Hey, Babe.
Feeling blue, another reminder of one of the many reasons I will always miss you.
Davey Jones passed away today at age 66. Seems so young. I remember walking through the cafeteria one day about ten years ago and the Monkees song "I'm a Believer" was playing so I started singing and rocking out and all of the first and second graders looked at me in awe. One of them said "Mrs. Tidwell, do you like Smashmouth?" "What?" (It was on the Shrek movie soundtrack performed by Smashmouth. I sadly had to admit that I knew it from a group from the 60's...)
Davy Jones Tribute
On July 27, 2009, you and I were running errands and an announcement on the radio said they were giving away tickets to Raley Field that night to see the Hullabaloo concert. I cried that I had forgotten that I wanted to get tickets and was upset. You said we should go win them. So you waited with me to try to win tickets at the furniture store, in what was your least favorite thing in the Sacramento, the dreaded heat. But there you were, sitting on a concrete curb. After an hour, others had won and I was ready to pack it in and leave, but you insisted we stay because you knew I really wanted to go.
And voila, I won two tickets and, double voila, you won two as well. We couldn't get in touch with anyone as we had to head straight to the concert. We were standing in line at Raley Field, trying to figure out who to give the second set of tickets to before the show started. You were watching people at the ticket window and saw two women, about my age, walking up, heads together in a serious conversation that went something like this, "No, I insist. I wanted to do this for you!" "But we can't really afford this." "Of course we can, just no drinks or treats but the music will be enough. It's Mickey Dolenz from the Monkees and Mark Lindsey from Paul Revere and the Raiders and, (slight squeal), Peter Noone of Herman's Hermits. All our favorites!" "So, let's get those tickets now!" We pulled them aside and explained that we had won an extra set and would like them to have them. They actually teared up and one of the ladies said it was the other's birthday...Of course it was.
Which brought me all the way back around to another concert you did not want to attend but you did so because you knew how much I wanted to go. In fact, I waited in line at Tower Records just to get a wristband to get in the line where maybe I would be drawn to get tickets for one of the two, changed to three shows. And, as luck would have it, I did. So I bought four tickets and we invited Dad and Pam. At the very last minute, they couldn't fly in, so there we were in the parking lot at Arco Arena, walking along discussing what to do with the two extra tickets. A young man was walking by us and his head almost snapped off of his shoulders as he swung around and said "What, you have a ticket?" I said I had two. "I'll give you $200.00 apiece for them! I promised my girlfriend I would get tickets but.. but.. but..." He looked about ready to cry or throw up. We said we couldn't take his money and he interrupted with "But that's all I have. I can send you more or give you a check or..." Again, we said we couldn't take his money but he could have them. He just stopped, stared at you, then at me, shook his head and said "Whaa..what, really...?"
So we gave him the tickets, amid hugs and thank yous and "Man, she is gonna be so thrilled."
When they showed up in the seats next to us, you whispered "Oh, they are so adorable. I'm glad they got the seats!" He insisted on buying you a t-shirt and you didn't have the heart to tell him you really didn't care for the big star about to hit the stage.
But he bought us drinks and cotton candy and you had as much fun watching them as I did watching my Garth Brooks that night.
Thank you for being so accommodating. I know it was the most painful time in our lives, following the attack and the arrest of the animals who hurt you for life, and G'ma passing, but you still did it for me. So, yes, sweet girl, I know you loved me. ("Country music? For crying out loud, Mama!!")
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Seriously?
Last night was Open House. I love having the children share what they've learned with their families! Everyone seems happy and proud. When it was over, Chana and I were walking out, tired, yet pleased with the turnout and the supportive comments and compliments received. "See you in the morning at coffee!" we said simultaneously.
And then, in the dark and the rain, with a smile on my face, I walked out toward my car, promptly kicked the door stop (that we had asked to be moved months ago!), and down I went! I cried just like the Kindergartners do when they "fall down, go boom!" because it flipping hurts, not to mention humiliates and humbles oneself! My ankle was injured, I scraped both knees, landed on my left arm, hit my chin on my hand, and bounced.
