Wednesday

I said I wanted to go. Even though I didn't really want to go. But I felt like I was supposed to want to go. Or something.

So we went. I drove my mom back to the cemetary, back past the funeral staging area where we waited in our cars for what felt like forever, in the cold and the rain. Where I had stared out the window and told Jason I wanted to be cremated, then stared at my feet and silently regretted my choice of footwear. 

The weather was beautiful this year, so we parked farther away, where the car wouldn't possibly get in the way of any other funeral. We started walking down the grassy aisles and I silently regretted my choice of stroller. I should have brought the sturdier one, not the cheap car seat stroller frame that got stuck on every lump and divot in the ground. The ground that was full of bodies. 

My mom got turned around and confused about the rows. The rows and rows of identical markers, so we marched up one and then had to turn around and the stroller got caught on a bit of raised earth around the corner of a headstone -- a dead stranger's headstone, oh my God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -- and I felt small, quiet waves of panic and nausea deep within my chest as I pushed my baby back down another narrow row, back over the ground that was full of bodies.

My mom has visited every week -- she says it helps, to see a physical reminder of his life, to feel a connection to his spirit. But today she can't find "him" because we took a different path in, because of the stroller. The flowers she had delivered on Sunday are already gone, so there's nothing to do but check the numbers on the back of the markers and keep counting down the rows. Until we find him. Him.

My mom kisses the headstone and talks to him. She tells him I am there, and Baby Ike is there, and I am fully plunged into a silent internal freak-out because no. No. He is not here. He is not here at all. I am not introducing my baby to a patch of ground and a stone; I am not contemplating what lies beneath us; what lies all around us. Loss, death, decay.

My mom asks if I want to take a picture. I have no idea what I want anymore, or what I'm supposed to want to do. But I take a picture anyway. Then another. Then my phone freezes up and won't take any more pictures. I get annoyed with it on principle, for some reason. 

"I'm not good with cemetaries," I say very quietly, as if this was a Thing, a Quirk, some established known fact about me. Here Lies Amy Corbett Storch: She didn't like the phone, volcanoes, raw onions and cemetaries. 

I'd never set actually foot in a cemetary before. His funeral didn't even count; it was way over there, in a gazebo, away from this field and this ground, this ground full of bodies and everywhere I step I'm doing spatial math about the length of the average casket and whether I'm walking directly above a body. On a body? A body who was someone's loved one and here I am pushing a stroller frame on top of them? I should have used the Ergo, I should have stayed on the pavement until I knew where we were going, I should...

I should not have come here.

This is awful. I feel awful. And not just about the headstones and the ground full of bodies. As I stare at his name etched in marble, he has never felt more...gone. It has never felt so final and complete than it does in this moment. 

"I'm not good with cemetaries" I whisper again. My chest is tight and my breathing is shallow. I want to leave. I want to leave and I don't want to come back. 

My mom understands. She understands completely. She says we can go, so we do. 

***

We stop for breakfast on the way back. Ike eats a plate of scrambled eggs and a bowl of strawberries and bananas. The mess is terrific, but the waitresses don't seem to mind because he's smiling at them in between double-fisted mouthfuls. An old friend calls because she wants to meet the baby; my mother-in-law offers to take him later so my mom and I can go out for dinner together. After that, I set up the Roku I bought her for Christmas and we watch Downton Abbey.

I spend the rest of the day above the ground, where it's easier to breathe. And before I know it, I wake up. And it was Thursday.

I Want To Belieeeeeeeeve

I have no idea how we got on the subject of Bloody Mary -- the ghosty sleepover dare, not the drink -- but somehow, we did. A little vodka may have been involved, but I am definitely sure that tomato juice and celery were not. 

Jason and I both grew up in very, very religious households, and because of this, had both achieved adulthood without ever -- EVER -- attempting the Bloody Mary game. We believed that just by THINKING about Satan or evil things, one was technically inviting demonic influence, or even full-on possession. That shit was real, man, in an incredibly literal sense, and the idea of actively baiting a ghost/demon/evil spirit like that was a genuinely terrifying prospect that neither of us would ever mess with. 

I have a vague memory of standing in a darkened bathroom after first hearing the story from my friends...and THINKING about maybe giving it a try, and the very second the idea popped into my head, a car drove down the street and a glimmer of the headlights flashed in the mirror and I freaked out and ran back to my room, hid under the covers and prayed for forgiveness and protection from my sinful wandering brain. 

