Critters

I don’t like animals in the house. Not the kind that shed, have accidents, use furniture for scratching posts, or leave various presents around. I’m also not a big fan of wet noses on bare legs, and sniffing of... *ahem*... nether regions (seriously. Go’way, dog).  In some circles that makes me a very, very bad person, and I have learned to be okay with that. You pet lovers out there, I AM NOT JUDGING YOU! You do you, with or without the hair balls. You can love on your critters ALL DAY LONG. But I probably won’t. 

It’s not what you think.  Pets look at you longingly, desperately, wanting attention. NEEEEEEDING you.  My kids think I hate house pets, but it’s just that there are so many living creatures (the two legged kind) that need me, I can’t have an animal in my life that gives me that mournful, disappointed look.  Not one more living thing to worry about. I already spontaneously generate guilt over the tiniest of things in this life.  Can #6 plastic be recycled or will it just end up in the landfill anyway?  How much spring mix has turned to compost in my fridge this month? Are my porch lights disturbing the flight patterns of migratory water fowl?

Then, there’s the actual important stuff.  Did each kid get my individual attention today?   Have I shown my husband he’s important me?  HAVE I DONE ANY GOOD IN THE WORLD TODAY? (You want guilt, look up the lyrics to that one on a day you feel like litterbox fodder). 

In the past, we have had the “wag-my-tail, take-me-for-a-walk” kind of pets.  I fretted.  Is he sick?  Is he lonely if we leave him for several hours? And later, watching him die was unbearable.  Frankly, darlings, it was too much, what with all the small humans with stubbed toes and ear infections running about the place, demanding medical care and food and whatnot. 

I feel the emotional pain of others pretty strongly, and even feel physical pangs when people I care about are in pain.  When my boys got their wisdom teeth out, and when Ethan badly broke his collar bone, my chest hurt just to look at them. Shuddering, heartsick pain.  I feel it with friends, and sometimes even strangers. Pain for their pain. 

It can be the same with animals.  Just the other day, when we went to tend to a friend’s horses, one of the horses was lame and in a great deal of pain. I could feel it so strongly that the horse, who had on previous visits been very calm with me, began literally pushing me around with his head. He was confused by what he was feeling from me, and his owner had to step in and help me. 

Dude, I signed up for that when I had my babies. Six contracts for periodic-but-guaranteed heart wrenching grief.  Not for little things like skinned knees or bonked noggins (I have superglued my share of split chins and lanced a few boils in my tenure), but for the serious stuff, you bet your tintype, sister, I feeeeeeeel it. 

I just don’t need the ’tude of a stuck-up feline on top of all that.  This is what I can handle:

Lizards. And fish.  In big glass boxes.  Things that can’t just walk up to you and say, “Hey, lady, feed me,” or  “Snuggle me, woman. Now”.   None of that crazy-happy, frantic tail wagging, or apathetic “talk to the cat-butt” attitude, please and thank you.  And no more hamsters, people!  They are the dollar-store toy of the pet world. They don’t live long, but the pain for their heartbroken little owner lasts ages. Poor little Tessa grieved for months and months over a lost hamster. His tiny grave in a flowerpot came with us when we moved.  We just planted fresh pansies over him yesterday. 

No ma’am. Not for me. Give me fish and lizards and maybe a snake once in a while. A lot of moms would think having reptiles in their house would be horrifying, and I won’t pretend we haven’t had a few escapees.  But bearded dragons don’t lick you, and fish don’t need hugs. They have few demands, and I’ve never once lost a minute of sleep wondering how they were “feeeeeeling”, which frees my heart up for the critters who do.  

Jackie is always sweetly encouraging me to like furry critters.  She does voices for her dogs saying hello to me on video as they bask in a sunny window with half closed eyes.  And Ellie says that she thinks someday I will. She says when I’m an old lady with no more little ones to tend to, I’ll get myself a little dog to love on and fuss over. 

Never say never.

But I’ll still have Guy, and if the past 25 years have been any indication,  I’m sure he’ll be lots hairier by then. 

Visions of Tetherball

Gather round, my little chickens, so that I can tell you a story. 

