Is That How it Works?

So I'm doing what I've been doing a lot of lately, drinking hot tea and staring at a blank computer screen. I type a few words, and my wonky computer sees fit to delete them at random, or insert what I'm typing right in the middle of my previous sentences. This is annoying and unsettling.

My braces keep getting snagged on the inside of my cheek, but I'm too lazy to go get my wax. Did I tell you I now have braces on my lower teeth? Oh yes I do, and coupled with the Target reading glasses I got on Saturday, I'm now able to rock both sides of the age spectrum on one face!

There's so much I want to write about, but I'm not sure if I have the wherewithal to battle the annoying typing gods to do so.

Today I'm thinking about how our family seems so out of balance these days, and how that makes coping with the big and small news of life difficult. Margaret is living the life of an only child, but it's so different than a typical only child's experience because of our circumstances. She's more lonely child than only child, because she knows what's missing. Not the idea of a sibling, but a real big brother. Hers.

Not only is the safe rhythm of give and take and compromise of her first 9+ years absent, there also seems to be a great sense of responsibility on her shoulders for wanting to hold this family together. I don't want that burden for her.

Before, when Tim and I would bicker, which was fairly often, Jack and Margaret could roll their eyes at one another, knowing that while neither of them liked it, everything would be okay. They knew they were on firm ground. Sure, Jack said it would be fun if we got a divorce because then we'd spoil them by buying them lots of presents-- smart boy-- but he truly felt our family and our future was solid . 

Now, I can tell that our bickering stresses Margaret out. I think it's just one more way she doesn't feel anything's certain anymore. A simple cough could be whooping cough. One beer could be the path to alcoholism. And if mom starts to cry, what if she can't stop? In the past few weeks she has seen families we admire breaking up, Tim's and my peers get diagnosed with cancer, and, hell, she had the reality of  her brother going out to play with her in the warm rain and never coming back.

Jack and Margaret used to worry that I'd die young, as my mother did, and I'd convince them that there was simply no way that would happen. Nope. Been there, done that. It would not happen again.

So, basically, it comes down to credibility, and mine's shot. I didn't manage to keep my kids safe, I am not able to keep cancer at bay. Tim and I have a strong marriage, and breaking up has never been on the table, but who am I to say Margaret is crazy to be stressed by such things?

Impossible things happen.

Prior pain is no protection against future pain.

Life is not fair, for good or for ill.

A few months ago Margaret asked  me,
 "Mom, did you have a good childhood?"
"Yes, it was wonderful," I replied. "Why?"
 "Because you're having a pretty bad adulthood."

She went on:
"I'm having a pretty bad childhood, but I hope that means I'll have a pretty good adulthood."

Wow.

Oh, Sweetie, me too.

Friendship Friday

Jack was so stinkin' smart, but he was also wise. He was humble, and he was funny. He did not rail about how unfair life was, even when he experienced that first-hand.

It's hard for me to believe the world didn't need to keep around the rare 12 year old boy who knew how to use a semi-colon and thought that it mattered. The boy who made people laugh by creating strange nicknames for them, drawing them into his made-up games and alternate worlds.

I made photocopies of Jack's pages and pages of doodles to give to his sweet classmates. They told me they were afraid they had all been thrown away. I will not forget their excited voices as they instantly recognized drawing after drawing, none of which made any sense to me but put huge smiles on their faces:

"Bread Ninja!"
"The Beer Mobile!"
"The Snatching Claw!"
"Wiki Tikis!"
"Damian's Histogram!"
"The Secret Chair!"

HUH???????

They talked about the words Jack made up. The imaginary characters. The expressions they still use today. There are so many, they wrote them down for us.

I am grateful that when they remember Jack it is with a smile. I am grateful that in that small private school environment, which sometimes could seem a bit TOO small, he was loved and supported, right up to the end.

But the end? The END? The inconceivable, asinine, violent END?

I am grappling today with how a few stupid seconds were the difference between life and death. Between the future we envisioned for Jack, versus the future we got.

His friends are having a car wash today. They "hang out" at each other's houses. They had a dance. Next week they go to Philly for a field trip. The boys' voices are getting deeper.

What will I do when I see stubble on their chins?

These are the friends I wanted him to grow up with. And though they carry a piece of him in their hearts, they can't control the march of time that separates them from the boy who will always be twelve.