To my mom, June 5

Friday, June 5, 1981

          As I sit here, cooling off after having done some work in the kitchen, I watch you as you lay next to me on the couch, napping. It's been 2-1/2 months since that morning you were born. You are now tipping the scales at about 12 lb!
          Surely you haven't already grown out of some of your clothes!! But, alas, you have, at least 2 of the newborn sleeper sets you received no longer fit you.

          You're reaching the age now where you spend a lot of your waking hours, cooing, and smiling at your dad and I. What a pleasure!

Friday, June 5, 2026

          Cooling and cooing. What a lifelong combination. It is a combination or relief and pleasure. We seek both, don't we? We don't always deserve them, but we still seek them. They are our returns to normal.
          I'm tipping the scales these daze at just over 150 lb! That's still quite slim and "healthy" compared to the vast majority of Americans, but I know I could probably lose a few pounds and trim the bad cholesterol from my diet, so I'm being more conscious of what crosses my lips.
          It's so true that kids outgrow things easily. I watch now as Ewan and Paige do the same thing with much of what they have and wear. There's a clear divide between what they outgrow physically versus psychologically, though they're definitely related. I'm glad to see that my kids (soon to be 11 and 8) are still very much kids, even though they're starting to smell more and need shoe replacements more often. It's the toys, too. They hold on to some things and never seem to care about others until those toys are on the chopping block. Strange what we hold on to. I still have a couple of toys on my desktop that I got when I was about 11 years old. Guess it goes to show there are certain things we should always hold on to, and others we had best learn how to part with. I just wish I knew the exact schedule of retention. Time has a way of surprising us all.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.

To my mom, May 13

Wednesday, May 13, 1981

          Reflections:

          Now that we've been home for awhile now and things have fallen into a pattern, more or less, I am feeling somewhat more secure as a mother (I celebrated my first Mother's Day the 10th of May) and I wonder as I watch you in your sleep when a smile creeps over your face, just what it is that you could possibly be thinking about … Are you dreaming? Well, if you are, I hope they are nice dreams.
          And what went through your mind as we were passing the days in the hospital? Me in my room, you in the nursery.…

          I can recall one night in particular that the nurse was getting ready to bring you to my room for the 1:00 AM feeding. I had not been feeling well all day and I was having one of those cold sweats that sometimes hit me in the hospital, there I lay in my perspiration-soaked sheets, wanting just a few solid hours of sleep. So, I asked the nurse not to bring my baby to my room cuz I didn't feel up to nursing him. Did you feel all alone in the big nursery by yourself? Could you sense what was going on? Did you think I didn't love you? Well, I did, and I do; I felt very guilty that night. But, I also feel that when I got to have you in my room for rooming-in, well, that sort of made up for it.

Wednesday, May 13, 2026

          Reactions:

          *big breath out* I'm kinda speechless thinking about your words here again. I feel ill-fit to respond to them, as I've never been a mother. I'm a father, true, but that's different.
          I'm taken to thoughts on where you are now. They seem as mysterious to me as I'm sure these thoughts were to you then. I'm confident you're in heaven, but what must it be like. Do you dream of us? Is it all like a dream now? Or are you finally awake, and this life was the dream?

          I was a generally happy, well-balanced kid (if memory serves). I have you in large part to thank for that. I know I've expressed as much before, even when you were still here, but thanks again, Mom. I know there were times there in the final months when you probably didn't feel particularly loved. You were, and still are.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.

To my mom, May 8

Friday, May 8, 1981

          You are now 7 weeks old, and how you've grown!! Except for an occasional gassy stomach you are thriving very well. I also feel very well. I'm looking and feeling pretty much the way I felt before I became pregnant. Through it all I think I have fared well. Despite the down days, I now am spiritually, physically, and mentally on a much more even keel. A few days after coming home with you from the hospital some of the girls from church prepared and brought over a complete dinner meal—boy, I can say it sure was nice, my mom and your father and I really enjoyed it. Since that time, I have been given a shower and the next door neighbors have been very helpful to me especially since your nanny left. Your Aunt Sue had another little boy and his name is Scott Joseph—so you have another little cousin. I sure hope you grow to love and care for your family, cousins, etc., cuz they're important.
          My dear little one, grow up strong and be kind to people and most of all give thanks to God for life goes quickly and I want only the best for you.

Friday, May 8, 2026

          You are now 17 weeks since having left us. Except for occasional bouts of listlessness and anxiety, I am faring well enough. I had a promising interview yesterday. I'm looking not at all my age according to a co-worker who said I don't look as old as I am. The down days are necessary, I think. I haven't grown as much spiritually, physically, nor mentally these past couple years, but I wouldn't know that without those down time reflections. I know I have to ultimately act after periods of reflection, but it's harder to know I have to act without having you and dad reliably there to help me prepare for the years to come.
          We celebrated your birthday with a half cherry pie and half lemon meringue last week. This Sunday is the first Mother's Day without you also. We'll celebrate Yume and Jessie with conveyor-belt sushi today. New rhythms mixed with old traditions. We love and miss you! 

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.