What, you ask?  Another post so soon? Has someone replaced the procrastinating soul that runs this blog with someone with motivation? Indeed!  That’s right! Red toenails!

Anyway, on with our story, that we haven’t even started yet. 

Once upon a time (a few days ago), Ellie, Guy and I took a drive. Remember? 

You were there… in the last post.  Ah, yes, now you remember.

Wait.  Back up.  No, stay there, I will back up...

Lately, I’ve been looking into ways of getting the kids more physically active whilst

sequestered here in our mighty woods.  According to said children, "moving stacks 

of firewood isn’t fun.”  Big babies.

Tetherball seemed like a great fitness fix! The ball can’t bounce down to the creek, 

and it's not a team sport (There is no TEAM in HOMESCHOOL.  There's barely enough for checkers).  I did not however, consider how many times Jonah would be smacked upside the head by the ball in the first week.  Many tears were shed, and bruises were sustained. That kid seriously needs to develop some reflexes.

It just so happens that my kind friend Charrie (pronounced like Sorry, unless you are from Canada, in which case you are out of luck. Sooorry) was getting rid of a tetherball, stand and all! Yay for free! We headed out on a Saturday, and our drive there was uneventful (*cue suspenseful music..."bum bum bummmmmmmmm!")

The first task, Phase I, if you will, was to load the tetherball stand into the back of the minivan.
Charrie's diligent husband had made sure that the base would be tornado-proof by using all of the
cement in the greater Sacramento area with which to fill the tire base. Five people tried
lifting it into the van. Stitches were popped, toes were smashed, and obscenities were... thought of.
It wasn’t working.

(*Tangent that will make sense in a sec*)

There is a magical thing that sometimes happens in my head in the face of certain challenges. It’s really cool. When I look at the problem, a solution fills in the gaps visually. I just see it as a mental vision, as though the solution was already successfully in place. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does, it kinda' rocks. Anyway, I suddenly envisioned tipping the pole, top-end-first, into the van and then elevating the tire base with a tire jack, and finally hoisting it carefully up to the level of the bumper.

We did it (well, I was at the pole end, so I mostly watched and tried to keep the pole from ripping a hole in the cloth ceiling). It worked perfectly! There was still the small matter of lifting 200+ pounds the eight or so inches into the van, but with much straining and grunting, it was accomplished. We joyfully congratulated ourselves, then said our hug-less thank-yous and goodbyes. Then, with Ellie in the captain's chair, we began our ascent up the steep driveway.

All was well, until we got to the top.

Pop Quiz: If a ten foot pole with a 2 inch interior diameter is left outdoors in the rain all winter, how much water will dump onto the front seats when the van reaches the top of the driveway?

Answer: Mathematically, 6.18 liters (there’s a formula)... which converts roughly to: one lap, one shoulder, a console, two cup holders, two floor mats, and 1.75 water-bottles full.

Oh, but numbers don't paint a picture! Come now, no more math. Let's paint. We'll use WATERcolors (waka-waka!).

As Ellie rolled to the top of the drive and got over the hump of sidewalk, the van-turned-teeter-totter brought the pole level with mother earth, and sweet, sweet gravity did what she does best baby.

Now children, it's time for a little science: What happens when a level pole full of cold water begins shooting said water out at a rate of approximately, say, a firehose, all over a console, a driver and a passenger? That's right, children, those individuals experience something known in scientific circles as the "What-the-heck phenomenon.” That is when the passenger (the more experienced driver) bellows "Stop!" between a series of "oh-my-gosh-es" and "holy craps.” The less experienced driver, either out of reflex or pure adrenaline, dutifully obeys the experienced driver and mashes down on the brake like she is smashing a rabid spider.

And what, my little ducklings, do we call it when an object in motion meets with no resistance while in motion? Well, to be honest, I had to look this one up, but it is called IN-ER-TIA. You get the gold star. Why, yes, little Sally, it does shoot out at what appears to be a greater rate of speed than the aforementioned firehose. This is called the "Gush Factor.” One might compare it to a large quantity of old water blasting out of a pipe in a minivan. Oh wait, that's what it was.

Well done, all! Gold stars for everyone!

