Party Like You're 99

And then, in the middle of everything, I looked at the calendar and realized it was time for another post for the American Cancer Society sponsored More Birthdays campaign.

Yes, more death and cancer talk. THAT'S THE TICKET. LET THE GOOD TIMES BLOG. 

I didn't even get to actually attend Jason's grandmother's memorial service on Sunday -- after being led to believe by his parents that the whole thing was just a casual reception/family get-together and that we should absolutely bring Noah and Ezra, we arrived at the nursing home's auditorium to...a quiet, somber church service. With hymns and prayers and a sermon and everything. We were the only ones who brought children.

Oh, and this was already taking place during Ezra's nap time, too. So he was in reeeeeally great shape, and I'd promised them cookies and chocolate milk, but the food hadn't been delivered yet, and SERIOUSLY, IT WAS SO QUIET AND REVERENT AND CHURCH-Y. And then we showed up with a pack of wild Unitarian hyenas, or something. 

So. We'll...be in the back row, I guess.

But even in the back row, the boys' cries of DO YOU HAVE CANDY IN YOUR BAG, MOMMY? CANDY? CAN I HAVE CANDY? were obviously disruptive, and suddenly the candy (that I did indeed have in my bag) became the noisiest candy to ever be unwrapped, basically negating any "put this in your talkhole and BE QUIET" benefits as I comically struggled to q-u-i-e-t-l-y deal with extremely stubborn cellophane...

Yeah. We moved out to a hallway first, and then eventually settled in an empty meeting room down the hall, where I was finally confident that I could pacify my children with YouTube videos on my phone without disturbing anyone in the silent, echo-y hallway and auditorium. 

So I don't know how the service went. Jason said it was nice. The doors opened for the reception part and the boys both critically regarded a fruit-and-cheese place before spotting the cookies and brownies available at the other end of the buffet.

Ezra found some cookies topped with maraschino cherries. He carefully took each and every one, chewed off the cherry, and then returned the rest of the cookie to the platter.

Noah refused to give up custody of my phone and mostly ignored the extended family members we'd specifically dragged him three hours away from home to see, as I awkwardly tried to explain to random people that he didn't USUALLY get to play with video-game gadgets like that but desperate times and extenuating circumstances and did I just say something about feeling great this pregnancy? Actually, I'm exhausted, we've spent more nights away from home this month than in an entire year, we have to get BACK in the car in a couple more hours and mostly I just don't feel like dealing with iPhone-related fallout right now, so JUDGE AWAY. Imma gonna go eat a brownie.

"THE ZOMBIES ATE MY BRAINS!" Noah shrieked at one point, so loudly that every single person in attendance turned away from the coffee station to stare at him in surprise.

This delighted Noah very much, and he continued for his new audience. "THE ZOMBIES GOT TO MY HOUSE! I'M DEAD! AUUUGH! OH NO! CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP!" He collapsed to the floor in a fit of self-satisfied giggles. 

Then Ezra, of course, chose this exact moment to barf up about seven or eight half-digested maraschino cherries all over his dress clothes. 

Jason and I cleaned up the Pepto-tinted puke the best we could with a stack of cocktail napkins from the buffet table, since I'd already gone through our stash of wipes after cleaning up an earlier mess involving the blasted cellophane candy of humiliation.

There was a photo montage running over a projector with pictures of Grandma when she was younger, and framed collages and albums of her, her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. We all talked about the photos, and Grandma, but mostly...people wanted to talk about the boys, and my pregnancy and due date and do you know what you're having? Oh my goodness, another boy, how funny, but how cute they'll all be, oh my goodness again.  

When we spotted  Ezra lying under a row of chairs, sucking his thumb, we decided to leave.

"That was a great birthday party," Noah commented in the car. "I hope Great-Grandma liked it."

Jason and I froze. "Great-Grandma wasn't there, buddy," I stammered. "Remember? She died. We talked about that?"