That was farther than Jason ever got, however, and he admitted that he still couldn't bring himself to do it. Despite long since abandoning the fire-and-brimstone religion of our childhoods, and happily indulging in a steady TV/movie habit of supernatural horror -- we LOVE all that Paranormal Activity/American Horror Story/True Blood/Walking Dead garbage SO VERY HARD -- the Bloody Mary game was still something that genuinely freaked him out, because what if?

So obviously, because I am a complete asshole, I got the idea that we needed to confront that fear head on. Right then, right there. We were gonna walk into the nearest bathroom, hold hands and summon up that damned urban legend and finally put this ridiculous shared part of our childhoods completely behind us. Once and for all. Together. MOVE ON FROM FEAR. GROW WITH LOVE. ALSO I THINK THIS WILL BE SUPER FUN AND LATER YOU CAN BRAID MY HAIR.

At first -- and second, third, fourth, and so on -- Jason flat-out refused. No way. No way! He couldn't. He wouldn't. I made offers and promises and some very dirty bargains, but in the end I finally managed to convince him to follow me into the bathroom via a very persuasive argument of come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on (breathes) come on come on come on etc. 

We stood in front the mirror with the lights off. "BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY!" I called out confidently; Jason slightly less so. I waited a few seconds and then switched on the light. Nothing happened. We'd done it! Two thirty-something parents of three had gone and played a made-up game most people stop being scared of sometime in middle school, and we survived it without a single jump scare or coincidentally-timed lightbulb flicker.

Afterwards, I was gleeful and amped up -- I felt invincible, free, reckless and daring. Like the first time I voted for a Democrat, or dropped a casual f-bomb into a conversation. Jason was...well, he was headed towards the liquor cabinet for another drink.

I followed him, giggling stupidly and trying to think of any other similar games we could play. Let's have a seance! Order a ouija board! Is The Exorcist on Netflix? Blair Witch? Candyman? ZOMG ADRENALINE OF THE FORBIDDEN.

Jason opened the cabinet. And then screamed and jumped backwards.

I remember screaming too, but I don't remember hitting the floor. But there I was, cowering behind the dining table and flat on my stomach with my arms covering my head, while Jason laughed and laughed and laughed...until he was on the floor too, because bitch, you TOTALLY had that one coming. 

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. 

Angel On Your Shoulder

Last night things returned to their usual clusterfuck: Ezra woke up at 2:30, and less than an hour later Noah appeared at my bedside in near tears over a dream about plane, Grandma and Ceiba -- something so vivid, apparently, that he still runs to my side for a reassuring hug every time a plane flies overhead. We attempted to return the boys to their respective beds around 4:30, which lasted for about an hour for Noah ("My tummy hurrrrrts. And the plane! The plaaaane!") and about five minutes for Ezra.

I grumpily and blindly reswaddled Ezra's arms in total darkness and tried to put him in his swing (look, the 30-Day Shred is making my muscles sore enough -- I am now officially cherishing every inch of my personal space at night), but that didn't work either. Defeated, I brought him back to bed, carefully flipped down the loose sheets and blankets, curled around him protectively with my back to Jason and Noah, and fell sound asleep.

At some point I felt a hand on my shoulder. It squeezed and shook me a little, the way Jason does when he's trying to wake me up or make sure that I know it's time to wake up, wordlessly, lest I roll over and slug him. (I'm...not nice, first thing.) My eyes opened and I slowly realized it was still pitch black out -- what the FUCK was he waking me up for? After the night we had? Seriously, DUUUUUDE.

I groggily glanced down at the baby...

...who was completely still, his face covered by the swaddling blanket.

I frantically yanked the layers off. I'd wrapped him too loosely and sloppily, and exactly like Ashley mentioned in the comments yesterday, he'd raised his arms and pulled everything over his head.

He was fine. Warm and breathing. I sat there staring at him, panting in the wake of those 15 seconds or so of panic.

I turned around, already wondering how Jason could have known to wake me up...but he was sound asleep, his arms fully engaged around Noah, who was curled into a sleeping little ball with his hands under his chin. I put my own hand on my shoulder, where I swear I could still feel the sensation of that life-saving squeeze.

