Today is the first entry I make since your birth, Lance, and I'm sorry it has taken me this long…
Two days till my 26th birthday. And so, at age 26, I have a beautiful, bubbly, month-old child. I have nearly forgotten the pain of that day—when you came into the world. It was some experience. Nobody can really tell you what it's like until you go through it yourself. Of course, we didn't plan for the cesarean, your father and I had hoped to be able to watch you come into the world in the delivery room, but after 24 hrs. of labor I was ready for any way that they could get you out!!
Looking back—the hospital stay wasn't that long (6 days) but throughout my stay I felt some self-pity on account of the pain and all, but, guess what?—I am now looking forward to the next time, when I can give you a brother or sister. So, little Lance, I'm just glad you're home and now we are three.
(Edit added later) April 30, 1981—Spent 45 min. in neighbors' storm cellar. Tornado strikes!! Lance slept thru it all!!!!!
Tuesday, April 28, 2026
Today is the first entry I make since my last birthday. And the first year we'll go without celebrating yours. Doesn't seem so long, but when I compare our ages you were 36 when I was 10 and I'm now 45 as Ewan is 10. That's nine years of child-rearing you started before me. And in 25 more years I'll be the age you were when you passed. Many of the days since your passing have been pained, but there's a measure of peace and relief, too. Nobody can really tell you what it's like to grieve until you go through it yourself. Of course, we didn't plan for so much of this so soon, as I'm sure Dad would love for you and him to still be bickering and arguing and carrying-on in the house in Rio like you were a year ago rather than where things are now.
Looking back, I think I knew the years would add up to something like this. I think maybe since my return from Japan and that year you spent teaching in Pleasanton. But what great memories there were along the way. Our wedding at your house. The kids' births. Lots of ups to balance the downs. I try hard to be grateful and not roll into self-pity, whatever may come. So, Mom—despite all the times I'm sure we'll still mess things up—I just hope you find more occasions to smile down on us in heaven than not.
My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.
Tuesday, April 28, 2026
Today is the first entry I make since my last birthday. And the first year we'll go without celebrating yours. Doesn't seem so long, but when I compare our ages you were 36 when I was 10 and I'm now 45 as Ewan is 10. That's nine years of child-rearing you started before me. And in 25 more years I'll be the age you were when you passed. Many of the days since your passing have been pained, but there's a measure of peace and relief, too. Nobody can really tell you what it's like to grieve until you go through it yourself. Of course, we didn't plan for so much of this so soon, as I'm sure Dad would love for you and him to still be bickering and arguing and carrying-on in the house in Rio like you were a year ago rather than where things are now.
Looking back, I think I knew the years would add up to something like this. I think maybe since my return from Japan and that year you spent teaching in Pleasanton. But what great memories there were along the way. Our wedding at your house. The kids' births. Lots of ups to balance the downs. I try hard to be grateful and not roll into self-pity, whatever may come. So, Mom—despite all the times I'm sure we'll still mess things up—I just hope you find more occasions to smile down on us in heaven than not.
My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.
