next. His imagination seems spectacular. He seems to us like a miraculous little package of potential.
Posted by Andy and Jenni at 10:47 PM
Posted by Andy and Jenni at 11:01 PM
Overnight, one year quietly blended into the next. I can’t decide whether I'm more relieved that last year is over or that a new year has begun. It’s hard to get excited about the year ahead when the expectation of loss lingers, hovering over an unknown date on a new calendar.
Posted by Andy and Jenni at 9:35 PM