I know most parents have had those moments -- those terrible what-if moments that leave you totally shaken long after you know everything is fine, that you still replay over and over to chastise yourself for that moment of carelessness, stupidity, of oh my god you know better! what were you thinking?  And then you gulp and whisper thanks to Someone and mark one down in the Never Doing That Again column, but still. All day you're sort of unsettled, like a toddler trying to sort through a dream about his dog, his Grandma and a plane falling from the sky.

I keep telling him that it's okay, that it wasn't real.  

The baby is okay, although the danger was pretty real. The hand on my shoulder, though. That. I don't know. I just don't know.

Biblethumping

So first of all, this is the second time I've written this entry, since I somehow managed to close my browser AS I SCROLLED THE MOUSE UP TO THE PUBLISH BUTTON, so please attribute any anger to that, and not the subject matter. The first version contained a shocking amount of non-bitterness, and really demonstrated my growth as a person, and while we're at it, let's just say it was the greatest thing ever written in the history of the English language, and this version is going to suck because GAR BLAM ANGRY.

Second of all: thank you. Thank you to everybody who commented on my last entry. Your responses were all so reasoned and diverse and thoughtful, and while it did get a little overwhelming at times, overall they made for excellent reading yesterday while I LAID AROUND IN BED WITH A GROSSLY SWOLLEN MOUTH FROM HAVING MULTIPLE CAVITIES DRILLED AND ALSO THEY SOOTHED THE PAIN IN MY HEART FROM THE DENTAL BILL I PAID. A DENTAL BILL THAT INCLUDED A COMMA.

Oy. But that's a different entry o' bitching. Today's entry is about y'all, and how much I appreciate the time you took to write about something so deeply personal...and so deeplier unhip. Also for mostly keeping the fire and brimstone out of the conversation. REPENT, YE BLOGGER, LEST THE DEVIL HIMSELF RISE FROM HELL TO HEAP DECAY AND DESTRUCTION UPON THOU TEETH AND GUMS.

I was also encouraged to see that most of you actually get my real point (which, given my incredibly imprecise and poorly punctuated writing, is easy to miss): the faith/religion/whatever of my childhood was very much an all-or-nothing concept. It didn't leave a lot of room for questioning (unless you were okay with the answer always being: FAITH, my child. You simply must have FAITH.) Either you believed every word of the Bible literally, including the 24-hour days of the creation story, and went to church every week and voted Republican and didn't smoke or drink or curse or engage in heavy petting...or you were simply not good enough.

Which is why it's still a real struggle for me to accept that I can ditch 99% of that and be anything other than a godless heathen. Which is exactly what I've secretly thought of myself for the better part of a decade now. Since...well, that's exactly what we always called the Unitarians and the wishy-washy "God is everywhere" people and OMG THEY ARE PROBABLY PART OF A NEW AGE CULT LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU IT'S SATAN! AAAHHH!

(And really and truly and honestly? I AM afraid of dying and going to hell. Rhett! Save me!)

And I know. I know! For it is by grace that you have been saved, through faith -- and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God -- not by works, so that no one can boast. Dude, I memorized that verse for Sunday school about a million times. I think there was even a praise chorus for it. So I don't know where I got all tangled up in the crazy legalism. Maybe it was my own perfectionism, maybe it was some passive-aggressive ministering, maybe it was because I was so damned IMMERSED in it all the damned time, what with going to church five times a week and the Christian school and whatnot. Somewhere along the way I got caught up in a never-good-enough mindset where I would stress because I could never keep up with my morning devotions and began to have doubts about two of every animal REALLY fitting on a single boat and also? Dinosaurs?

And of course, let's not forget all the church splits and acrimony and just downright embarrassingly awful behavior I witnessed that was all done in the name of Christ.

Christ. My teeth still hurt.

Last night I had a dream that I was passed over from some awesome imaginary blogging-type job because "they" wanted someone who was more than "just a mommyblogger." And so they refused to even read the sample entries I provided, including the one from Tuesday. And I got all mad and stomped around because it was about GOD, MOTHERFUCKERS, and it was DEEP and only TANGENTIALLY mentioned my kid, so STOP PUTTING ME IN A CORNER, I WILL CUT YOU.

