It Never Gets Old

My happy place. Not sure why, just is.

 

Our last visit was just last week. My husband asked me, "It never gets old, does it?"

And someday we will fulfill the promise we make to our children to take them to the buildings in the background, all the way in Canada. Twenty years ago you could walk across the Rainbow Bridge with 25 cents and a license. Renewed passport needed now.

Because on the other side, the view still never gets old.

Five

Five years ago, you came to me.
I wasn't ready for you, I sent you away.
I didn't know what it would mean.
What would be left.

The pain is mine alone, I know.
It's in my own eyes only.
I see it daily, I can't look too deeply
In anyone's eyes. Not even
My own.

I can't let them see what's there.
I can't bear to see myself.
The scar that's left.
I feel it every day.

Also Called Growing Up

Sometimes, you need to just have a clean break. Forget where you come from, forget what you know. And start anew.

De-babying

Emptying the dishwasher last night, I spied the corner of the utensil drawer that housed the babyfood spoons. Desperate to free up valuable real estate I grabbed up the pile of spoons and stepped toward the trash can. The spoons were almost in the can before the realization of the impact of that act: I was de-babying.

I walk around the Match-Box cars and Polly Pockets, and yearn for the day that I can sell the popper ball toy that takes up residence in the corner of the playroom so that the next toy can take its place, or, better yet, have nothing move in at all. When I can claim my rightful seat at the table opposite the head where my husband sits when it is vacated by the highchair. It's exciting. But...there's a certain melancholy to it.

Long ago we cleared the shelf in the cupboard where the bottles lived. But I drew back my hand from the garbage can and pulled out two of the spoons from the bunch before the others moved on. Someday, by someone, they might be needed, and I'll have that little bit of babyness to go to.

Missing

Missing old friends who aren't part of our crazy little world any more. Forgiveness can replace the hurt, but sometimes they just can't be let back in. 
The love is always there. 

Truths

Hatred softens.
Anger fades.
Disappointment never goes away.

Home of the Whopper

I'm afraid of bridges. I think I suffer panic attacks when I have to go over them. Even riding as a passenger, I cannot look over the sides to enjoy any view. When driving, I've got a white knuckle grip at 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel, steady deep breaths, and at times get a little dizzy.

Little bridges I'm okay with. The ones on your regular day to day drives, I'm good! It's the big ones, over large bodies of water, way high up in the air that do me in. Driving around NYC. No good for me.  Cape Cod. Yeah. No. Grand Island on the Niagara River. Yes, we will add them to the list.

I had to drive them this weekend. My big girls and I were headed home from a weekend of celebrating my sister and a mommy-in-the-making, and had finished enjoying a few minutes at one of our favorite spots, Niagara Falls.

Two bridges. I nearly passed out.

But, everything happens for a reason, right?

At the end of the second bridge, we approached the exit near the cemetery that my grandparents now call home. I was able to stop and say hello to them after all, something I didn't think would happen this trip.

Unprepared, I told my girls that I wished I had something to leave for them, so they would know I was there. Silly, because they always know, and likely wouldn't use my little trinket. But, still. I wanted them to know.

"Here, mommy," says my blonde smallest of the bigs, "You can give them one of my whoppers."
She handed me a little treat from her goodie bag from the baby shower.

I smiled at her sweetness, and marveled at the silliness. Growing up, my grandparents had lived right down the road from a Burger King. We would always be silly as we made our way through the parking lot to the park on the next block, often tricking the drive thru attendant with our bikes and feet.

It was perfect. I left the whopper nestled in the dirt of a potted plant, next to a sea shell someone else in my family had recently left.

The girls and I headed home after that, a long silly, loud car ride, with singing, movies, some yelling and fighting, and no more bridges to cross.