Kyan just has a way about him.
He has confidence.
He has charisma.
He has authority.
He has no clue he's only 4 years old.
This morning Kyan chose to have blueberries for breakfast.
No cereal.
No toast.
No strawberries.
Blueberries.
So anyway, I'm going along minding my own, washing that pot I just couldn't bring myself to tackle last night when Kyan asks, "Mom, what's in a blueberry?"
My first response, "Good stuff".
He objects with a simple "no". After a few moments, he continues through gritted teeth, "Mom, it's squishy. See? I pinch it like this." His nose is wrinkled like he's lifting a boulder.
I don't know if you've ever looked inside a blueberry, until today I hadn't. For those of you who are curious, the inside of Kyan's blueberry looked like that boogery gunk inside a grape.
I decide to respond with something that might be a little educational. "That's where the blueberry keeps all it's nutrients so you stay healthy."
"No," he responds, matter-of-factly. Now he's rubbing the contents of his blueberry between his thumb and index finger.
Deflated, I simply answer, "It's blueberry goop, Ky."
He looks at me, shaking his head as if I'm completely ignorant, and ends the exchange, "No. No mom, it's not. It's just... goop," and runs away.
So there you have it, kids, the contents of a blueberry...goop.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
heartsick
It's been a long time since I've written. Life with the 3 little monkeys is always hectic.
A new year has begun. We rang in the new year by watching a TERRIBLE streetfighter movie, foregoing champagne for popcorn and just being together. The holidays were nice, different, but nice, and I'm glad they're over.
As I was going through this year's calendar, I noticed my birthday is on a Monday this year. For most, this would be an insignificant detail, but for me it stings. It means that this year is an exact calendar match to 2004, the year that I had Aiden and lost him. He would be turning six on Monday, March 15, our shared birthday.
His loss still pains me everyday. I think about him. I fantasize about what he'd be like. I don't think this will ever change.
Every year I go through this sorrowful time. I remember everything...vividly...down to the days of the week. The whole series of confusing, joyful, painful events of that year stream through my head. Having them fall on the same days of the week make it so much worse somehow.
Grief is strange. Grievers are stranger. Why is it that someone who truly has something to mourn tries so hard to hide her feelings from the outside world? What is this need to wear a facade that everything is alright when it couldn't be more wrong? Is someone truly brave or strong because she bottles her pain and shelves it where those that love her will never see?
Why is it so easy to hop on facebook and say, "I'm having a crappy day. My car won't start and I have a runny nose," but not to simply say, "I'm sad because I miss my son."?
I think most mourners keep it to themselves for the sake of those around them. Take funerals for example. When you pay your respects to the people who are grieving the most, 9 times out of 10, they are saying things to make you feel better. "He's in a better place." "She had a good life." They say these things and you accept them, because it is easier than hearing the truth. A part of that person has just died, too. You know it, they know it, but its just easier not to say or hear. Its easier to nod, give a hug and walk away from their pain.
I was taught to hide the pain by one simple exchange in the mall. When Aiden died, I took a couple weeks off of work. During that time, I went to get my hair cut. As I was walking through the center of the mall, I ran into an aquaintance from work. She asked how I was doing. Then she proceded to tell me that I shouldn't feel bad if people are quiet around work, because no one knows what to say to me or how I would react. After that, I made the choice to bottle the feelings so I wouldn't make others feel awkward. How messed up is that? Looking back I should have been disgusted, but instead I took it as a cue not to be too revealing about what was going on with me, because, frankly, no one wanted to know. Ignorance is bliss afterall and no one wants to be around Sally Sobstory.
So here I am, 6 years later, riding that virtual tragedy rollercoaster in my mind. I've become very skilled at hiding myself from most everyone. I only give snip-its to those closest to me. I'm tired of that. Ironically, I still can't put it all out there. My intent was to just say all the things here that I've been keeping to myself for so long, but I just can't.
Maybe next year.
A new year has begun. We rang in the new year by watching a TERRIBLE streetfighter movie, foregoing champagne for popcorn and just being together. The holidays were nice, different, but nice, and I'm glad they're over.
As I was going through this year's calendar, I noticed my birthday is on a Monday this year. For most, this would be an insignificant detail, but for me it stings. It means that this year is an exact calendar match to 2004, the year that I had Aiden and lost him. He would be turning six on Monday, March 15, our shared birthday.
His loss still pains me everyday. I think about him. I fantasize about what he'd be like. I don't think this will ever change.
Every year I go through this sorrowful time. I remember everything...vividly...down to the days of the week. The whole series of confusing, joyful, painful events of that year stream through my head. Having them fall on the same days of the week make it so much worse somehow.
Grief is strange. Grievers are stranger. Why is it that someone who truly has something to mourn tries so hard to hide her feelings from the outside world? What is this need to wear a facade that everything is alright when it couldn't be more wrong? Is someone truly brave or strong because she bottles her pain and shelves it where those that love her will never see?
Why is it so easy to hop on facebook and say, "I'm having a crappy day. My car won't start and I have a runny nose," but not to simply say, "I'm sad because I miss my son."?
I think most mourners keep it to themselves for the sake of those around them. Take funerals for example. When you pay your respects to the people who are grieving the most, 9 times out of 10, they are saying things to make you feel better. "He's in a better place." "She had a good life." They say these things and you accept them, because it is easier than hearing the truth. A part of that person has just died, too. You know it, they know it, but its just easier not to say or hear. Its easier to nod, give a hug and walk away from their pain.
I was taught to hide the pain by one simple exchange in the mall. When Aiden died, I took a couple weeks off of work. During that time, I went to get my hair cut. As I was walking through the center of the mall, I ran into an aquaintance from work. She asked how I was doing. Then she proceded to tell me that I shouldn't feel bad if people are quiet around work, because no one knows what to say to me or how I would react. After that, I made the choice to bottle the feelings so I wouldn't make others feel awkward. How messed up is that? Looking back I should have been disgusted, but instead I took it as a cue not to be too revealing about what was going on with me, because, frankly, no one wanted to know. Ignorance is bliss afterall and no one wants to be around Sally Sobstory.
So here I am, 6 years later, riding that virtual tragedy rollercoaster in my mind. I've become very skilled at hiding myself from most everyone. I only give snip-its to those closest to me. I'm tired of that. Ironically, I still can't put it all out there. My intent was to just say all the things here that I've been keeping to myself for so long, but I just can't.
Maybe next year.
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