When Lady Gaga and Photo Booth collide

The Summerlands Grandma

Yesterday was my mom's birthday. She would have been 68. In December she will have been gone 11 years. In totality, grief gets easier with time. In fleeting moments, or at times when her wisdom or love is much needed, not so much. I can still miss her as much as I did as I sat in that hospital room with her that last time and watched her take her last breath. Grief ... it's like an old healed wound that's much too prone to reopening. An old cliché, but one that hits it on the head.

So yeah, her birthday. And then there's also this situation going on right now — something that I can't decide if I should write about or not. A situation that could benefit from her living, breathing presence. Her wit, her wisdom, her ability to tell me to calm the hell down and stop freaking out so much. She told me many, many times in my life that I was being too hard on myself, and I suspect she would tell me that now.

Anyway, none of that is either here nor there. The point is that because of these circumstances, I am missing her. Very, very much. And because of her recent birthday, I have been talking to the boys more about her. And then there is this not-so-little fascination that the boys and I have with the song "American Pie" right now. They tell me the line, "This'll be the day that I die" — it saddens them. And the softer, slower melodies at the beginning and end of the song sadden them, too. But their love of the rest is enough to account for repeated plays. I think they also love that I sing my freakin' heart out every time that song is on. They try to sing along.

But yes, the talk of long-gone grandmothers, the theme of death in what is currently their favorite song. Well, it all leads to big things on the minds of small people. Yesterday, as we sang and rode home in the car, Hunter asked me three times: "Mama? Did my grandma die? Does she live in the Summerlands now?"

We call heaven "the Summerlands." It's more evocative, I guess, and more grounded in realistic language for the boys — and so that's what we call it. And I suppose I'll call it that when they're older, too. I like it better than "heaven," though truthfully I don't believe in either. But boys ... they need to believe until they are old enough to make up their minds in other ways.

And believe they do. Tonight, as I watched TV, a freshly bathed Hunter carried one of my old flip cell phones downstairs and handed it to me.

"Here, Mama. Call your mama." (He didn't even say call Grandma ... he said "call your mama.")

"Oh honey, I wish I could."

"You can, Mama. It's a special phone. It can call the Summerlands."

"You are so sweet, Hunter. But I don't think I have that number. I wish I did. I really do, kiddo."

And so, just when I thought I could not miss her more ...

There is no good way to end this post.

Brotherly Love

I'm listening to Wilder and Hunter play in Wilder's room right now. And I hear this, from Hunter:

"It's OK, Wilder. Really. It's OK. Don't cry. I love you."

Man, they make my heart melt sometimes.

Worry

Wilder heard the song "American Pie" a couple of weeks ago, and he's been singing and humming the main refrain ever since. You know it:

So bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And good 'ol boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singing 'This'll be the day that I die ....'

Today, on a drive to a nearby place to play, the boys and I decided to listen to the whole song. And, of course, that refrain is repeated many times throughout the song, along with many other lyrics. We're nearing the end of the song, as well as nearing our destination, and Hunter pipes up loudly from the back seat:

"Mama? What's whiskey?"

The whole damn song and that boy asks that question. I mean, he could ask dozens of other things. What's a Chevy? What's a levee? What's a swelter? What's a fallout shelter? (This post is starting to sound very Seussian ...)

Anyway, the fact that he asked about whiskey explains a lot in terms of why Jerry and I worry about him sometimes. He has this knack for zeroing in on the very thing you hope he won't. Like how he grabs my friends' breasts sometimes. He could touch their hair, or ask them what color eyes they have.

But nope. It's the breasts.

Sigh.

So I answered his question: "It's something grown-ups drink sometimes."

H: "Can it make you sick?"

Seriously, how does he know this stuff?

"Yes, honey. It can make you sick. Very, very sick."

Oh Hunter honey ... I am going to have to keep a very, very close eye on you. Because you remind me of me. And that scares the living daylights out of me.

Remembering 9/11

I was sleeping in a friend's house on 9/11, having just attended the wedding of another dear friend, when my friend's mom called to wake us up to tell us the awful news. We were supposed to get on a return plane to Dallas that day. I remember sitting on my friend's bed and later on her couch, in disbelief, tears following tears for most of the day. Jerry and I stayed in Denver for, I believe, five days longer than planned. I went back to the Rocky Mountain News to work for a few of those days … it was all I knew how to do in times like this, with news like this. It helped. But one memory shines through from that time: Upon returning home on a plane a few days after the horror, I felt like everyone on that plane was somehow bonded. We all agreed before takeoff that, should something bad happen, we'd all open up a major can of whoop-ass together. We sat next to a woman in her 80s who was on her way to South America for volunteer work. She also pledged to smack the hell out of anyone who might be on the plane to do us harm, and I liked her immediately. She told us she would spend the night in the airport, on the floor, waiting for her next plane. No way, I thought. We took her home with us, and she spent the night and took us out to breakfast the next morning. We kept in touch for a couple years after that, but have since lost touch. I think everyone on that plane that day gave each other a little piece of returned faith in humanity. Ten years later, I miss that feeling of being in this together, for better or for much, much worse. Wish we could get a bit of that back.

