To my mom, July 27

Monday, July 27, 1981

          Sorry … I seem to be getting lax about making entries in my book to you. It's just that time passes more quickly than I realize and you are growing so fast.

          But, much has happened in the past several weeks. Your sister Jessie has come to spend a month with us. I can tell she loves you dearly and she is very helpful because she likes to take care of her little brother. She'll be leaving soon, and I'm sure she'll miss you … and you her.

          The doctor is thinking about having your right foot put into a cast because of the way it turns in. I'll be taking you to see a special bone doctor so he can tell us what, if anything, needs to be done.

          Your nanny, my mother, called us last night to see how we were all doing. And to say she anxiously awaits our arrival to California in just a few short weeks.

Monday, July 27, 2026

          I'm definitely not sorry you took the time at all to record these anecdotes and thoughts you had as an early mother. It's now been more than a half year since your passing, and I'm reminded to take things as they come.
          Jessie has visited three times since early December. Twice for dad's surgeries. She loved you, too, despite whatever contrary actions/attitudes might have been interpreted in those days and ones to follow. She wants to move Dad out to New Mexico with her next year sometime to care for him. Nothing set in stone, but I'm not wholly against it.

          My right foot in a cast, eh? That must be why I turn my ankle on occasion, though I've never thought there was anything particularly wrong with my feet. Fortunately, my reflexes are such that I've never done any real damage. Take care of your core, back, hips, knees, and ankles is my ongoing mantra as I age.

          Aunt Carmen visited, too, in July. We had a nice chat about lots of things, not the least of which was Nana. Thinking back on the Oceanside days, it's almost like a dream now. But I know they were real and I cherish those times.

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 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.