Thursday, November 09, 2006


Although I usually write about the wonderfully quaint things you do, sometimes, there is sadness. It's not a grief wrapped up in you, but I periodically feel bent under the pressures of responsibility and knowledge of loss in the world.

Over the last year, our family has learned of so much illness -- and known it ourselves, to some degree. After our car accident last year, we spent many weeks in doctor's offices. Then, we've been working on controlling your asthma which has been a challenge. Both your grandmother and your nanny-caregiver are dying of cancer. I secretly imagined that we'd be able to gloss over it for you, but you are the type of child who is so aware of peoples "owies" and the need for doctors. When you ask to see Julie and talk about grandma being sick, I sometimes feel overwhelmed? How am I going to explain death to you? Is it appropriate at your age?

Honestly, I just don't want to cry about it anymore. The gift that Julie gave us, as a family, was a great one: she took you under her wing when you were 3 months old and gave you all the love she had. She is clear about the outcome of her cancer and for this I am grateful. I am glad I can sit across from her at lunch and talk about the end of her life. But it is surreal. You asked her to hold you and...she couldn't really. I had to turn my face toward the door to avoid crying in public. You wanted to ride in her car, too. I sure you think there's just a break in the schedule; amazingly, you remember the schedule you used to have with her.

But here I am, sad again and the tears are more for the questions you will ask than for my own, if that makes sense. I want to be honest with you about life and what is real. And I want to give you what you need, and what I need and what dad needs. I want you to be content and fulfilled and the happiest you can be.

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