I slapped my hand over the end of the pole like a mom covering the pie hole of a potty-mouthed four year old in the checkout line, a move enhanced by reflexes garnered over 23 years of snatching airborne babies from catapulting face-first off of sofas, and from catching projectile vomit in my bare hands. I called out orders, "Ellie, don't move! Guy, Blanket! Start emptying water bottles!"

My arms in synchronous motion, I staunched the flow with my right hand while crossing under with the blanket in my left to mop up the splash zone. I know you can't picture it, but believe me, it was multitasking at it's finest. Guy and I were like a fine-oiled machine, he passing empty water bottles to me, me passing full ones back to be dumped. Finally, the flow subsided, but we weren't fooled. We knew that at each downhill slant, the sluggish remnants would slop out like baby spit-up (wow, too many mommy metaphors. I really need to get out more).

It was then that I told new-driver Ellie that I wanted her to repeatedly accelerate and then mash on the brakes until our wonderful little friend Inertia was all out of liquid malice, followed by instruction NOT to employ this new skill during her driver’s test. It worked, and as the last trickle drained from the pipe, we smiled, propped it up on the sopped blanket for good measure, and headed home.

Upon arriving home, there was now just the small matter of removing the beast.

Oh, children, you thought you were done with math, didn't you? No, no. One more math problem, just for chuckles:

If it takes Susan and four of her friends to get a 200 lb tetherball pole into a van, what is the ratio of denial to gall that Susan must have to believe she and just two friends can take it back out?

Enter: Laine's cool vision thingy again. Phase II, The Unloading

I suddenly pictured the tire base sitting outside of the van on a large stump, almost level with the bumper. I then pictured it being held with the pole parallel to the ground, as the van was pulled away, unsheathing it like a really weird looking sword. It just so happens there are many giant, super heavy wooden stumps laying about the place, which was mighty handy. Ellie rolled one over, and Guy and Ellie began the process of rolling the base from side to side, in essence "walking" it up to the edge of the bumper, while I directed the pole end around headrests and light covers. Then came the last heave-ho! To be honest, I have no idea how they did it, but Guy and Ellie lifted that beast those few back-breaking inches out onto the stump.

"Okay," Guy said, "Drive away!"

"Me?" For some reason the part of "getaway-car-driver" had been played by Guy in my little mental movie. I hadn't gotten around to telling Guy the next segment of my cognitive cartoon, wherein we used boards to roll the base off the stump to the ground. I pulled the van away and it went perfectly. In the rear view mirror I could see the tire on the stump with Guy and Ellie supporting it. I hurried to put the van back into it's normal space so I could get back to help with lowering the base.

I got out to help with Phase III, The Lowering, just in time to see Ellie and Guy chasing the now very mobile tire doing what tires do best... rolling - yes ROLLING - toward the creek. Let me rephrase that; rolling to the drop off that goes down 30 feet to the creek.

There was screamy-yelling, and then it was over.

This was not in the vision!

*****

No. It didn't roll off the edge. That would have been epic though!

Did I get you?


No, no. Ellie, who is amazingly strong, had sprinted past the cement freight train and stopped the dang thing from rolling off the small cliff. Guy later informed us that if the beast had careened off the ledge, it would have stayed down there forever (not to worry, I’m sure I would have had a vision of exactly how to get it back out).





When interviewed by a perplexed wife later, the husband recounted that Ellie had inquired how they should go about getting the stand down from the stump.

"Just let it go, I guess." had been the answer.

Good advice for a Disney Princess, bad advice for 200 lb rubber coated cement projectiles.

****

In the end I got my tetherball, stand and all. I played it one time, just to show the kids how. And that was the last time.

Turns out, I forgot.

I don't really care for tetherball.

Driving in Beverly Hills, Honey!

We roll along the tired grey ribbon that lays willy-nilly between minty hills spotted in black-trunked oaks, and blushing with poppies springing out from the slopes with no regard as to which side of the fence they are on.  Cows who have learned not to care about mere cars are held back from the road by tired old fence posts and slack barbed wire that only pretends it is what is keeping them in.  Vineyard rows flick by like someone shuffling cards.  Guy rides in the back and I ride shotgun, as Ellie and I sing along to the radio.  I love it that we know the words to the same songs.  It closes the gap a little that has formed lately between teen and parent-of-teen.