"I know," Noah said cheerfully. "But it's okay. We can still have fun at her birthday party. She doesn't mind."

***

Today I asked Noah to pick out a song from the More Birthdays site to go with this story. He liked this one. And he hopes you have fun at your next birthday party. Or at pirate camp. I don't think that's actually a thing, but he seems awfully excited about it. 

Just In Case There Was Any Doubt

Ezra's middle name is Harrington. It was his now-late great-grandmother's last name, and we chose it in her honor. Noah's middle name comes from my side of the family -- Corbin, the Latin version of Corbett. Though we found out this weekend at the memorial service that the actual last name Corbin appears a few branches up on the Harrington family tree as well. Huh.

We also discovered that while Ezra got the name, Noah got the genes. 

(Professional photos [I am sure you can tell which ones those are] by Kaileen Galhouse, Galhouse Photography)

Mommy, Read Me A Story About Death & Destruction

We're headed back to Pennsylvania AGAIN this weekend, travel exhaustion and desperate homebody desires to sit on the couch be damned.

Grandma's memorial service in on Sunday. We're taking the boys, since it's really not a "funeral" -- no viewing or casket or urn, just a family-and-friends gathering at her nursing home. My mother-in-law thinks their presence will be a welcome distraction for everybody, especially Grandma's remaining friends, who do always adore visiting grandchildren, no matter who they "belong" to.

(Of course, my mother-in-law also thought it was totally appropriate to take the boys to visit Grandma last week, when we were in New York, and she was officially on her deathbed -- a decision that, after Jason saw Grandma on Saturday, he was little upset about. Yes, it's a natural part of life and all but HE was so rattled and shaken by how sick and already dead she looked, and would have preferred our two- and five-year-old children being spared that particular sight. Or at the very least, being consulted ahead of time would have been nice.)

(Free babysitting! No such thing. There's always a price tag. Like say, your babysitters jumping the gun on the whole death discussion with your preschooler, and coming at it from a completely different point of view and religious philosophy than your own. Fantastic.) 

The kids know PopPop is sick. They know he's been sick for a long time now, and goes to the hospital a lot, but haven't really asked any questions about, say, whether he'll get better. Or what will happen if he doesn't.

And no, I haven't yet offered any answers to unasked questions. Because I am a big fat chicken.

Noah knows all the words related to death, like "dead" and "killed" and "BLASTED TO DEATH WITH MY LASER GUN PEW PEW PEW," but the concept exists only in the movie-and-video-game sense. Not real. Animated. Disney-Pixar montage-y. With plenty of respawn points when your health gets too low. 

Obviously, with this weekend looming ahead, it's time for us to sack up and have a talk with Noah. I don't think Great-Grandma's death will be a particularly affecting one for him (her dementia has been pretty profound for most of his life), but I know he needs a heads up about the hows and whys of the service and the sight of grieving adults.

So last night, we went to the bookstore. 

When Dinosaurs Die was recommended in the comments section 'round these parts at least a dozen times, after various entries about my dad's illness, and I swear I attempted to order it through Amazon at least two dozen times. But then I broke down and canceled the transaction at the last second, because I just wasn't ready for it myself. 

This time I was able to convince my brain that I was buying it because of Great-Grandma and only Great-Grandma. I know. I probably should have walked over to the Grown-Up Book Section for a Grown-Up Book About Grown-Up Coping Skills, but...eh. I have a Kindle. I'll look for something to download on there. Tomorrow. Next week. 

Anyway, SHOCKER OF SHOCKS, you guys were right. This was by far the best option on the shelf. It covers everything, but is laid out in a way that allows a parent of a younger child to decide just how much to read per page. I don't plan to read every word to Noah at five, but I probably would to Noah at say, eight or nine. Definitely one with a nice shelf life, so to speak. IF YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE. BOTH WITH "SHELF" and "LIFE" HA HA HA BOOK PUNS AND DEATH JOKES ARE UNCOMFORTABLE okay I'm done now.