"Really, I thought? What message is this?" I know you speak to me in a whisper sometimes and if I don't hear, you get louder. Most of the time the messages seem bent on making me aware of little things I could do better or safer or not at all, but this? I couldn't see the reasoning behind it. Four days before our first vacation in forever? Did you not want me to go to Baja?
The next morning, I ended up going to the school's required medical office that turned out to be the same one I had taken you to for your headaches. They were always so kind and empathetic.
When I signed in, the receptionist said "We haven't seen you in awhile. Kenna's headaches must be getting better!"
"Yes." I nodded, because I couldn't breath, let alone explain. When the doctor saw me, she inquired about you, so I told her. She was very quiet and, of course, sad. Sad for me, sad for us, but mostly sad for the loss of someone so special, which is the true story. Somehow, no matter where you went, whatever the circumstances, how little or how much time you spent with people, they connected with you. It was a gift that keeps on giving because when I went to sign out, the nurses and receptionists, who now knew, told me how sorry they were and how sad they felt, and as we all stood there trying not to cry, the happy "Muzak" tune stopped playing and what should begin but "Tears in Heaven". We all, without knowing the other was doing it, looked up and I exclaimed out loud, "Really, Kenna, this song, on this day, at this moment? Really?" When I looked around, there was not a dry eye in the waiting room, so I went outside and lost it. Lost it to the point of the ugly cry. Completely lost it. When I managed to get in the car to go back to school, the first thing the DJ said was that it was Eric Clapton's birthday, which I had completely overlooked apparently, but was vividly reminded, and then he played the best song ever written, my favorite, Layla. Really, Kenna?
Happy Birthday, Eric. Seriously.
Kenton and I saw this live, March 2007!
And then, in the dark and the rain, with a smile on my face, I walked out toward my car, promptly kicked the door stop (that we had asked to be moved months ago!), and down I went! I cried just like the Kindergartners do when they "fall down, go boom!" because it flipping hurts, not to mention humiliates and humbles oneself! My ankle was injured, I scraped both knees, landed on my left arm, hit my chin on my hand, and bounced.
"Really, I thought? What message is this?" I know you speak to me in a whisper sometimes and if I don't hear, you get louder. Most of the time the messages seem bent on making me aware of little things I could do better or safer or not at all, but this? I couldn't see the reasoning behind it. Four days before our first vacation in forever? Did you not want me to go to Baja?
The next morning, I ended up going to the school's required medical office that turned out to be the same one I had taken you to for your headaches. They were always so kind and empathetic.
When I signed in, the receptionist said "We haven't seen you in awhile. Kenna's headaches must be getting better!"
"Yes." I nodded, because I couldn't breath, let alone explain. When the doctor saw me, she inquired about you, so I told her. She was very quiet and, of course, sad. Sad for me, sad for us, but mostly sad for the loss of someone so special, which is the true story. Somehow, no matter where you went, whatever the circumstances, how little or how much time you spent with people, they connected with you. It was a gift that keeps on giving because when I went to sign out, the nurses and receptionists, who now knew, told me how sorry they were and how sad they felt, and as we all stood there trying not to cry, the happy "Muzak" tune stopped playing and what should begin but "Tears in Heaven". We all, without knowing the other was doing it, looked up and I exclaimed out loud, "Really, Kenna, this song, on this day, at this moment? Really?" When I looked around, there was not a dry eye in the waiting room, so I went outside and lost it. Lost it to the point of the ugly cry. Completely lost it. When I managed to get in the car to go back to school, the first thing the DJ said was that it was Eric Clapton's birthday, which I had completely overlooked apparently, but was vividly reminded, and then he played the best song ever written, my favorite, Layla. Really, Kenna?
Happy Birthday, Eric. Seriously.
