Odds and ends and a burrito’s cloth diapers….

I want to squeeze in this post about cloth diapers before it gets lost in the burrito shuffle.  Right now the burrito and his mum are both asleep, but due to wake soon.  Dinner is simmering, a chickpea/curry/veg dish that was supposed to be for the slow cooker, but I didn’t wake this morning until eight, and still had to cook the soaking-overnight chickpeas, and….

And life with a burrito baby gets complicated; there are detours, even with a burrito as pleasantly natured as this one.  Last night we hung out for a bit, while mum caught up on some sleep.  Usually I’m an early riser, but that was my old, pre-nana existence.  I’m finding my abuela feet these days, sometimes referring to myself as nana.  No idea which name will stick; I’ll leave it to the burrito to choose which he likes best.

But in the meantime….  We’ve inaugurated cloth diapers because this burrito detests a wet bottom, and even though he’s still under eight pounds, I grew weary of using disposables, then tossing them right into the can.  We have an assortment of pocket diapers, from Bum Genius, Fuzzibunz, and Rumparooz to Sun Baby, Imagine, Nicki’s, and a few covers that came from a friend.  Basically, there is a plethora from which to choose, and while a good number are VERY large on the burrito, none of them stay on his bum long enough to leak.

Dad has a tale for that great-grandchild....

Dad has a tale for that great-grandchild….

I feel no guilt in changing him, then smooshing that wet or messy (or both) pocket diaper down into the pail, along with the cloth wipe.  And he doesn’t seem to care either way.

The reason I’m writing this post is because so many cloth diapering posts I have read over the last few months have been full of mums who waited until their burritos were eight-plus pounds to start using cloth diapers.  We all realized, right away mind you, that the burrito prefers a dry bottom; rare are the times he’ll sit with a soggy butt.  That is a fortunate detail in our cloth diapering experience, for even with the bulkiest diaper, he hasn’t leaked through.  The Bum Genius, Rumparooz, and a cover-style with snap-in inserts called Gro-Baby fit best, or are the smallest pockets.  But even those are still large, however, it matters not.  The burrito uses the diaper, hollers, then another is placed upon his delicate bum.

Great-grandma gets into thte burrito cuddling action....

Great-grandma gets into thte burrito cuddling action….

Now, we did NOT use a pocket diaper when we took the burrito to visit his great-grandparents, in part that the lumberjack-styled onesie wouldn’t have fit over his otherwise huge cloth diapered behind.  My dad was pleased as punch to meet this baby, telling stories as if his pain was gone.  It wasn’t; Dad nearly went to the hospital the night before our visit.  However his aches had lifted by morning, and our arrival in the early afternoon was eagerly welcomed.  Mom cuddled with that baby too, gifting him with a St. Paddy’s Day onesie.  The burrito needs to wear it, before he gets any bigger!

Aged hands but never too old to caress a loved one.

Aged hands but never too old to caress a loved one.

Babies get bigger every day, but I’m glad that my daughter was ready to give the pocket diapers a go.  If you have a little one with very sensitive skin, but worry they are too small for pockets or covers to fit, give them a try.  The worst that will happen is one change of clothes.  The best is that disposables will start to fade into the background.  And you can always sing this mantra, made up by yours truly only this morning.  I don’t charge a dime for copyright, and the tune is all up to you.

Small man, small problems, big butt.  ‘Nuff said….


What does time mean?

A most contented abuela; all shots by a most talented Belgian.

A most contented abuela; nearly all shots by a most talented Belgian.

Days have passed and the burrito has changed into the happy chappy, little man, or when he refuses to burb, the twerp.  Burp twerp has become a late-night refrain, and I sing different songs, some of which aren’t even of my own creation.  We watched the Big Star documentary a few nights ago, and I’ve been humming Chris Bell and Alex Chilton tunes, thinking about my new world as an abuela, and about my dad.

The happy chappy will meet his great-grandfather tomorrow, when the home health nurse isn’t around.  My father is excited to hold the littlest member of the family, but I don’t think it will be a long cuddle.  Dad’s lower right leg has a bad edema wound, and he’s not firm on either of his feet.  He’s lost ground in the last two weeks, whereas his grandson has gained a foothold, and to be honest, I’m not sure how these two will mesh in the weeks to come.