(The afterlife discussion, if you're in the market for a book like this yourself [I'm sorry] and consider that a big wild card in the decision-making, is presented as: "No one knows for sure, but there are a lot of different ideas, and it's normal to have lots of questions." And then it encourages those questions to be directed at you, the parent, or a religious leader. Exactly the tone I personally was looking for.)

I picked up Lifetimes, too, just because I liked it. It's not as detailed as the dinosaur book, but is really limited to just explaining the fact that everything has a beginning and an end, and the middle part is living. It's very nature-focused (trees live hundreds of years, butterflies live only a few weeks) before it extends the concept to humans and our lifetimes, but certainly not hippy-new-age or anything. There's absolutely no discussion of the afterlife or even what happens to your body once you die, but it's a nice, matter-of-fact way to explain that death is simply part of how things are. 

Plus, a lot of the books about death were just painfully LONG. Thirty-plus pages. A hundred-plus words per page. This one is more your traditional picture-storybook length. Judge my kids' attention spans and my bedtime-story patience level all you want, but GAAAAAAHHHHH GET ON WITH IT, SUESS, IT'S 8 PM AND MAH SHOWS ARE ABOUT TO START, LET'S GET THESE MONKEYS TO BED ALREADY.

Ahem.

It was around this point that I picked up another book -- I don't remember the title, but it seemed like a kind of abstract take on the afterlife, describing heaven without being overtly religious, or even explicitly calling it heaven. I thought it might be a good option to have on hand if Noah brought up some of the stuff my in-laws talked to him about last week, but by the time I got to the fifth page I suddenly realized I was reading a book designed to help sick children come to terms with their OWN DEATH.

*strangled gurgled crying sound*

So! I decided it was officially Time To Back The Hell Away From The "Growing Up/Tough Issues" Shelf, Oh My God. 

Noah and Ezra were playing with trains, but I convinced them to join me on a bench and let me read them a story. 

I did not read either of the books I'd just picked out. I read this one instead:

We read it again last night before bed, and we laughed and laughed and laughed, because oh, that Pigeon. Will he EVER learn?

Tonight, we'll read one of the other books. Or maybe both. 

And then probably the Pigeon one again. 

Things That Go Bunk In The Night

IS SUBJECT CHANGING TIME NOW OKAY.

Yeeeeesh, what a downer week. Let's talk about...bunk beds!

Or, as Noah calls them, bump beds!

Or or, as Ezra calls them, boo beds! 

(I think he's actually trying to say "big boy bed," since he also refers to underwear as "boo pants.")

So. To recap: I started toying with the idea of moving the boys into a single room last summer, since they seemed to dislike being herding off into separate rooms at bedtime. I even asked you guys about it! And then proceeded to do nothing at all about it whatsoever. Yeah. That's so Raven Amalah.

Of course, just a month later the room-sharing idea was catapulted into Necessity when I got myself all good and knocked up. Ezra had to get out of the crib, and into Noah's room. (The "nursery" room is a postage stamp. If I'm changing Ezra's diaper and Ceiba walks in, it immediately feels all cramped.)

After looking around at all your creative bed-and-bunk suggestions and options, we eventually decided to just go with the traditional bunk-bed route, despite the fact that they fill me with no small amount of terror.

(And also: JEALOUSY. I wanted bunk beds as a kid SO BAD, you guys. Bunks or a giant four-poster princess-pink canopy bed. My mom was like, yeah no, here's a hand-me-down twin frame. I'll let you pick out your own comforter from TJMaxx. Take it or sleep on the floor.)

We "decided" on bunk beds because, well, Noah saw bunk beds at the store and wanted them. Wanted them BAD, SO BAD, as bad as I ever wanted them, maybe even more so, once he learned that after the bunk beds are at your house, you're allowed to take the "no climbing" sign off the ladder. 

Young mind = BLOWN.