Kenton and I saw this live, March 2007!
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Belly Up to the Bar, Boys!
Valentine's Day 2012
On this celebrated day, when most are either enjoying a romantic evening with a loved one or perhaps wishing they were, I went to a support group to hear Steve Fugate speak. He has walked over 30,000 miles to spread the message on the sign he carries for all to see, "Love Life." His story is one worth sharing. "I am convinced that there is no pain equal to that of losing a child.
The grief was indescribable. I felt as though someone had taken an axe
and chopped out my heart while I was yet breathing! My son, this living,
breathing, precious life, my beautiful contribution to the universe,
was suddenly gone. I can in no way fully describe the pain, I don't know
how to scream on paper..."
Before the evening was over, I experienced an epiphany so profound that I came home, sat in the dark and looked at the stars twinkling outside the window for hours.
He said his children adored their father, absolutely loved him and they were always trying to make him happy every day of their lives. And he simply stated, "So why would it be any different now?"
I know we all keep saying that we know you wouldn't want us to be sad, that you would want us to celebrate more often, to feel joy, to be happy, but it often sounds like a mere justification to do so without the accompanying quilt. It feels so hollow. Celebrate? Without you? How disloyal, how absurd. What is there to celebrate without you?
Then his words hit me so hard I realized I was holding my breath. Maybe I had been for all this time.
You were always doing things to make people happy in so many ways. Just that last year, you gave me so many reasons to be happy that I am constantly reminded and amazed. There are so many memories from the day you were born to the tangible gifts you worked your magic on to make appear. Giving always meant more to you than receiving. The rainbow bouquet for Chana, concert tickets for your friends in high school, my soap opera earrings, my favorite perfume only you could find when it was no longer for sale, Kameron's birthday dinner at Morton's that you saved for and you beamed throughout the entire evening, your funny notes, and your constant surprises are treasures we will always cherish.
I saw the times people were disturbed by their perception that you made it all about you at times, but I know the real reason for that. They do now as well. I know how profoundly sad and guilty you felt about that and how you tried to avoid it. Trying to disguise pain can often be misunderstood by others. I know it doesn't really matter anymore and that some feelings we just have to let go, we need to forgive you, we need to forgive ourselves. Easier said than done when blanketed by guilt.
Your last act was, in part, to spare us having to share the painful roller coaster journey you were on, although I know you could not have imagined the unbearable loss your absence would leave behind. It permeates our lives, minute by minute, dream by dream, and it defines who we now are while we struggle to find our place in this uncharted world.
But tonight this man's words resonated so clearly.
"They wanted us to be happy before, so why would that be any different now?"
It seems so simple.
Perhaps that is the point. Not only will I take comfort in remembering your generosity, I will celebrate this life I have because I don't want to lose that Pollyanna part of me. That Unsinkable Molly Brown is still shivering in that lifeboat, trying to sing to others. I know you don't want me to lose that either, even though you found it quite perplexing and annoying and unrealistic at times. I don't want to feel like I can never truly laugh again or enjoy the simple gifts of life. I want to be able to be me again with our boys. I know you want that as well. And they deserve nothing less. I would rather the laughter be with you by our sides, but I will have to take comfort in the knowledge you are with me in whatever form that takes.
I'll keep working on my "bucket list". I have some catching up to do as it has been on hold since you left. I'm sorry I didn't get this message from you sooner. I should have been listening more carefully with my heart and not letting the pain block your message.
I'm listening now.
 |
| Steve's Story |
Before the evening was over, I experienced an epiphany so profound that I came home, sat in the dark and looked at the stars twinkling outside the window for hours.
He said his children adored their father, absolutely loved him and they were always trying to make him happy every day of their lives. And he simply stated, "So why would it be any different now?"
I know we all keep saying that we know you wouldn't want us to be sad, that you would want us to celebrate more often, to feel joy, to be happy, but it often sounds like a mere justification to do so without the accompanying quilt. It feels so hollow. Celebrate? Without you? How disloyal, how absurd. What is there to celebrate without you?
