Tales of a 4th Grade Something Else

The kids enjoyed talking about what it would be like to be grownups. Margaret wanted to be a teacher, but "marry someone rich so we can have a beach house with a pool and a hot tub." As we know, Jack wanted to be a Lego designer, an architect, or a missionary.

The kids also enjoyed picking out names for their future kids. Margaret selected Brook for a boy, and her girl names came and went. Jack picked Melanie or Malina for a girl and Frank for a boy. Of course I informed him that his future wife, who would do the vast majority of the work by carrying the babies and giving birth, would have a much bigger say in the naming than he would.

When I told the kids I thought it would be nice to move to a cute cottage in the country when Tim and I retired, Jack was adamantly opposed. First of all, he did not like the country at all. He also did not like the city. It was suburbs all the way for him, and I guess he thought this should extend to where his elderly parents would be permitted to spend their golden years.

Also, he was concerned that a "cute cottage" would be too small. "You'll need bunk rooms for the grand kids," he said. I loved, loved, loved the idea of his and Margaret's kids spending so much time at our house and wondered how many kids he thought we'd be dealing with to necessitate "bunk rooms."

After the accident, Jack's 4th grade teacher sent us a sweet fill-in-the blank paper the kids had made for her at the end of that school year.

Jack's page read:

"I am always going to remember you for the: GOODNESS that you bring to my class.

The most difficult thing that you have taught me is: HOMEWORK.

You have helped me grow stronger in: FAITH.

My favorite part of your class is: HISTORY.

When I am grown up and finished with my schooling, I will think of you when I: VISIT MOUNT VERNON WITH MY KIDS.

Sincerely,

Jack Donaldson"


Ugh. So many aspects of our loss hit so darn hard-- the idea of Jack never getting to be a dad, and Margaret's kids not having cousins to pal around with in the "bunk rooms" of our fictional cottage.

As a dad Tim has always been so willing to dust off his college backpack, load it up with his velcro "outings" wallet and a couple of juice boxes and take the kids places like parks, sporting events, museums, or the ski slopes. It makes sense that Jack would picture doing those things with his own kids someday.

But now he won't get the chance, and to Margaret's kids he will always be "Uncle Jack," forever 12, just as my kids had "Grandma Margaret"-- remembered through stories, revered, referenced, but not really known.