Of course, we happened to be at Pottery Barn Kids at the time, where a nice set of bunk beds cost a nice amount of money, too much money for someone like me who still has nothing but eight-year-old IKEA furniture in her bedroom, combined with a couple stacks of giant plastic storage bins full of off-season clothes that I just push up against the walls and pretend that nobody will notice. Right? You never would have spotted them unless I said something just now. I mean, there's only like seven of them, whatever.

So we kicked off a very long search for inexpensive bunk beds. I voted for IKEA, but I guess some latent primal hunting instincts kicked on inside Jason's brain and he became fixated on trying to find something "nicer" on Craigslist. He would find the elusive solid-wood bunks from a reputable furniture manufacturer! He would track down the perfect set-up and finish! He would outwit that $1,600 retail price! RAWR. GRARR. AND ETC.

So that's how, after about three months of getting beaten to every single available set of second-hand bunk beds in the DC Metro area, we finally brought home some Pottery Barn twin-over-full bunk beds for a mere $200. 

(The only downside was that the previous owner's dog chewed on the bottom rung of the ladder "a little.")

(This is "a little" in Craiglistese, by the way.)

But! Who cares! Not Noah or Ezra, THAT'S for damn sure. 

I guess, taking the travel interruption last week into account, the boys have spent about five full nights with the new arrangement, and it's been stupidly easy. We moved Ezra from crib to bed justlikethat, band-aid style, like "this is your new bed, get in it," and he's been napping and sleeping there ever since. Last night was the first time he needed to be nudged away from the bookshelf and back into bed more than once or twice, while Noah simply scampers up the ladder and is immediately DEAD TO THE WORLD until morning. They don't seem to wake each other up at all, and our nightly battles with Noah over leaving the light on are all but non-existent, now that he has company. 

They've also been -- and this is where I know I sound like I'm totally making shit up -- playing together SO MUCH BETTER over the past few days. Not just playing around each other, but with each other. Noah's treating Ezra more like a playmate than like a nearby lump of play-dough who occasionally bugs him and messes his train tracks up. They're becoming friends. Something that I figured (or at least hoped) would happen eventually, but it really does seem like the roomie nighttime togetherness gave it a really nice little boost. 

There are a couple pain-in-the-ass things, of course -- after putting sheets on the top bunk I vowed to NEVER EVER DO THAT AGAIN, OUTSOURCE, OUTSOURCE, RAISES FOR THE BABYSITTER AND CLEANING LADY, and it's a little more complicated now to send Noah to his room for I Know You Won't Nap But Oh My God Go Lie Down Or Something You're Killing Me Here Quiet Time when Ezra actually IS napping. And sometimes I miss having Ezra CONTAINED for a little bit in the morning, since he now can come barreling down the hall and start yelling at my sleeping eyelids as soon as Noah is up and opens the door for him. 

And no, no one has fallen out of bed yet. Or horseplayed the other right off the top bunk. YET. I KNOW. I KNOW. JUST HOLD THAT SHIT OFF UNTIL JUNE, WHEN I CAN DRINK AGAIN. 

But so far, the pros outweigh the cons and it's all getting two thumbs up, fine holiday fun.

(I wish I had some better pictures to show you but the lighting in that room seems to be permaset on crappy. Also, our camera has started taking pictures like it's 90 years old in camera years. Which I suppose it kind of is.)

And yes. I totally splurged on the Star Wars bedding. Well, just the quilts and shams, anyway. The sheets and blankets are Plain Shit From Target. And the quilts were on sale! Still cost more than the damn bunk beds themselves, I think, but we can't ALL be mighty Craigslist bargain hunters, Jason. Some of us are still just hysterical nesting pregnant women who are stuck using the same beat-up crib and the same boring unisex crib bedding in the nursery for the THIRD TIME NOW and I'm NOT COMPLAINING ABOUT THAT but if you don't shut up and let me buy Millennium Falcon quilts and R2D2 pillowcases RIGHT NOW I will probably cry. And THEN I will start acting irrational about stuff, 'kay?