PANIC

I think I can safely say I now know the true meaning of that word.

Wilder has school on Fridays; Hunter does not. So we all three walked into school this morning and, when we got there, Wilder did what he usually does, which is throw me his backpack and run off to play on the playground. Some of the other kindergarten moms have commented on this, on how totally unafraid he seems and how independent he is. A lot of the other kindergarteners stick close by their moms or get into line and wait. Anyway, this morning, Hunter initially went with Wilder, but when a bunch of kids started showing up, I grabbed H and we went to wait for the school bell to ring. At Wilder's school, they line up with their classmates and their teachers come out to get them, so when the bell rings, all the kids stop whatever they're doing and run to get in line.

So the bell rings. And I start looking for Wilder. The last week or so, he's been slow to get moving once he hears the bell, so this morning I talked to him about how I needed him to speed it up. "Okay," he said, and that was that.

So I'm looking for him. And waiting. And ... nothing. He's not headed toward his line. So I grab Hunter's hand and we start heading for the playground. He's not there.

I walk as fast as having a 3-year-old in tow will let me to make sure I didn't miss him getting into line. Maybe he's already there? Nope. His teacher looks at me and mouths, "Where's Wilder?" I tell her I can't find him. "You lost him?" she asks. OK, now I feel like crap and I'm starting to really freak out. Thanks.

So she tells me to go look more and she's going to take the kids in and come back.

I head back to the playground and — of course — sirens start going off a couple of blocks away. I frantically search all the nooks and crannies on the playground, hollering his name as loud as I can. It was at this point, I think, that I gave into pure panic and fright. I could not get those sirens out of my head. I was torn between running toward them and running toward the school office, and I thought: "I have to call Jerry!" So I grabbed my phone to call him.

And a strange number came up on my screen.

"Hello???"

"Hi, is this Kristi? This is Anna at Birch ..." Pause.

It was all I could do to not scream into the phone: "DO YOU HAVE MY BABY!!!!???"

"Wilder is here. He cut himself above the eye and ... garble garble garble ..."

Of COURSE the phone is breaking up.

I tell her I'm on my way and start heading toward the office.

It's at this point that I realize I've totally freaked Hunter out. "Is Wilder OK? Where is he???" he starts asking me.

I assure him his brother is fine, and then I see Wilder's teacher, heading toward me. "Did you find him?" she asked. Genuine concern on her face now, so I'm forgiving the "You lost him?" comment.

Anyway, she gets me into the school and I cut through the building, fighting tears, to get to the office. There's the boy, looking very small and vulnerable with a slightly bleeding cut above his eyebrow, dirt on his face, sitting there while the principal fixes his glasses. She hands me a tissue. Hunter hugs his brother. All is OK now and yet I can't stop crying.

A friend of mine just called and asked why the person who took him into the office didn't try to find me first. Here's what I think happened: A lot of the older kids, their parents just drop them off at school and head off. And Wilder looks so much older than a kindergartener, and I think someone just assumed he didn't have a parent there. And then the principal, who knows him (there's a story for another time ...), saw him and had someone call me, knowing I would probably be totally losing it.

So now I'm home, and it occurs to me that while we were walking to school this morning, Wilder gave me one of those fuzzy dandelion flowers and told me to blow it and make a wish. Well, I've been in a funk this week ... a pretty major one. Not sure why, but it happens sometimes this time of year. My mom's birthday is coming up and we just moved into a new house and my kiddo started kindergarten and I miss her. I want her to tell me it's OK that Wilder has already been sent to the principal's office (again, another story ...) and I want her to help me pick out paint colors and all that. So when I blow that dandelion fuzz, I wish this: "Let this funk go away and let this be an awesome day."

Sometimes, it takes a little perspective to realize again how amazing and easy you actually have it. My kid is fine. He's safe, and nothing else — nothing else — matters.

So yes, the funk is gone. Thanks universe, for answering my wish in such a awfully instructive way. I am paying attention, I promise.

Oh, and one more thing ... remember that cut above Wilder's eye I told you about? Guess what today is? Picture day! Yep, my little guy's gonna look like a tough little dude in his kindergarten school picture. This makes me kinda happy.