A song comes on; Beverly Hills, by Weezer. 

"I can't hear this song without hearing your little two-year-old voice in my head, "Honey! Honey!".  She's heard the story a thousand times before, but unlike my retelling of other tales from my ancient past, this one doesn't bother her because it's about her.  But she knows it so well, I don't need to say any more (to her, anyway.  You might require a wander through my memory with me.  Let's go...).

Each of my kids has a song, one that became theirs because they loved it when they were little.  For Ethan, it was Yellow by Coldplay.  He would lustily belt it out whenever he saw a school bus; "And it was aaaall YELLOOOOW!".  Natalie has loved Shut Up and Dance by Walk the Moon.  She adored singing the Shut Up part, since (hello, obviously) that is a HUGE swear word.  Words.  It's two words...yah, whatever. You get the idea.  The other kids had songs, though I am blanking on them at the moment, to which I am entitled because there are FREAKIN' SIX OF THEM. (Kids. And songs.)

But I remember Ellie's.  At several points in the song, tucked away in the chorus, a woman's voice can be faintly heard, and to Ellie, she was singing, "Honey! Honey!".  I loved it because I knew that 1. It couldn't be right, and 2. It was better and likely cleaner than any lyric that was probably there.  Plus, I figured her cute pink brain settled on that particular word because she heard me say it all the time, "Dear and Honey are Daddy.  You guys are Sweeties and Darlings."

Seventeen year old Ellie then calls me back from my happy little flashback with a lightening bolt.  "Kinda crazy that I used to sing that from my car seat and now I'm the one driving."

Crazy?  Um, ya think?!  Yes, madam!  It is more than "kinda" crazy that she was a tot 14.75 weeks ago and now she is literally driving, and longing - as she is quick to remind us - to be driving off into the sunset.  Only, in her version, she's in a turquoise and white Mini Cooper and not mom's wrapper-and-sock-filled Minivan.

She's a good driver.  She will graduate to excellent driver once her dyslexic brain can wrap itself around backing while turning.  I'm hoping she'll get used to the narrow winding roads and the steep edges (insert subtle life metaphor, here).  I have taught each of my kids (so far.  I'm waiting on the six year old to get a little taller) how to drive, and they are always very anxious to accept my direction - right up until they "know everything", and then I have to learn to be quiet, hold my breath, and hold on.  It's really the in-between place that's the hardest, when they still need you but don't want to need you, and when you are trying to stop yourself from helping, and still wind up speaking up. 

Shut up and dance, right?

That's right, Honey.

Walking in Smoke

The woods by our house are on fire.  Not by accident.  Cal Fire trucks have been up and down the ancient service road across the creek for months tending the forest, thinning trees and piling up deadfall and branches.  Occasionally, from our windows we see a column of smoke from a distant burn pile, but today our little canyon was awash in grey haze.

With time on our hands these days, the "we should take a walk"-talk has turned into actual, real live, grab-your-shoes-and-water-bottle walks.  At first we strolled around the neighborhood (we can pass almost a dozen houses in a half mile.  I consider that a neighborhood, of sorts).  Today we headed up to the lookout, a steep, mile-each-way hike that leads to the most gorgeous 300+ degree view of four counties.  From up on the mountain you can see two lakes, clear out to Sacramento, and over your shoulder, all the way to the snowy Sierras.  It's a moderate hike, but one I haven't done in months because of a recent Hashimoto's flare up.

As we set out, we saw smoke and figured they must be doing more burn piles up the way.  Burn piles?  No. Burned hillsides, scorched slopes, billows of smoke from smoldering logs and charred earth.  And fires, actual live fires burning along logs which lay against the trunks of living oaks, and flames climbing vertically up the sides of tall pines.  It was eerie, like the set of a scary movie here, in the same place that just six months ago was a terrifying powder keg.  I understand with my logical brain that burning the forest now is safe...er...ish.  I mean, it's supposed to rain tomorrow, and it rained a bunch last week.  But am I the only one that thinks it's totally freaky for someone to set the woods on fire and walk away?  There wasn't a soul in sight.  Standing there, the only comfort I found is knowing that the planet has a godly capacity to heal.  Earth burned to blackened ash redresses herself in glorious green in a season or two.