Both Sides of It

Jason's grandma died yesterday. It was...not unexpected. It was also peaceful, and one of those instances where crappy platitudes about it "being her time" and "for the best, really" are actually, entirely true. She was very old and very sick -- dementia had long since robbed her of most of the memories of her life and the chance to forge a relationship with Noah and Ezra, her great-grandchildren, whom she was simply unable to recognize in any meaningful, connected way.

But. Still. 

I met her over 14 years ago. At that point, the dementia was simply the occasional moment of confusion or befuddlement, but on some visits it was clear that she was already mixing up our relationship, treating me like her grandchild and Jason like the interloping boyfriend. We'd sit together and hold hands and she'd tell me stories. She gave us both furious hugs and kisses when it was time for us to leave, making us promise we'd visit again soon, which of course we assured her we would. Of course!

I never had a grandmother like that. But then suddenly, I did. 

Jason got to visit with her one last time on Saturday, though she was already mostly gone, asleep in a peaceful morphine haze to block her pain while nature took its final course. I stayed behind with the boys, wanting to shield them from...well, I don't know. Life. Death. A final memory of her being "like that," as I try to remember beyond the last time I saw her, which was an awful thing to see, because she was in so much pain and our very presence seemed to unnerve and frighten her. I sensed it was probably our last visit, or very close to it, but I still gingerly kissed her cheek and said I'd see her again soon.

Yes, it was her time. And for the best, really. 

But. Oh, I will miss her. I will miss my Grandma. 

***

I saw my dad on Friday. We had a wonderfully long, easy talk together. He still laughs at my jokes and makes me laugh in return. I told him the baby's name and we decided that his middle name sounds pretty much perfect with it, so there you go. Noah and Ezra climbed in bed with him and posed for a series of truly terrible photos, since Noah kept kicking his legs up in front of his face while Ezra preferred to sit with his butt facing the camera. 

Before we left, Ezra begged him to do his PopPop trick -- this funny popping sound he can make with his cheek and pinkie finger, a trick that delighted me as a child and something that I've yet to see exactly replicated by anyone else I've met. Ezra laughed and demanded more, again, c'mon! and tried to mimic the finger-pop but couldn't quite manage it. 

It was just like any other visit with Nana and PopPop, except that PopPop doesn't get out of bed anymore. Eh, they don't care. That's where all the kitty cats hide, after all, and the big mirrored closet doors in the master bedroom make an awesome stage for preschooler dramatic performances, you know.

Jason thought he seemed really tired and pale. I thought he seemed just fine. I mean, considering.

***

Today, he's in the hospital again. Fever, ridiculously low platelet counts, lungs full of fluid. When he coughs, his throat bleeds. The blood and plasma transfusions no longer seem to be helping, but they're trying again. He spent the entire night in the emergency room, because the hospital was completely full. I'm waiting for a morning update to hear if he's been admitted or not, or whether he'll go home again...or not. 

This is not the chemo, the doctor said, because they usually blame the chemo, or a reaction to some other drug or procedure. This is the leukemia.

***

He's surprised us so many times before, of course, that I'm starting to expect good news now. Or...good-ish news. Not-terrible news. Just watch, he'll go home today, I bet, and will stubbornly insist on going back for more chemo in a week or two, because that's the plan, and the way it is. I'm starting to expect that the three-to-six months time frame we were given four months ago won't apply to us, somehow, just because. Those crappy mourning platitudes from the first part of this post don't fit, at all, and in fact make me feel kind of stabby and stomach-punchy at the very thought of someone saying them to me. 

Before I left on Friday I kissed him and said I'd see him again soon.

It still feels true. For now, I still believe it, every time. 

***

That was supposed to be the last sentence, right there, but my phone just lit up with a text message from my mom:

They're sending him home. 

See? I knew it. I was right. This time, I was still right. Okay. Okay.