Happy Veteran’s Day, Katie

My friend Shannon’s husband called me Monday night to tell me that Shannon’s water had broken and they were on their way to the hospital. They needed someone to come over in the morning and put Gaby, their daughter, on the school bus. (Gaby’s great-grandmother was staying with her during the night.) That meant I would have to leave our house, Ian in tow, at 5:30am to drive to Montgomery County, but I was happy to help anyway I could.

This baby has been long-hoped for. Shannon and Ernie went through a great deal of pain and emotional trauma to get to this point. Considering that Shannon was in active labor for, literally, days, with Gaby, we all anticipated a long night. Imagine my shock when shortly after 1am a text message woke me up!

Katherine Olivia arrived after just 3 hours of labor, with no epidural, weighing 8lbs 1oz. Mom and baby are doing fine.

This day will be even more special for Shannon because, like me, she comes from a family of veterans. I know that she likes to take some time each Memorial and Veteran’s Day and visit her Poppi who is interred at Arlington Cemetery. I think Poppi will understand this year that she’ll be a bit late in stopping by.

Happy Birthday Katie.

Thank you to all the Veterans. We were happy this year to welcome Tom home from his final combat tour. In January my Dad, a 20 year Army officer himself, will know with pride that one of his former students, a man he’s proud to call “son” will be completing his own 20 years of service. Also, a decorated WWII veteran of the Pacific campaign, Granddaddy Joe is still with us. My boys are blessed to have such examples of heroism and dedication to country in their lives. I hope they will for many, many, years to come.

A Year Without Hugs

A year ago today I hugged my little brother for the last time. We’d just wrapped up a long weekend family reunion/mass birthday party. I know we probably traded insults, as we so often did, in those final moments, but I cannot recall what exactly I said. How sad that makes me: I cannot recall the last words I ever said to my little brother. I drove home to Virginia; he drove home to Georgia. We never spoke on the phone or saw each other again. I exchanged two emails with him in December and then he was gone.

Everyone said, and keeps saying, that time will make it hurt less. Well, it doesn’t. The hurt is just different. Some days it’s all I can do to get out of bed and get through the day. Curling up in a ball and sobbing for hours seems like a better solution. Other days, sometimes several days in a row, I will hardly think of him and then a careless comment made by someone will stab into my heart and slice away all the scar tissue. I’ll be open and bleeding and raw, choking back tears.

If Mark pulls me aside with a frown and says he needs to talk to me I have to fight the urge to flee. I don’t want to hear what he has to say, even though it’s often “the dog peed in the floor” or “What should we get the boys for Christmas?”. It’s this subconscious psychological fear, a hazy terrified sense of déjà vu that he’ll once again hold my hand and say “Honey your brother is dead.”

I can’t sleep or I can’t get enough sleep. Once, last summer sometime, I tried drinking until I passed out. All I did was make myself vilely ill. Not my finest moment and all I could hear was Adrian’s sarcastic voice saying “Nice going, moron.” Alcohol definitely not working as the drug of choice, I moved to food. I’ve gained 20lbs since he died and I hate myself for it.

I sit and play my music too loud and ignore the boys. Or I smother them and won’t let them out of my sight. I panic if the bus is a minute late or if Ian sleeps past 8am.

And it occurs to me, a year after I last hugged him, that if Adrian read this he’d be saying “Typical. It’s always about you. Your pain and your hurt and your loss.” I was selfish and uncaring to him in his life and now that he’s gone all I can do is live in a private bubble of pain, refusing to share this last horrible piece I have left of him.

Selfish and horrible as I am, I would live through a thousand more years of this if I could only have the chance to hold him one more time and tell him I love him.

Six

My big boy was born six years ago today. He gets a holiday from school thanks to parent-teacher conferences and election day. We had his party on Saturday and it was a rousing success. All of his neighborhood friends, save Austin who came down with an ill-timed case of strep throat, attended. They had Nerf wars across the play area of Burke Lake Park, ate cake, played until exhausted on the playground, and enjoyed the beautiful Fall weather.

Ethan received many “awesome” gifts from his friends and family. As I type this he’s trying to teach his brother how to play “Connect Four” (it’s not going well, but they aren’t fighting so I’m happy). Our living room floor is covered by a massive train track/city/extravaganza thanks to Nana. The dog is confused by all of the new clutter. I sympathize with her, since I tripped over the monster truck three times last night.

Today Ethan and Ian will go visit with “Ms Amy” and her kids while I meet with Ethan’s teacher. Then Amy and I will switch off kids while she goes to her round of conferences. After that we’ll probably all have lunch followed by (hopefully) nap time. Later today Ethan and I have to go buy mix and frosting for the strawberry cupcakes he wants to take to his class.

Ethan is inquisitive. He’s sensitive. He’s tall and gangly. He still has huge cornflower blue eyes with disgustingly long lashes. He looks more like his cousin Dalton every day. He loves playing outside with sticks and balls and bats or just running. He loves playing WAR with his Daddy or showing his little brother how to play Noggin games. He’s learning to read and he’s mastering writing his name. He’s mostly left handed. He drives me crazy when he teases his brother and cracks me up with his wry sense of humour.

He’s my little boy and he’s 6 today.

Link for pictures: http://www.flickr.com/photos/redamy/sets/72157608615731310/