Which brings me to today’s title; what does time mean?  My grandchild is hovering at a week old, my father is seventy years.  I’m forty-eight, but those are merely numbers.  Life is a constant pull-push of breaths taken, occasions experienced, then the slow (or not so slow) approach to the end.  Now, due to my faith, the end isn’t the end, but it’s still a cessation of activity, involvement, memory.  When my father takes his last breath, all he knows, and has known, will be gone.  What he’s shared with us shall remain, but those are fragments of what he has seen, done, felt, and at times, avoided.  It has become impossible for me to separate my father’s ill health with the emergence of the next generation of family.   I cannot look away from these issues.

And perhaps that makes all of this easier for me, in that my dad’s decline is balanced by the burrito.  He’s still a burrito at night, swaddled in his sleep sack, out like a light.  We put cloth diapers on him today; they make his butt look HUGE!  His umbilical cord has fallen off; we’re going to plant it under a hydrangea given to him by one of my daughter’s dear friends.  Not quite like planting a tree over the placenta, but it’s one way to mark this very auspicious occasion.  And I come back to this fact again and again; people are born, then they die.  I have no clue as to my father’s timeline, but equally I won’t ignore what is obvious.  It would be like closing my eyes and running right into a wall.

Seasonally, new life is blooming around us.  Almond trees are flush with white flowers, which fall to the ground like a carpet. Yes, it’s only February, but spring floods the senses with warm temperatures and lengthening days.  My grandchild is turning from a taquito into a happy fellow, with reflexive smiles that tease; when he starts to grin for real, no one will be able to resist him.  In the back of my head, I wonder how much of this boy my father will know, for how long will their paths cross.  I don’t mean to be maudlin, but it’s a study of life in real time, day by day.  Maybe that’s what time means, not the accumulation of seconds and minutes, but moments and learning.  Over time we accrue knowledge that enables us to love.  Sometimes we are caught off guard by events that derail that plan, but to me, that’s the plan: we are here to love.  If we can look past the hurt, our hearts are made stronger by that which has attempted to thwart the plan, and we love more deeply.  I adore my happy chappy, even when he’s being a burp twerp.  My father’s sufferings cause me anguish, but his perseverance demands my respect, right alongside my overwhelming love.

My dad in 1947.

I never imagined all of these forces colliding right now; just three months ago, my father carved the Thanksgiving turkey.  Now it’s like he’s aged those twenty-five years he thought he had back in September.  While I wish he felt that well now, I can’t do any more for him than I can for the little man.

Which is a very strange situation; right now the little man isn’t such a happy chappy.  It’s nighttime, bedtime if you were a baby.  He’s a wee bit cranky, as many infants are this time of the evening.  We rock him, change him, but we’re sort of helpless to completely soothe, other than his mum, but he’s not really hungry.  My father’s woes are similar; as a daughter, I accompany to appointments, I ask questions.  But my dad is in charge, and as his perseverance requires my respect, so do his choices.

My father and his grandparents, August 1946

My father and his grandparents, August 1946

This is the part of life that requires patience and acceptance; a fussy crying baby and the plethora of maladies that plague someone battling cancer.  These older photographs are precious to me, in that they denote my history.  I never knew my great-grandparents, but they are alive in my dad’s stories.  My mum is in fine health, but the burrito taquito chap will most likely know of his great-grandpa via my tales, and those of other relatives.  That’s not how I necessarily want it, but….

My dad, 1945.

My dad, 1945.

But time can only be measured by yardsticks our feeble cerebral mechanisms can harness.  Yet, what if time was without parameters?  Maybe it is.  Perhaps all this blog-blogging is just a way to unwind after a long day.  But I would love to convey, if I have totally missed the point, that time is what we make it.  Time is as fleeting as a goodbye wave, or as lasting as firm devotion.  Time is nothing we can truly qualify, if our expectations are turned toward an ethereal home.  Time is only a manner of one day’s end, another’s beginning.  Life is very much the same.


My Taquito Burrito Bobblehead Grandchild

The lad in question is a few days old.  He’s so tagged in the title for the nicknames he has already acquired.  My family is big on nicknames; these have sprung on a nearly daily basis, in part from how the taquito loves to be swaddled, his amazing head control, and that he is merely a pipsqueak.  He’s also the most adorable chap in the neighborhood, and I’m the luckiest abuela around.

His birth was notable for a couple of things; he cried nearly nonstop once he was born, leaving us all to wonder if this was a sign (It wasn’t; he seems to have gotten past that initial crankiness, settling into a soothing pattern of burrito-swaddled sleep.)  The other issue was how my daughter went into labour, in the middle of the day.  She and I went to hospital to determine if she was in true labour; indeed she was, and there was set into action the events that led to one little boy’s entrance into this world.

