Farewell, Old Friend...

One of the great tragedies (and there are many) of the scandal in the Catholic church the past few years is that the name of priest has been largely besmirched. We've heard about priest after priest acting in horrifyingly inappropriate ways, of abusing their posts and the trust that comes along with it. It's made many of us who grew up Catholic doubt the church as a whole, and priests in general. And that is a shame, because although far, far too many priests have indeed abused their posts, the tertiary victims here are the truly decent human beings who have gone into the priesthood with the most decent of intentions, those who have offered wisdom, guidance and caring to those of us who were (or in many cases, were not) members of their congregations.

One such priest, Father Clyde Chetwynde, was a huge part of my Catholic experience growing up. Whatever devotion I have left for the Catholic church comes largely from his teachings. He was someone I could discuss religion with, confess my sins to, ask my questions of, all without fear of judgment or reproach. He was someone who was devoted to bringing the youth back to the church, and whom parents could trust with their children, never having to fear that he would abuse that trust.

Father Clyde passed away on Saturday, and I, along with all those who were blessed to know him, will miss him greatly. Rest in peace, "God."

Simple Pleasures

It never fails to amaze me how much more simple pleasures mean to me since having my son. Honestly, I could easily spend a full day snuggling with him, smooching his cheeks, listening to him giggle and coo, and never be remotely bored. He's got about the greatest giggle I've ever heard...granted, I'm completely biased. He's such a little snuggle bug and he's got the sweetest smile and voice. It makes my Sunday scaries even worse than they've ever been because after having the weekend with him, I dread leaving him to go to work. I'd so much rather hang out with him. But I know it's good for him - he loves daycare and they love him. And it's good for me, too. Plus, I do like getting a paycheck. But...I think I could forego the paycheck for more time to listen to that giggle. Best. Sound. EVER.

BFF's

I've had the same best friend, more or less, since I was seven years old. I feel like that's somewhat rare in this day and age. We're really more like family at this point than friends. We drive each other crazy sometimes, we've had our clashes, we've gone for stretches not talking (not long stretches, mind you). But we've always made it back to being best friends. We rely on each other in a way that we can't rely on anyone else. We have a certain sensibility and sense of humor that we instinctively "get" with each other. And it's so comforting to have that - to know that I can write a three word email and she'll know exactly what I'm talking about - to know that I can cause her to dissolve in hysterics with a slight hand gesture signifying some years-old inside joke.

We went for drinks on Thursday night - our first cocktail night since I had my son. It was such fun. Then yesterday, I caught the scene in How Stella Got Her Groove Back when Angela Bassett's character is visiting Whoopi Goldberg's character in the hospital and Whoopi's near death. Scenes like that always kind of tear me up because I always think - what would I do if I lost my best friend? I mean, yea, I have the same thoughts when someone in a movie loses her husband or mother or child, but today I'm talking about my best friend. It just brings home the fact that I count on her in a million little ways that most of the time I don't even give a thought to. There is a certain kind of feedback that only she can provide. It's funny how you can know someone your whole life and most of the time, you don't even think to thank them for the million little things they might do for you, you know? So, I guess I want to thank my bff for being the funniest girl I know, the girl who got me through a million little heartaches, the girl who never judged me for my moments of bad judgment, the one who believed in me a million times I didn't believe in myself.

True Love

I believe in ghosts. I believe in spirits. I believe in soul mates - our companions in this life and beyond it. You can call it hokey or hippie dippy or whatever you want to throw at me. I still believe it. I believe there are people in this life that we know from another. And I believe that when these people pass from this life to the next, they sometimes come back to us to offer guidance or support or a shoulder to cry on. And anyone who was with me in my grandmother's hospital room the other day would believe it, too. I would bet my life that my grandfather was in that room.


When my grandfather was alive, he and my grandmother enjoyed the rarest of gifts - a truly happy marriage. They were madly in love until the day he died, and if you ask my grandmother, they remain so now, eight plus years later. From their marriage, I learned many of the important lessons about love - never to go to bed angry, to tell each other you love each other every day, always to present a united front, to relish your differences as well as your similarities.

Soon after he died, I went to visit my grandmother. We enjoyed their nightly ritual of cocktail hour. I drank a manhattan - my grandfather's "winter" drink, and I sat in his chair in the corner of their living room. Soon after I sat down, the lamp next to the chair flickered off, then back on. My grandmother giggled lightly. "That's Bucky. He does that every night during cocktail hour." That's only one example among many of the times he's found ways to communicate to us over the years.

On Thanksgiving last year, when my son was a month old, my grandmother told me that she'd been talking to my grandfather about my son, and that he thought he was beautiful and special and that he loved him. I didn't question that for a moment. I knew she was right. He'd told me the same thing, in his way.

Last week, my grandmother had a stroke-like episode (we're still not entirely sure what exactly happened or when), and was in the hospital. For the first couple days she was there, she was very out of it. In the middle of a sentence, she would just zone out. Her doctors think she was having mini-strokes. But the strange thing is that, often, during these zone outs, she would gaze up toward the corner of her room and speak quietly or nod. And then when she came back, she would have a question, usually about one of her children. Over the course of the day I was there, I got the distinct feeling that she was talking to my grandfather. I knew he was in the room as soon as I walked in, just as I'd suspected he would be - he would never want her to go through something like that alone. It was as if he were guiding her through the whole thing, telling her to hang in there, telling her that the kids would be there soon.

Because of my grandparents' relationship, I always had very high expectations for the love and romance that lay ahead for me. I credit that, above all, with having led me to my husband. Their love for each other taught me what true love is, and that it transcends "till death do us part." My grandmother is 92 years old and has two degenerative conditions. At some point, she will go to join my grandfather. As sad as this makes me, and it does make me very sad, I know that there is a part of her that just misses him, and is looking forward to their being together again, and I can hardly begrudge her that, after all she's done for me. Plus, I miss him terribly too, so I can only imagine how much more she does.

Peekaboo, Mommy!

Flyin' High

We had a wedding this weekend in Richmond, VA. It was a beautiful wedding and an absolute blast. It was also our first big trip as a family. It was my son's first time on a plane. We did very well. My son loved the airplane. He was looking around and checking things out. He also loved snuggling with Mommy and Daddy in the seats. It was encouraging because I love to travel, and I'm hoping to do more of it, so I'm glad he seems to like it. I'm not all that surprised though. The kid amazes me with his ability to take things in stride. I could learn from him.

Insomnia

Not being able to sleep sucks. I know of what I speak here, because I've had insomnia in varying degrees for most of my life. Actually, probably all of my life, since some of my earliest memories are of not being able to sleep. I've read that insomnia is fairly common among writers. I can't help but wonder if it's partly the insomnia that fuels the being a writer. I mean, there's not much to do at 3:30 in the morning, so...why not write? Plus, for most insomniacs, the whole problem is that there are so many thoughts swirling around in there that our minds can't calm down enough to fall asleep. So, maybe getting some of those thoughts out in the form of words helps us get to sleep? I don't know. What I do know is that it's completely maddening to be exhausted and not be able to get to sleep. Tonight, I was absolutely toast when I finished work. I came home, had dinner, packed for our trip this weekend and went to bed. I was so relieved to get into bed. I slept three hours, my son woke me, and I haven't been able to get back to sleep since. And now, I have to be up in a half hour for our crazy early flight, so it's not even worth going back to sleep. An ongoing conundrum in these parts.

BTW - I guess it was yesterday now, but it was my husband's birthday Thursday. Happy Birthday, Bub! :)