Walking the old fire road through clouds of white smoke has added to the surreal feeling of the days we are all experiencing.  Much like the preemptive burning of forests, we are seeing the damage and fear around us resulting from the need to shelter in place, but we of course know that the infernos of summer, and those of this pandemic -were it to break loose on an unsheltered population- would be beyond devastating.  We do not err, but stand confidently on the side of caution.  I worry for hourly workers and others whose jobs have evaporated in this crisis, for those left mourning and for communities devastated by trauma.  Our family prayers are long and earnest for our family, friends, neighbors and the world. 

From the view at the top of the lookout I am blown away by the thousands of trees, the hills and valleys that have surrounded me in my over-scheduled oblivion.  I forget that it is all around me when I am puttering through my days, only noticing the nearest branches that frame whatever country road I am traveling on at the moment.  I can't see the literal forest for the trees, and I struggle seeing the people in this disease; the individuals behind the numbers, stats, reports and hopeful bell curves. 

So we walk in the smoke, hoping, trusting this fire won't overcome us, and when the haze clears, bracing for the sight of smoldering hillsides, praying in faith that summer will heal us.

Painting the Toeses Red

It’s 5 PM on a Sunday and I’ve just woken from a nap. The day lays like discarded wrappers all around me. Coloring books on the rug, a pair of pink socks, a newly started puzzle, scriptures and church books from our home-church lesson earlier today. A table is covered with craft materials, and the floor is badly in need of sweeping.  And propped up before the scene are my bright red toenails. 

For the first time in my life, I painted my nails red.  Well, just the toes.  It's not my style.  Even though red is his favorite color, Guy wouldn't care for it. He prefers a natural look and has never liked bright red lipstick or nails, but he'd likely just say, “Do what you want. They’re not my toes.” Against my pale skin it looks like giant drops of blood on white linoleum.  But I needed a change.

I almost never paint my nails. It’s a luxury, really.  They always take too long to dry, and I have places to go and too many things to do. 

Or did. 

There's not much call for shoes these days in a world of chaos and worry. These days it's luxury I can afford.  Time that used to be spent driving and shopping, teaching other people's children, transporting my own kiddos to classes, and doing my church job is... free.  I love that word - free.  Liberated.  Through all of this seriousness, there are certainly a few silver linings.  

Some of that silver is that I have more time to write.  But besides time, there's been a wrench in my blogworks.  Even in my closer circles, cynicism and agitated commentary are easily "shared" online, making me timid about putting my heart and life out there lately.  

But I am now the woman who paints her toenails red, with time on my hands (and toes, apparently).  The keyboard awaits.

It's time to be red toenail-brave again.

Things kept in boxes

When Adam was a tiny boy, maybe four or five years old, he wrote a little note and tucked it into a beautiful little trinket box to give to me for Mother’s Day. The box was intended to hold medicine, or maybe rings, but I could never think of anything more precious, more important, to be sheltered in its velvet lined interior than that little note from him.

Right around his birthday, just before Thanksgiving, Adam was given the opportunity to leave everything he’s known, his comfort zone, his schedule and work...and us... to go live in Utah with this best friend, Nathaniel.  The apartment had an opening, and Adam was ready for a change.

The chance was coming up quickly, just days after Christmas. It was so sudden and exciting, but so sad for us who would be left behind without his sweet presence in our home every day. I contemplated taking him to Utah, being there to help with the transition, doing the "mom thing", but it just didn’t seem to fit into the family schedule. It was greedy on my part, really. Certainly he didn’t need me. He was a grown young man; he could handle this on his own. But still, my mama heart ached to watch him step off the metaphoric platform onto that life train.