(Yes, I really told them I would cut them. Perhaps the dream actually symbolized that I need to brush up on my interview skills?)

(Also, I only included this story so I could transition from talking about God, motherfuckers, and get back to talking about my kid. Yes.)

Yesterday Noah and I were hanging out in the backyard. He was chasing after Ceiba and shrieking at the top of his lungs and no, I don't know why my neighbor sends her six-year-old out to talk to me on purpose now, while I sat out with my laptop sending whiny emails to people about my teeth. Every once in awhile I'd squirt him with the hose.

At some point I glanced at the clock and realized that it was seven o'clock. Seven! Noah eats dinner at six! Oh shit! But then I shrugged and forgave myself for the omg worst mother evah hyperbole o' guilt, because Noah was obviously having fun and would have let me know if he was really that hungry.

That's when I noticed that Noah was desperately attempting to suck up hose water from the planks of the deck.

So. Question. The whole grace-not-deeds thing. That totally applies to parenting too, right?

I will not forget this, Mother. And one day I shall blame all of my existential gardening woes on you. Probably on my blog.

Crisis of Faith & Salsa

We went to Chipotle for lunch on Sunday. Jason stood in line while I snagged an empty table. As I tried to navigate Noah and a high chair across the crowded restaurant, hoping to not whack anybody in the ankles, I felt the weight of the high chair vanish. A young man wordlessly took it from me and carried it to my table, while I thanked him repeatedly, surprised at the unexpected help -- and also at how surprised I was about the unexpected help.

He sat down at his own table, bowed his head and prayed silently over his burrito.

I remember how my family used to pray over meals in restaurants. I remember not caring for a lot of years, and then I remember caring so very much. I remember my face flushing with embarassment as my parents prayed aloud over burgers and fries at Friendly's, while our waitress hovered nearby, unsure whether placing the ketchup bottle on the table would disturb our communion with the Lord Father in Heaven.

A few minutes later a family asked the man if they could join  him at his oversized table since there weren't any other seats. They were obviously eating out post-Church, dressed in their Sunday best, like my family had done almost every Sunday for my entire life. We attended a casual church but dressed up anyway -- it was disrespectful otherwise, although at some point in time I think my mother consented to letting my wear nice pants instead of a dress.

Soon the entire table was engaged in an easy, friendly sort of conversation. I wondered if the family had seen the young man say grace a few minutes earlier, or if they saw his shorts and t-shirt and assumed he needed to be saved. I wondered if they'd try to save his soul right there, like the time I made that little boy ask Jesus into his heart on the playground at McDonald's.

I wondered what they thought of my family, just one table away, all wearing shorts and flip-flops. I wondered if they felt sorry for Noah, like I used to feel sorry for the children at the booth next to us on Sundays, the day it was easiest to tell who went to church and who was a Godless lazy heathen.

I remember stressing about the fate of our fellow restaurant patrons to the point that I was unable to eat -- what if that baby over there never heard about God? Would it be my fault for not talking to her parents today? Would she go to hell because I was too busy enjoying my clown sundae with the M&Ms at the bottom to plant the seed of faith in their hearts and would Jesus look at me sadly one day in heaven because I'd been the crucial part in his plan for that little girl? Would he show me the jewels I could have had in my crown that I'd forfeited because I'd been too embarassed to close my eyes during grace that day, when that's all it would have taken to be a witness for Christ?

The family asked the young man about where he worked and lived and how long he'd been here in America. They asked him whether the burritos were authentic or not, and whether he liked the hot salsa.

"They're different, but good." he answered with a smile. "And I like the medium."

I thought about how I ended up with a child named for a Bible story but who has never been to church. Who has never been baptized. I thought about the children's Bibles and religious books our families have given us and wondered whether they worry that we'll never tell him about Jesus. Or whether the salvation of his soul is their burden alone. I wondered what in the world I'm supposed to tell him about his Fisher-Price Noah's Ark playset.

I wondered what happened to my faith and my fervor and my absolute belief in the Bible and the existence of God and heaven. I wondered when everything got so messed up for me, and why I have such ambivalence to the idea of putting on some nice pants and going to church on Sunday.

The church family's little boy spilled some rice, and the young man handed them his extra napkins.

I wonder if he'll ever know how much his actions spoke to me this Sunday.