Then his words hit me so hard I realized I was holding my breath. Maybe I had been for all this time.
You were always doing things to make people happy in so many ways. Just that last year, you gave me so many reasons to be happy that I am constantly reminded and amazed. There are so many memories from the day you were born to the tangible gifts you worked your magic on to make appear. Giving always meant more to you than receiving. The rainbow bouquet for Chana, concert tickets for your friends in high school, my soap opera earrings, my favorite perfume only you could find when it was no longer for sale, Kameron's birthday dinner at Morton's that you saved for and you beamed throughout the entire evening, your funny notes, and your constant surprises are treasures we will always cherish.
I saw the times people were disturbed by their perception that you made it all about you at times, but I know the real reason for that. They do now as well. I know how profoundly sad and guilty you felt about that and how you tried to avoid it. Trying to disguise pain can often be misunderstood by others. I know it doesn't really matter anymore and that some feelings we just have to let go, we need to forgive you, we need to forgive ourselves. Easier said than done when blanketed by guilt.
Your last act was, in part, to spare us having to share the painful roller coaster journey you were on, although I know you could not have imagined the unbearable loss your absence would leave behind. It permeates our lives, minute by minute, dream by dream, and it defines who we now are while we struggle to find our place in this uncharted world.
But tonight this man's words resonated so clearly.
"They wanted us to be happy before, so why would that be any different now?"
It seems so simple.
Perhaps that is the point. Not only will I take comfort in remembering your generosity, I will celebrate this life I have because I don't want to lose that Pollyanna part of me. That Unsinkable Molly Brown is still shivering in that lifeboat, trying to sing to others. I know you don't want me to lose that either, even though you found it quite perplexing and annoying and unrealistic at times. I don't want to feel like I can never truly laugh again or enjoy the simple gifts of life. I want to be able to be me again with our boys. I know you want that as well. And they deserve nothing less. I would rather the laughter be with you by our sides, but I will have to take comfort in the knowledge you are with me in whatever form that takes.
I'll keep working on my "bucket list". I have some catching up to do as it has been on hold since you left. I'm sorry I didn't get this message from you sooner. I should have been listening more carefully with my heart and not letting the pain block your message.
I'm listening now.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Star Light, Star Bright
On my birthday, I was already halfway through an eighteen hour labor with you. Contractions were two minutes apart and the doctor kept saying he could give me something, but this young hippie mama declined. I did thirty-six hours with nothing but some pretty fancy curse words with your brother and felt I owed you the same! Besides, Dr. Eaton promised me after Kameron's long labor that the next one would be half that and he was correct, right down to the hour. Eighteen hours? Piece of cake! When we arrived at the new hospital in Mammoth, which was only about a football field length away form our home, and had only been up and running for a few weeks, we found "no room at the inn'. (I wonder if that had something to do with your collection of nativities later in life?) It was packed full of drunken locals who had gotten into a bar fight and skiers who had been injured so no rooms nor beds were available. We were taken into the "cast" room amid the remains of recent cast applications splattered about the floor and walls and on the gurney itself! Your dad helped me stay on that narrow, hard, slippery gurney for the next eighteen hours with patience, ice chips, back rubs, and bribes. He was a great coach! Ironically, the only way I could lay was on my left side and on the wall was a poster of Wiley E. Coyote, falling off a cliff, with that resigned look on his face facing the camera and saying, "Ever have one of those days?" He became my instant favorite cartoon character! Although I would have liked to share a birthday with you, I never fancied the idea of children having to share their special day with anyone or any holiday. Apparently, you felt the same, so your first act in this world was to hold out for your own day. Not long after midnight of my hours-old 28th birthday, you joined us. You came out sucking your thumb and when you let out a little sweet cry, I knew you were a girl before your dad even told me. (We never wanted to know if we were having a boy or a girl with any of you but for some reason, your dad knew every time. I, of course, wanted you to be a girl so you could have a big brother to watch your back like mine did, and still does.)