Well, Buttercup helped too.  My daughter can’t resist giving that hound her due attention, and as my daughter return to her feet, a certain sense of impending change was noticed.  That ushered in a night I will always remember.

A few days away from such stupendous happenings, I have the time to write this post, reflecting on all that has altered.  A baby has invaded, and what a glorious, if not sleep-depriving, manner in which to now live our lives.  So many lives have been enhanced upon the burrito’s presence; we bask in the aura he emits, which is often that of peace, for he has taken up nursing and sleep with relative ease.  His voice emerges when he’s wet; he does not like being wet.  He appreciates his hunger signs noted in an expedient manner.  He is a swaddle-king, hence the taquito-burrito handle.  And he’s a strong fellow, bobbing his head along shoulders as if he’s a few weeks old.  He induces calm, which wafts throughout the house like blessed incense; perhaps my feet ache at the end of the day, yet all I realize is the giddy glee of grandmotherhood.  Even at five-thirty this morning, I had made up a little song, toting him to and fro: Grandma likes to sing her song, but you don’t get to sing along.  All you get to do is yawn.

I’m not a lyricist, but hey, it rhymes.

When the burrito came home from hospital, I sent my nearest and dearest an email, noting that while the writer in me could wax all about the details, the abuela in me was ready for sleep.  There’s a fine line about recalling everything that happened and staying in the moment.  More pictures than I have sense have been taken, a few scattered within this post.  I have no idea for how long he’ll be known as the burrito; maybe tomorrow he’ll manage a most fantastic feat and we’ll be calling him….  Aha, that must be left until tomorrow.  Today, he’s adorable.  His hat confirms it.

Welcome to the family, my beautiful taquito grandson.  May your life be full of wonder, joy, and even a real burrito or two….


Anticipation….

Last night my dad called me, wanting to know how his granddaughter was doing.  More specifically, Dad desired information about his great-grandson.  He said that both he and Mom had been jumping every time their phone rang, and while Mom didn’t want to pester us, Dad didn’t have an issue with that at all.

Photo by a Belgian....

Photo by a Belgian….

The call was brief; other than scattered contractions that carry little lasting pain, my daughter is hanging in there.  But now my husband is here, hopefully for more than only the weekend, and my eldest, her hubby, and Buttercup are expected this afternoon.  All in all, this would be a perfect day for a baby to be born.

Ha, not that we have much say in the matter.  Rain has curtailed the daily walks around the neighborhood, although we could brave the mall.  But that seems artificial; my youngest prefers tromping around the stomping grounds that will make up her baby’s world.   Perhaps if we catch a break in the weather and she’s not already caught up in productive contractions, we’ll amble around quiet damp streets, talking about various nonsensical subjects, like Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.  We’ve been watching a lot of DS9 over the last ten days.

Another shot taken by a talented Belgian...

Another shot taken by a talented Belgian…

These last days before a child enters the world are the kind of days that get lost in the soon-to-be shuffle of a new baby in the house.  But these days are important to note, for all of our lives will never be the same.  My daughter’s will alter the most, but each of us who love her fall in line as our hearts are widened for a newbie to fall under our familial umbrella.  Folks are gathering, in eager joy to meet this little chap, and those far away are sending good wishes and much love.  This is the best way for a baby to arrive, surrounded by deep affection from a variety of relatives.  Blood doesn’t bind every one of us, but love is stronger than DNA.

Taken by Brandi, who did my daughter's pedicure; my toes are on the left....

Taken by Brandi, who did my daughter’s pedicure; my toes are on the left, still waiting to dry….

Yesterday, one of my dearest friends accompanied my daughter and me to the local beauty college; my friend received a manicure, while my girl and I had our feet pampered.  We told our stories, how my friend and I met when I lived in the UK and she in Belgium.  How my youngest was just a little girl when this woman became a part of our family, and how now, two and a half years after snapping my eldest’s wedding, this friend will capture a baby’s birth.  Our planet is large, but the scope can be narrowed to one little corner of the world, although my daughter feels anything but small.  And while she may not actually believe it, she will return to her pre-pregnancy size in a manner of weeks, as that freeloader expands his vista to include all of our faces.  Yes, today would be a fabulous moment to claim as one’s birthday; I hope it’s today.  If not, tomorrow would be lovely, Monday acceptable, Tuesday….

In 1990, my father met his first grandson.  Twenty-five years later, a great-grandson is nearly on the doorstep.

In 1990, my father met his first grandson. Twenty-five years later, a great-grandson is nearly on the doorstep.

