Photos by James

October 27, 2008

There's no doubt about it--this Christmas, James will be getting his very own digital camera.

I know, I know--it's kind of a strange gift for a three-year-old boy, but trust me, this child'll love it. He's always lugging my camera around--you know, snapping some candids and licking the lens.

Last week I spent an entire workday driving around town, taking photos of the lovely fall foliage with the intention of posting them on my organization's new website. Early this morning, I popped my memory card into my laptop and ran off to my Board of Director's meeting, hoping to gain approval to post the pictures.

But when I pulled up the photos, the red and yellow trees were nowhere to be found. Somehow James wiped the entire memory card clean and refilled it with 100-or-so pictures like these...

Gracie's bum:

My bum:

And plenty of self-portraits:

I can't wait to unveil the new web site at work!

One Month Yesterday

October 23, 2008

Yesterday was the one month mark--one month since Jared and I lost our baby boy. And my goodness, this has been the longest thirty days of my life. I honestly feel like I've aged about twenty-five years since September 22nd.

It's really no good--I feel a hell of a lot older, but I'm still really, really far away from retirement.

Damn. It.

You know me, I won't lie. I won't make things seem rosier than they actually are, and I won't pretend to have a perfect take on life. But you know what? Yesterday wasn't all that bad.

When I came home from work, there was a huge, green cardboard box sitting on my front steps. It was taped-up every which-way, scribbled with permanent marker, and quite obviously came from someone's home--certainly not a business.

I curiously approached the box, which was addressed to me, and noticed a return-address from the Midwest. "Who lives in Illinois" I asked myself? "I swear I don't know anyone named Brenda from Illinois."

I clumsily picked up the box, which was surprisingly light for it's bulky size, and walked it to my kitchen table. As I cautiously slit the tape with my sewing scissors, I continued to wonder, "Who in the crap could this big old box be from?" (I've never claimed to have eloquent thoughts)

When I folded back the cardboard cover and peeked inside, I gasped, instinctively covered my mouth with my left hand, and felt a stream of tears begin to run down my face. I pulled a clear plastic bag out of the box and carefully removed the contents, laying them across my kitchen table and stroking them with my tear-stained cheek again and again.

Two months ago, when I still had my heart set on becoming a mother again, I ordered a beautiful set of custom-made cushions for my rocking chair. They were a cream color with red accents--perfectly appropriate for a boy or a girl--and I made sure to order the extra-high-quality foam stuffing. Sure, it was a thirty-dollar upgrade, but I planned on rocking this baby a lot. And besides, Jared never needed to know just how much I spent.

The cushions were absolutely beautiful--much brighter and cushier than I had anticipated.

I carefully picked them up from the table, and cradled them in my arms as though they were the baby I've been aching for. I carried them to our basement playroom, and tied them onto my naked rocking chair. I stepped back to take a look, and couldn't fight the soft smile that came across my face. That chair had never looked so pretty.

So pretty, that I instantly gave in to my urge to sit down and glide for a while in the silence. As I rocked back and forth, I wasn't quite sure what to do with my very empty arms. It had been years since I'd been in that chair--and back then I only used it to lull James to sleep. My arms were always more than full with my giant, happy baby boy.

My arms finally settled onto the armrests, and my head leaned against the back. I stared up for a while, confirmed that I still detest our drop ceilings, and helped myself to a vocal prayer.

"Heavenly Father," I mumbled. "I'm just really, really sad. Please make sure he has someone to take care of him and some good friends to play with. Friends are really important."

"Help me to be a good wife and Mom," I continued, "because Jared and James really need me. They really need me now."

And on and on it went.

When I offered my "Amen" and stood up from my chair some time later--I'm honestly not sure if it was minutes or hours--I changed into my cold weather running clothes, tied my shoes extra-tight, and turned my mp3 player to my favorite comedy podcast.

It's strange, but even though the tears were still coming, I was thoroughly cracking up by the time I got to the end of my street. Some guy was telling some story about accidentally buying a pizza shop from a mobster, and I'm not sure why, but his heavy New York accent kept me belly laughing for the next six miles.