I chatted with Guy about my feelings one day, my eyes misty. This would be our second boy to leave home, the first having been under not so happy circumstances.  Neither of our boys has chosen to go off to college or on church missions as I imagined they might all the while they grew up, and by them skipping those milestones, those "rites of passage", I was feeling the loss of one of my own.  I had imagined sending my children off into the world one by one, with well stocked luggage and a new set of sheets. I had wanted to fill their cupboards and fridges, buy them shampoo and razors to last a whole season, and load them up with ramen.  But it wasn't just that.  I wanted to spend a few last days together sharing sweet conversation that bubbled with hope and excitement for the future.  And in that time, in a hundred little ways, I wanted to convey solidly one more time, and one more again, that we are here for them.  Always.  No mistake, no loss, no choice, could or will ever change that. 

A few days before Adam was to leave, Guy came upstairs to talk to me.  "I was thinking about everything you said, and I think you should go.  It's not selfish.  You deserve this.  You have given everything to your children and it's not greedy for you to want to have this moment with him.  And since we can't both go, you would be doing it for me, too.”

So I bought a plane ticket that would bring me home, and a few days later we all drove Adam to Nathniel's house an hour away.  I couldn't hold back my tears, I never can lately, as each member of the family said goodbye to Adam in turn.

(Adam... my Salt Water Hippy)

I kissed Guy and said I would see him in a few days, and watched the family leave.  The next morning we finished loading Adam's car, and then we headed out, him with Nathaniel riding shotgun, and me in the van with Nathaniel's family.



Shy Adam had decided that he would rather not bunk with Nathaniel's family at their many stops with extended family, much to my heart's delight.  I had arranged to stay with my Sweet Melissa, and her quiet calm home was just what both Adam and I needed.

Adam's apartment space wouldn't be open for a few days as the old tenant hadn’t yet moved out, so we spent the time gathering needed items from the thrift store and Target, and opening a bank account.  We bought new pants, old dishes, warm gloves and tupperware.  He chose an eclectic but handsome collection of plates and flatware, and I thoroughly enjoyed sticking things into the cart "just because".  He was timid about asking for things; we have always lived on a rather tight budget, and my children are inherantly frugal with their own money and everyone else's, so I just filled the basket with what I know you need starting out in life, plus a few things just for fun. 





I like his style. 

A last movie date

Third floor, apartment #6. 

Best friends since about kindergarten 

Blank slate...

Dropping off some belongings

A bone chilling storm blew through. “It’s like being slapped in the eyeballs,” he said of the bright snow. 

More shopping

Finally, move in day!  He was more than ready. 

Melissa and I had several evenings to get caught up. With Melissa, it’s as though no time has passed at all, but we have actually been apart, except for visits, for 17 years.  She was at Adam’s birth, and became his second mom when I was pregnant with Ellie. Distance has made no difference in our love for each other. 



On our last morning, I took Adam to Waffle Love for breakfast.  The sign on the wall over his shoulder held the message my heart would give him to always carry with him. 

 I loved sitting across from his sweet sleepy-morning face, and couldn’t help but flash on a thousand memories I have of him as I looked into those eyes. 

I could see him, all the years of him, past and future, and the walls of my heart could barely contain it all. They say people near death see their lives pass before their eyes. I guess mamas experience the same thing when near goodbyes, only the life we see is theirs, and it has gone by so fast. 



While shopping, Adam had admired a sweet little wooden box that I later slipped into my cart and secretly purchased. At the end of our meal, I pulled the box out of my purse and placed it in on his hands. Inside, I had placed $24 dollars. A twenty for emergencies, and four dollars for a carton of Tillimouk Vanilla Bean Ice Cream. The boy loves vanilla like I love chocolate. I don’t understand it, but I respect it. 

I had planned to pen a tender mama’s lovenote to place in  the box, but because time doesn’t want me to take myself too seriously, before I knew it, she slipped quietly out of the swinging glass doors into the cold. I had nothing more to put in the box. 

So I took his hands in mine, and placed the box in them. Then I poured out my heart to him. There in the waffle shop, I quietly told him how much joy he brings me, how hopeful I am for his future, how much I trust him, and how gloriously proud I am of the man he is becoming.  I told him how blessed I am that God let me have him in my life, and that when he uses the box, to remember that it’s full of my love for him. 