The nurse wasn't able to clean us up because they had run out of hot water and clean linens. I, to use Grandma Rake's term, "spit cleaned" you as best as possible. The only picture I have of us in the hospital is with me, with my disastrous hair color (another story to be told!), holding you with your blood-covered little head.
When everything quieted down, your dad left to go tell Kameron and call our family. I lay on that cold gurney with you in my arms, just marveling at how you slept with your hands tucked near your face so sweetly and femininely, just the opposite of Kameron who always lay on his back, his hands thrown up and open over his head, all boy! I was in awe at what a completely secure and captivating little creature you were.
A large, bright star broke through the dark night and twinkled over us and I felt a peace only a mother can know. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight." kept running through my head. In the soft light of that star, amidst the plaster cast off, and under the watchful eye of Wiley, I wrote a poem for you on some rose printed stationary I had thrown into my bag. It seemed the perfect paper on which to pen my thoughts because you had these sweet little rosebud lips.
"My Rosebud Baby". I remember it word for word. I haven't been able to bring myself to read it or recite it since you left us because it underscores how naive I was, how I failed to keep the promise I made to you on that beautiful, silent, snowy night so full of the promise of possibilities. I remember kissing you and telling you that you were the best birthday present I would ever receive. That much remains true.
When your father and your big brother arrived after the sun came up, Ken was carrying a small vase in one hand and holding Kameron's gloved hand in his other. Kameron was all bundled up in his blue and yellow jacket and his eyes were as big as his smile. He kissed your "owie" when he saw the tiny strawberry birthmark between your eyebrows. Your father didn't know about our talk or my poem. But in that vase was one beautiful pink rose and one tiny pink rosebud. I was speechless but not surprised.
The nurse wasn't able to clean us up because they had run out of hot water and clean linens. I, to use Grandma Rake's term, "spit cleaned" you as best as possible. The only picture I have of us in the hospital is with me, with my disastrous hair color (another story to be told!), holding you with your blood-covered little head.
When everything quieted down, your dad left to go tell Kameron and call our family. I lay on that cold gurney with you in my arms, just marveling at how you slept with your hands tucked near your face so sweetly and femininely, just the opposite of Kameron who always lay on his back, his hands thrown up and open over his head, all boy! I was in awe at what a completely secure and captivating little creature you were.
A large, bright star broke through the dark night and twinkled over us and I felt a peace only a mother can know. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight." kept running through my head. In the soft light of that star, amidst the plaster cast off, and under the watchful eye of Wiley, I wrote a poem for you on some rose printed stationary I had thrown into my bag. It seemed the perfect paper on which to pen my thoughts because you had these sweet little rosebud lips.
"My Rosebud Baby". I remember it word for word. I haven't been able to bring myself to read it or recite it since you left us because it underscores how naive I was, how I failed to keep the promise I made to you on that beautiful, silent, snowy night so full of the promise of possibilities. I remember kissing you and telling you that you were the best birthday present I would ever receive. That much remains true.
When your father and your big brother arrived after the sun came up, Ken was carrying a small vase in one hand and holding Kameron's gloved hand in his other. Kameron was all bundled up in his blue and yellow jacket and his eyes were as big as his smile. He kissed your "owie" when he saw the tiny strawberry birthmark between your eyebrows. Your father didn't know about our talk or my poem. But in that vase was one beautiful pink rose and one tiny pink rosebud. I was speechless but not surprised.
The next morning, Cheryl came to see us and was told she couldn't because they were trying to get us into a room and clean us up. Well, you know Cheryl and she doesn't like being told what she can or can not do. So, she trudged through the snow along the side of the building, banged on the window and told me to go open the back doors to the emergency entrance.
She had brought you a beautiful little white outfit covered in rosebuds with lace around the edges of the feet. Again, speechless but not surprised.