When I came home an hour later I picked up my running log, did my best to grasp my cheap Bic pen with my seriously frozen fingers, and scribbled the following entry:

Hill work-out. Did the long, steep Main Street hill 4x and yelled curse words every time I got to the top. Had my headphones in, so I was probably yelling louder than I should have. A cop stopped to ask me if everything was okay when I was cooling down, and I told him I was fine--but that hill's one hell of a @#$%ing ^&*@!. He liked that. Good work out. Really good workout.

All in all, it wasn't too bad of a day--a whole lot better than I was expecting.

And may God bless anyone who's dealing with the loss of someone special.

(Photo by Ken Schafer on Flickr)

My Maple Tree

October 21, 2008

I don't want you to be jealous or anything, but this is a picture of my house:


And that's my car, and that's my maple tree. It's pretty, isn't it? Very "Autumn in New England" if I do say so myself.

As you might expect, we get a lot of compliments on our tree.

At first I'd answer kindly with a response like: Oh thank you. It brings a great deal of joy to our family.

Or: I agree. The colors are truly splendid!

And when I was really feeling the spirit of the season: Oh yes! A magnificent mark of God's creation!

But that was last week. This week I'm more likely to say: Oh yeah? Do you know how many leaves this bastard-of-a-tree drops in my yard?

Or: Go to the hardware store and buy me a damn-freaking leaf blower, ya dumb butt.

Now don't get me wrong here--I love my yard, and I love my tree, and I love the fall. But I'd love them even more if I could hire a full-time lawn boy (a foreign lawn boy who prefers to work in nothing but his boxer shorts and some cowboy boots).

Maybe next year.

A Manly Craft--With a Twist of Lime

October 20, 2008

We live around the corner from a bachelor. He's a helluva nice guy, he's spends at least forty hours a week on yard work, and--bless his heart--the man drinks way too much.

Now you've got to understand, I didn't say "bless his heart" to be rude or condescending. After a swig (or twenty) of Whisky, Jim will freely admit that he drinks far more than he should--and it all started when his two sons were serving in Iraq at the very same time.

Then he'll tell you about all of his "lady friends."

But seriously guys, could you imagine having all of your children fighting in a war simultaneously? I don't know about you, but I'd probably have a cupcake in one hand, a box of Kleenex in the other, and a bottle of red wine in my purse.

In other words, I really wouldn't cope well. God bless any parent who has to deal with that kind of worry.

Fortunately, Jim's sons are safe at home. Unfortunately, Jim hasn't been able to abandon his old coping mechanism--as evidenced by the time he drove his riding lawn mower into a drainage ditch, the time I found him lying on top of his wood pile because "It's a lot more comfy than it looks, you guys," and the time he fell down my basement stairs, smacked his head against the closet door casing, dusted himself off and muttered, "Damn shoelaces..."

Yeah, he was wearing slip-ons. Buy you know, whatev.

On Saturday afternoon, as I walked by his house, Jim cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "I'm decorating for Halloween, Amy. It's that time of year!"

"Great! I can't wait to see how it comes out, Jim! I love Halloween decorations!"

And when I circled the block to make my way home, Jim's decorating efforts were complete:

I know what you're thinking: What in the living hell is that?

Welp, I'm not totally sure. But from what I can gather, it's a plywood cutout of a man wearing cargo pants, a sweatshirt, a hat pulled over his face, and a reflective vest--you know, in case he gets the urge to jog after dinner.

Or perhaps the vest isn't for safety at all--it might just add a splash of Halloweeny color to my flat, wooden neighborly friend.

Good work, Jim. Can't wait to see what you muster up for Christmas!

(And seriously, I love that man. He's a great guy. A great guy who hopefully doesn't read this blog!)

Undo. Undo.

October 15, 2008

Jared just sent me a proof for an ad that we'll be running in a local newspaper. I looked it over, confirmed its fabulousness and replied with an email that said:

Looks good. I love your sexy ass.

Perfectly normal response--except for that fact that I sent it to Jared and the ad guy.

Dang. It.