We drove to Salt Lake, and I tried to get my fill of his voice and laugh. He dropped me at the terminal curb and we shared the kind of hug that has to last for months. I told him I loved him, and then hurried inside so that I wouldn’t fall apart.

But I did. 

******

It’s been six months, but as I sit here in the dentist office waiting room writing And remembering, the tears flow freely. God didn’t give mothers the capacity to unfold all our love for our children - to see and hold and feel- all at once.  

It’s like we have a box inside us that holds it all, and it really is best if we only unpack it a little at a time. 

I guess that’s what a mother’s heart is. 

It was, indeed, A Dark and Snowy Night

"Even Jesus can't bring Adam back."

Natalie was sitting on my lap, cuddling, listening to me tell her the bible story of Easter, when, after a pause, she had suddenly spoken her pain.

She burst into tears then, and I held her as waves of sorrow made her tiny body shudder in my arms.  I tried to console her, but no words would come because of the lump in my throat.  I have long known that if I cry along, the little ones always cry harder.  Perhaps it's like permission, or maybe they feel afraid when the one who is supposed to be strong for them seems as weak as they are, but either way, I knew if I spoke, she would hear the crack in my voice, would turn her head from her own pain and see mine.  I hurt so much when they hurt.

"I need to see his face!" she wept desperately.  His face, the one we have all been missing since New Years, is now 600 miles away in Provo.  600 miles away from the little girl who was now dissolved on my lap in a flood of grief.

I cleared my throat and gulped a stabilizing breath, just enough to fake a calm "I miss him, too,"  then I let silent tears slide down my face, a skill I have polished over my many years of parenting.  How many of my own tears have been shed while holding a child in grief over a lost pet, grandparent or new love?  Still, I had a job to do, so I dug deep.  After a moment to calm myself, I searched and found words that helped us both a little, while shooting off a quick text to Adam.

*Are you up? I have a very sad little girl here.*

He called her, and in just a few minutes had her giggling, sorrow forgotten, the miles closed in a little.

I had known this storm was looming.  When Adam left, Nano didn't understand.  She was jolly, and cheerfully bounced around the room as the rest of the family hugged our tearful goodbyes.  It was the one time my tears strangely had had no impact on her.  But this realization had been coming, building up slowly the past three months until the floodgates sprang open. At first when she saw something that reminded her of Adam, she would shout his name gleefully, "Adam!!!", but now any mention of Utah, a game they used to play together, or a picture of him, and she drops her head and sighs his name in a whisper.

"...adam..."

Last week, in her perpetual run through the house, she suddenly stopped, bending to pick up a dogeared copy of Ralph S. Mouse."This is the book Adam was reading to me.  But now he'll never read to me again," she uttered with drooping shoulders, letting the book drop through loose fingers to the floor.

I stole a moment during her phone call to chat with Adam and we made plans for Natalie to SEE Adam by video call.  Tonight was the night.

***

There they were.  Together at last, together again.  Natalie didn't mind the slight lag in the video, the dull blue of the screen that made it a little hard to see Adam's handsome face well.  They compared hair length, and he showed her his hat.  She showed him her Easter basket, and told him about the Easter egg hunt along the creek.  She held up jelly beans one at a time to show him their speckles, and chattered away like he was right here with her.

Then he got out his phone and read to her from the pages of her book that I had hurriedly texted him as they visited.

"Chapter 1: A Dark and Snowy Night..." he began.

He read Natalie a whole chapter, one screen at a time, finishing right at her 8:30 bedtime.  He said goodnight, with a promise to read to her again soon.

"Tomorrow!" she insisted.

"Um, maybe next week," I compromised, and thanked Adam for all his effort with his little sis.  A twenty year old who is willing to spend an hour on a Saturday night reading to his kid sister is my absolute hero.

Natalie scooted contentedly off to bed, her cheeks dry, her smile in full, familiar bloom.  All was well, at least for now.  His voice had been the calm in my own storm, the balm to my mama heart.  I wasn't just reacting to Natalie's pain when I wept along with her.  I miss this boy terribly.




As soon as I got off the phone, I got online and had a used copy of Ralph S. Mouse shipped off to Adam.  Next week, we'll be ready.