Possibly Insightful Ramblings

There’s something about an anniversary—about being located in the same cosmic space in relation to the sun that you were when something significant happened—that makes you nostalgic; that makes you think about the past. And if you’re like me, it makes you feel like waxing verbose and throwing scattered memories and thoughts onto a computer screen. It’s been a year now since my dad died. An entire revolution around the sun, complete with Christmas, birthdays, and all the other celebrations and mundane days that noisily squeeze themselves into our calendar. Each of the days of the year has now happened once without my dad here on the earth to welcome it; without him able to receive my texts or laugh at my jokes or tell me he’s proud of me or hold my little boys. And I wish I could say, at this end of my first year without Dad, that I have some profound insight to share with the world; some neat little package of how-to-succeed-at-grief tied up with a bow and ready for dissemination...

What a weird feeling—having an extra twenty minutes to do whatever I want. Usually my days are planned ahead and packed with the tasks that need to be accomplished: feed the boys; change their diapers; wipe their tears; feed them again; pull the older out of the (formerly) sleeping baby’s crib; calm the toddler’s fit as he protests being prevented from snuggling his brother; rock the now-screaming infant back to sleep; feed them again; take the toddler to the park so he doesn’t go crazy running laps in our apartment; feed; change; comfort; repeat. Each day, if I’m lucky, I get maybe an hour or two where the boys align their naps and I’m able to work on my research or take care of tasks for my church responsibilities or clean the house. (Or consume a pint of ice cream in blessed silence.) Sometimes, though, that doesn’t happen and I juggle two tiny boys, sometimes both crying in my arms at the same time while I rock them. Sometimes I throw my own tears into the mix just for good measu...

I feel like my whole life I’ve been told “Never ask a woman if she is pregnant. Never tell her she looks pregnant.” And I took it as a given. That is just what one does. It is polite to not bring attention to a woman’s body as a tiny human is growing inside her swelling abdomen. You just don’t say anything about her ever-increasing size. Because that would be rude. Obviously. But as my friends started having babies, and especially as I have experienced my own pregnancies, I’ve increasingly realized why the advice “Don’t tell a woman she looks pregnant” is so ubiquitous and oft-repeated. It’s for the same reason we are constantly told to eat our veggies and exercise regularly: Because people don’t listen. They just don’t. Now some people do. I know plenty of people who go to the gym and eat all the leafy greens they can find. And I know people who have graciously abstained from making a single comment about the size of my stomach. But there are still enough people that walk past t...

The pure, soulful cry Of my tiny son as his plaintive face Looks into mine Through his tears, Mouth wide open, Tiny chin trembling, Arms stretching to the door Trying to reach his dad, Wondering why his favorite playmate Can’t stay home all day. Why does Dad have to go? He stares out the door as long As I will let him—hoping Dad will come back-- And the sobs begin anew Once I close the door And he realizes Dad has gone to work. The purity and innocence Of these heart-wrenching cries, That sometimes leave him Writhing on the floor, Inconsolable by my touch and voice Melts my heart And yet makes me smile— My little one loves his dad. And in the silent moments When a sudden memory comes to me, Brought on by a song, A joke, A wandering thought, A story, I find myself overcome By the same heart-felt tears As my son, And my own face crinkles into sobs That reach the depths of my soul As I think how my dad missed Thanks...