Let’s just say today, fingers crossed.  My father is certainly growing weary of waiting.  Nothing more would please me than to place a baby in his grasp.  It’s been a few years since he cradled a little one, and time is passing faster than we realize.  It’s time, or so says this anticipatory abuela.  Let’s hope that little fellow is listening….


Yet another day….

This title applies to both my father and my daughter.  We continue to wait on a little chap to enter our lives, while my dad attends one more doctor’s appointment, blood pressure, temperature and oxygen count taken.  I write all these figures in my Dad Doc Notes folder, then disseminate the information to all interested parties, adding at the end that Baby Watch 2015 continues.  My dad noted twice to the scheduling nurse that by his next monthly appointment, he would be a great-grandfather.  The pride and pleasure in his voice were a balm to my ears.

At length I have noted the similarities my dad and daughter have shared over the last nine months.  What stands out to me now is the passage of time, not the last thirty-nine weeks, but years and years of all these lives involved.  And it’s not merely those with whom I share a genetic marker or three; other folks factor into these equations of three generations, but time spans so much more than Dad’s seventy-plus years, not to mention all the days, weeks, and months my grandson has waiting for him.  Well, once he finally tires of where he’s been living since mid-May 2014.  Last night he was acting like a career in kick boxing loomed, my poor daughter groaning not from contractions, but due to a wriggling little fish.  Or not so little, as the case may be.

My grandmother and my dad in 1945; Dad is about a year old here.

My grandmother and my dad in 1945; Dad is about a year old here.

At the doc yesterday, my father was weary, looking very much like a man in need of resolution.  Home health nurses will now give Mom a hand, but we’re not at a hospice corner.  With my daughter, it’s simply a matter of days, and I’m well versed in the stages of labour and birth.  With my father, the steps aren’t as clear.

How does one prepare for death, while trying to focus on life?  Dad was eager to share of his impending great-grandchild, two of them, I said to the nurse.  Yet, a few days ago, as I said goodbye at his house, he quietly noted that he wasn’t so sure just how much longer he could continue; at times the pain is tremendous.  The doctor gave my father a second look when Dad spilled just how many painkillers he’d taken before getting to the office.  I’m used to these numbers of this, that, and the other, but while the doctor prescribes these medications, does he understand just how my father takes them?  Sometimes it’s in staggered amounts that confounds the imagination.

Having gone for a walk in the park over the weekend, I snapped this vista; so much we don't know, so much to embrace.

Having gone for a walk in the park over the weekend, I snapped this vista; so much we don’t know, so much to embrace.

I can’t liken these days to any other previous; all of this is new to every single one of us.  But then, that is what life is, regardless of the situation.  Sometimes the routine feels familiar, and usually our experiences are to prepare us for what lies ahead.  But yesterday was a day solely unto itself, and today will be the same.  My youngest daughter’s pregnancy isn’t like that of my eldest, and my father’s path won’t be that of my mom.  Which makes each moment one to be treasured.  I’m so happy to be here, hanging out with my daughter, anticipating her bundle of joy.  And while it pains me to see my dad so altered, I feel privileged to accompany him and Mom to the doc, to visit with them at home, and tomorrow, to give my dad a trim.  His hair is getting curly at the ends, and I brought my scissors, drape, and combs.  He has a great-grandson to welcome, needs to be looking his very best.

Dad made it to Sunday breakfast; he would have crawled, he said to me over the phone, to get that chicken fried steak.

Dad made it to Sunday breakfast; he would have crawled, he said to me, to get that chicken fried steak.

No photographs or blog entries can begin to capture all of these events; they simply have to be savoured one day after another.


Waiting on a baby….

For the next few weeks, I’ll be hanging out with my youngest daughter as she awaits the birth of her first child.  She’s not alone in this endeavor; many who love her are anxious for this little chap’s arrival.  In the meantime, I finished my abuela quilt, and have found it to be perfectly snugly.  Those extra rows of quilting didn’t mar the softness of the flannel backing, and give it a lovely crinkly feel.  Don’t know when I’ll get around to quilting the next project.  Right now bigger issues loom.

Bigger is a term my daughter is quite weary of living, but of course her baby will come on his own good time.  As we chat, I hear in her tone a gamut of emotions, swinging from elation to heavy doses of exasperation.  I smile at her impatience, for once that fellow makes his appearance, all she has ever known will be thrown out the window.

Very crinkly, just as I had hoped.

Motherhood is a never-ending path.  It’s led me away from Silicon Valley to watch the whole process begin anew.  And I’m changing too, from someone’s mum to someone else’s grandmother.  I don’t feel old, my hair is still nearly all brown.  I quilt, but I also adore crunchy guitars.  What makes a grandmother a grandmother anymore?