So, that's how you came to our little family, alert, wide eyed, ready to fight for your own place in this world, and I was the happiest mother on the planet. Happy birthday, me! Happy birthday, you! You were the tiny rosebud who would blossom into the most beautiful girl in the world with the rosebud lips. You were my shining star. You are still.
Still Waiting
I found this on your FB page today.
5:45 AM..You haven't come to me in my dreams yet and I am so sad about that. But this morning, Rascal jumped off my lap, up onto the chair where my laptop was sitting, then onto the table. Then itunes started playing and it started with the downloaded songs. What are the odds? It began with Baby Mine, then Mad World, then Somewhere Out There, then Johnny Cash. I haven't used itunes since I made your dvd. Rascal then ran to the back door and cried to go out, which she has never done. I went outside with her. I remembered the empty litter boxes needed to go to the trash so I took them to the dumpster. And then..a few raindrops fell. "What is this? It's supposed to be 90 today!" Then the heavens opened up and it poured. By the time I got back to the door, I was soaked through. So I went inside, got your bright pink umbrella and took a walk in this crazy rain in my jammies. You were with me every step, "out there, out where dreams come true." I'm writing this at 6:10, still soaking wet, but laughing. Thank you for that, beautiful girl.
June 25, 2010
5:45 AM..You haven't come to me in my dreams yet and I am so sad about that. But this morning, Rascal jumped off my lap, up onto the chair where my laptop was sitting, then onto the table. Then itunes started playing and it started with the downloaded songs. What are the odds? It began with Baby Mine, then Mad World, then Somewhere Out There, then Johnny Cash. I haven't used itunes since I made your dvd. Rascal then ran to the back door and cried to go out, which she has never done. I went outside with her. I remembered the empty litter boxes needed to go to the trash so I took them to the dumpster. And then..a few raindrops fell. "What is this? It's supposed to be 90 today!" Then the heavens opened up and it poured. By the time I got back to the door, I was soaked through. So I went inside, got your bright pink umbrella and took a walk in this crazy rain in my jammies. You were with me every step, "out there, out where dreams come true." I'm writing this at 6:10, still soaking wet, but laughing. Thank you for that, beautiful girl.
June 25, 2010
Thursday, February 9, 2012
BFF!
I was thinking of all the things you didn't get to do. Some things were just too hard for you, some things would have put you in the spotlight you no longer sought, something you never shunned before the attack. It changed so many things, but mostly it changed the joy in which you moved through life. It limited your participation in what should have been your rights of passage as a teenager. What I regret most of all is that many things were just thwarted at the tender, vulnerable age of seventeen for you. Even as you matured, that young woman never got to experience what by rights was yours to have in all it's glory and pain, falling in and out of love, becoming a race car designer, writing for Saturday Night Live, going to MIT, making mistakes of your own, traveling, and following your dreams.
I was listing the things I had experienced and ached for your having missed out on many of them, good or bad, and I was thinking that you never got to be in a friend's wedding and then, a Kennasent moment, you smacked me upside the head and the picture of you and Cheryl emerged in my mind. Of course you got to be in a wedding, your "Aunt Cheble's", my best friend, your Godmother. I was the Matron of Honor but you were the Maid of Honor. And you did it so well. Just a few years ago you said that you were glad you were only in her wedding because it was so special for all of us, going to San Francisco to pick out dresses, practicing the high heel walk, and getting our hair and makeup done. The morning of the wedding when we were getting your hair done, you said, "Just remember, I can't be prettier than the bride!" And when you saw Cheryl in her dress, you said, almost with relief, "Oh, good, she looks so beautiful!" (Like there was any doubt!)
