To my mom, June 30

Tuesday, June 30, 1981

          I can hardly believe it, but it's true, half the year has passed and here you are, over 3 months old and weighing over 14 lb! Soon I'll be heading out to California with you in tow to show you off to all of those who haven't seen you yet. Last week we took you to a lake, where I went swimming for the first time since last summer. I set up a little canopy for you to keep you out of the hot sun. There'll be more trips like that in store for you, and some day in the not-too-distant future, I hope you learn how to swim real good.…

Tuesday, June 30, 2026

          Though I'm not caught in unbelief, I acknowledge that it's been a half year since your passing. Soon Aunt Carmen will be heading out to California to stay with us for a few days and bond some more. I suppose that is the upside to a loss: you ultimately draw closer to the elements that remain.
          Swimming is not as common now that you and Dad no longer have the house in Rio Vista. I'm pretty sure we won't make a beach visit of any kind until maybe December when we have tentative plans to visit Santa Monica and commemorate the occasion by spreading your ashes. Even now that feels like a long time off in the future, but I know it will be here sooner than we might be ready for. In the meantime, I try to make good use of every day that comes.

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

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.