Hope for the future...I found this by way of The Schuyler Blanket Project. A class of 5th graders in Portland, Maine, were so moved and upset by the destruction in Haiti that they decided to create and sell handmade items to raise money for that nation. On their website, Hope for Haiti, they wrote: "We know that we can’t change the disaster but if everyone helps we can make Haiti better than it was before the earthquake."
They hope to raise $500 through donations or purchases. Click and support by purchasing or by wishing them well.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Dear Ben, I'm Sorry
Today at pre-school pick up, a little boy getting into a minivan next to our car asked if the little boy coming home with James was his brother.
"No," I said, "He doesn't have a brother."
Immediately I thought, but wait, he does.
Then I muttered to myself, "Well, not really."
No, not really. But kind of.
"No," I said, "He doesn't have a brother."
Immediately I thought, but wait, he does.
Then I muttered to myself, "Well, not really."
No, not really. But kind of.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
All This Time
After all this time, six years, I thought I might feel differently. I thought that maybe I wouldn't think of him every day, maybe I wouldn't still cry on his death day and birth day. But what did I know, back then? Not much, quite obviously.
I'm feeling very sad today, sadder than I could have imagined once upon a time. It's ok, I know, but at times I am so tired of feeling sad, so tired of missing Ben. I don't feel sad every day, but this week - well, this week is different, as I remember what we so nearly had. The Christmas songs don't help, the lights, the ornaments, all of it. Those things have always made me feel melancholy, long before my child died, and now, viewed through the lens of my loss, make me feel even worse.
In six years, what have I learned? That I will always miss him, every day, for as long as I live, or at least until Alzheimer's or some other form of dementia takes my memories of him away. Missing him is forever. Sad is forever too, but not in the same way. That will come and go. And I have realized that I will forever be the mother of a baby; as the rest of us grow older, as my two other children will grow to adulthood, as my husband and I begin to go gray, Ben will always be as he was the day he died: an infant, full of potential and possibility. Is it any wonder, then, how I long for a baby in my life? Any wonder that my arms still ache, after all this time, for the chance to hold him again?
I'm feeling very sad today, sadder than I could have imagined once upon a time. It's ok, I know, but at times I am so tired of feeling sad, so tired of missing Ben. I don't feel sad every day, but this week - well, this week is different, as I remember what we so nearly had. The Christmas songs don't help, the lights, the ornaments, all of it. Those things have always made me feel melancholy, long before my child died, and now, viewed through the lens of my loss, make me feel even worse.
In six years, what have I learned? That I will always miss him, every day, for as long as I live, or at least until Alzheimer's or some other form of dementia takes my memories of him away. Missing him is forever. Sad is forever too, but not in the same way. That will come and go. And I have realized that I will forever be the mother of a baby; as the rest of us grow older, as my two other children will grow to adulthood, as my husband and I begin to go gray, Ben will always be as he was the day he died: an infant, full of potential and possibility. Is it any wonder, then, how I long for a baby in my life? Any wonder that my arms still ache, after all this time, for the chance to hold him again?
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