Remember when the furnace blew up on me? You and I were home alone, your Dad and Kameron were in Sacramento. The pilot light had blown out so I called your Dad and he told me how to light it, but he told me the steps in the opposite order and when I lit the match, the flame whoosed up and out over my hand, up my arms and neck and into my face. I was going into shock from the severity of the burns but felt no pain. I called Cheryl and she didn't hesitate, she just shoveled out her car and showed up, messy hair, no contacts, just her big glasses and her jammies and boots. She quickly wrapped you up, wrapped me up and took us to the hospital at 3:00 in the morning. There I sat with signed hair, no eyebrows or lashes, huge blisters all over, all that should have been frightening to a two and a half year old. You quietly sat there next to my gurney for a few minutes, (there we were again, baby girl, in the Mammoth Hospital on a gurney together!) looking at us and then, from behind your hand so others would not hear, you whispered, "Aunt Cheble, you don't look so good right now!" She barely glanced at you while flipping through the pages of the magazine she was reading with that look she had reserved just for her sardonic little goddaughter, and without blinking an eye said, "Really, Kenna? Have you looked at your mother?" To which you replied quite logically, "Yes, but she had a heater blow up on her, Aunt Cheble!"
How I loved watching your interactions over the years. You were the daughter she never had and she was the Aunt who spoiled you rotten! Maybe that's why you called it the "perfect relationship".
So many people loved and adored you and always will! We will forever miss being "the birthday girls" with you. Happy Peaceful Birthday, Sweet Girl!
I was listing the things I had experienced and ached for your having missed out on many of them, good or bad, and I was thinking that you never got to be in a friend's wedding and then, a Kennasent moment, you smacked me upside the head and the picture of you and Cheryl emerged in my mind. Of course you got to be in a wedding, your "Aunt Cheble's", my best friend, your Godmother. I was the Matron of Honor but you were the Maid of Honor. And you did it so well. Just a few years ago you said that you were glad you were only in her wedding because it was so special for all of us, going to San Francisco to pick out dresses, practicing the high heel walk, and getting our hair and makeup done. The morning of the wedding when we were getting your hair done, you said, "Just remember, I can't be prettier than the bride!" And when you saw Cheryl in her dress, you said, almost with relief, "Oh, good, she looks so beautiful!" (Like there was any doubt!)
Remember when the furnace blew up on me? You and I were home alone, your Dad and Kameron were in Sacramento. The pilot light had blown out so I called your Dad and he told me how to light it, but he told me the steps in the opposite order and when I lit the match, the flame whoosed up and out over my hand, up my arms and neck and into my face. I was going into shock from the severity of the burns but felt no pain. I called Cheryl and she didn't hesitate, she just shoveled out her car and showed up, messy hair, no contacts, just her big glasses and her jammies and boots. She quickly wrapped you up, wrapped me up and took us to the hospital at 3:00 in the morning. There I sat with signed hair, no eyebrows or lashes, huge blisters all over, all that should have been frightening to a two and a half year old. You quietly sat there next to my gurney for a few minutes, (there we were again, baby girl, in the Mammoth Hospital on a gurney together!) looking at us and then, from behind your hand so others would not hear, you whispered, "Aunt Cheble, you don't look so good right now!" She barely glanced at you while flipping through the pages of the magazine she was reading with that look she had reserved just for her sardonic little goddaughter, and without blinking an eye said, "Really, Kenna? Have you looked at your mother?" To which you replied quite logically, "Yes, but she had a heater blow up on her, Aunt Cheble!"
How I loved watching your interactions over the years. You were the daughter she never had and she was the Aunt who spoiled you rotten! Maybe that's why you called it the "perfect relationship".
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Kenna, The Animal Whisperer
"Mama, Mama, look in my Hot Wheels van! Look! Look!"
I tried to peer in the little round side window but couldn't see much. It looked like something was moving but it wasn't clear as to what that might be.
"Oh, here..." you exclaimed impatiently in your little three year old voice as you dumped out the contents.
How you fit over 50 pill bugs in that toy van was beyond me! When I asked you how you got them inside the van, you looked at me like you couldn't believe I couldn't see, what to you, was an obvious fact.
"Well, they rolled into little balls to make room for each other."
I loved how you always took care of the little creatures of the earth.
We removed a large tarp on the driveway after a heavy rain, and found several hundred worms that had relocated under it. You calmly said, "Well...there are too many worms to save and besides, they know their way back to the grass, but those two snakes in the middle need my help." How you recognized 2 snakes among all those squirmy worms was beyond me.
When Kenton got a parakeet for Valentine's Day in Kindergarten, we hung the cage over the dining room table when we left so the cats couldn't get to it. When you all got home, the cage was laying on the floor, door open, bird gone. You and Kameron didn't want him to know what had happened, so instead of telling him how the cat had become a circus performer by jumping off the amoire, hanging on the cage and getting it to swing until it fell, you told him the bird actually got away and went up the chimney. That explained the feathers near the fireplace. When I came home and talked to him, he said very seriously, "Kameron and Kenna told me the bird flew away and he's happy. But Mom, I'm worried about the cat because she keeps going "Aha, aha" (coughing sound)....sigh.. (I hope he doesn't read this because we never did tell him the truth about that acrobatic cat!)
You taught Rosie to sing. How adorable you were when you howled and she lifted her red dog chin and sang along with you!
You had a gift, my dear.
Lil Bear misses you greatly and it took her a long time to quit going in, jumping on your bed and crying throughout the house looking for the only 'Mama" she ever had. She is now my best buddy and I, against your advice, have spoiled her rotten. And I apologize about the "lion cut" but she really needed it this summer. But you must have left a little of your gift behind with us because she jumps on my lap when I call her with that special sound you made. She sleeps cuddled under my chin at night and lays on my hip during the day. I love her now just as you did even with her stomach problems, hairballs, poor eyesight and all.
I tried to peer in the little round side window but couldn't see much. It looked like something was moving but it wasn't clear as to what that might be.
"Oh, here..." you exclaimed impatiently in your little three year old voice as you dumped out the contents.
How you fit over 50 pill bugs in that toy van was beyond me! When I asked you how you got them inside the van, you looked at me like you couldn't believe I couldn't see, what to you, was an obvious fact.
"Well, they rolled into little balls to make room for each other."
I loved how you always took care of the little creatures of the earth.
We removed a large tarp on the driveway after a heavy rain, and found several hundred worms that had relocated under it. You calmly said, "Well...there are too many worms to save and besides, they know their way back to the grass, but those two snakes in the middle need my help." How you recognized 2 snakes among all those squirmy worms was beyond me.
When Kenton got a parakeet for Valentine's Day in Kindergarten, we hung the cage over the dining room table when we left so the cats couldn't get to it. When you all got home, the cage was laying on the floor, door open, bird gone. You and Kameron didn't want him to know what had happened, so instead of telling him how the cat had become a circus performer by jumping off the amoire, hanging on the cage and getting it to swing until it fell, you told him the bird actually got away and went up the chimney. That explained the feathers near the fireplace. When I came home and talked to him, he said very seriously, "Kameron and Kenna told me the bird flew away and he's happy. But Mom, I'm worried about the cat because she keeps going "Aha, aha" (coughing sound)....sigh.. (I hope he doesn't read this because we never did tell him the truth about that acrobatic cat!)
You taught Rosie to sing. How adorable you were when you howled and she lifted her red dog chin and sang along with you!
You had a gift, my dear.
Lil Bear misses you greatly and it took her a long time to quit going in, jumping on your bed and crying throughout the house looking for the only 'Mama" she ever had. She is now my best buddy and I, against your advice, have spoiled her rotten. And I apologize about the "lion cut" but she really needed it this summer. But you must have left a little of your gift behind with us because she jumps on my lap when I call her with that special sound you made. She sleeps cuddled under my chin at night and lays on my hip during the day. I love her now just as you did even with her stomach problems, hairballs, poor eyesight and all.
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