A baby, that’s what.  but not my baby, and that’s the coolest part.  My daughter moans and groans, sometimes from contractions, but mostly because she feels enormous and achy.  And I get to partake of it all from a small distance, but enough of a gap that all I feel is love.

I love the batik binding; it’s from my birthday quilt.

I’ve rejoiced when my sisters and friends had their children, but while I was made an aunt and godmother, those titles aren’t the same as an abuela.  An abuela comes to stay with her hija, an abuela hears all the blah blah blah.  An abuela, regardless of hair colour, is the closest thing to a mama as a mama, but with just enough separation allowing the abuela a most glorious role.

I’ll get nearly all the cuddling joy with none of the pain.  Or very little of the agony.

Raising children has been a thrill, and now the cycle repeats itself, albeit it in a different manner.  It’s no longer the 1990s, and odds are this grandson won’t grow up in England.  He’ll likely dwell here in California, but maybe trips to foreign lands will dot his childhood.  Goodness only knows where his life will take him, that’s years in the future.  Right now we’re concentrating on the next few days, one of which will end up being the day of his birth.  For the rest of his life, that day will carry all the connotations that surround such an auspicious moment.  Funny to consider it now, that one of the next days will turn into such a treasure.

That’s what this author/abuela does, while the mum-to-be wishes it was already here.  And as the abuela, I recall those days, long ago, wishing eagerly for my kids to arrive.  But then I was like my daughter, only thinking of the here and now.  Now, as the grandmother, my musings are those of one with perspective.

In the shade.

In the shade.

It’s like making a quilt, how smooth fabric becomes wrinkly in a matter of one wash cycle.  It happens so fast, which a new mum simply can’t grasp.  To her, each day lasts about thirty; why doesn’t this baby just come out?  Yesterday I gently reminded her that she would never be pregnant for the first time ever again, to which she rolled her eyes.  I smiled, knowing those words went in one ear and right out the other.  Maybe there are a few gems of wisdom that just can’t be shared.

In the meantime, we wait, and later tonight we’ll snuggle under that new quilt, feeling a little person poking about right under his mother’s skin.

 


A Somewhat New World Order

On the cusp of every major change is this quiet lull, where all the emerging forces are stealthily simmering right under the surface.  This past weekend, my husband and I spent time with my dad, and our daughter.  A changing table was the last big piece of the nursery puzzle to be sorted, and we managed to tick that task from the checklist mid-Sunday afternoon.

Photos courtesy of my husband….

All my daughter has to do is pick up some storage bins in which to place the pocket diapers, cloth diapers and covers.  We have Snappi’s with which to affix cloth diapers, but she also wanted good old-fashioned diaper pins, which made me smile.  Personally, I think those Snappi’s are pretty sweet, but as long as the diaper stays put, who cares in which manner it is accomplished?  Now we wait for that baby to decide when he wants his birthday.  As each day passes, I think, “Well, it’s not going to be this day.”

Pocket diapers currently reside in the basket, but will soon be in their new home.

Pocket diapers currently reside in the basket, but will soon be in their new home.

Over the last eight and a half months, my youngest has undergone a transformation like no other she will ever endure, at least for the first time.  Ironically, my father has trod a similar path, and the parallels make for good conversation, when we all descend upon Dad for a visit.  Both he and my daughter are nauseous and tired, also weary of their situations.  My daughter’s confinement is nearly at an end, and while sleepless nights will continue, soon enough she’ll be feeling somewhat like her previous self, albeit permanently altered.  The same can’t be said for Dad, which none of us mentions, but that sentiment floats about, as if we could catch it in a bottle and seal it away forever.

I'm reading from The Runaway Bunny, which is one of my favourite children's stories.  My daughter noted it was the first book her offspring was hearing.

I’m reading from The Runaway Bunny, which is one of my favourite children’s stories. My daughter noted it was the first book her offspring was hearing.

But that isn’t how life works; people are born, then they die.  We can’t look back at Dad’s tenure with chemo and say, “Well, that was a total waste of time and effort.”  We have no idea what his PSA would have done sans Taxotere, nor can we judge how that drug now affects his overall health.  We can strongly speculate, but maybe Dad would have had this deterioration regardless.  I feel helpless, so does he.  But he remains fairly chipper, for feeling so crappy.  He’s taking morphine now, and that helps a little.  He doesn’t feel like he’s going to die soon, what he told my daughter, while my husband and I were out checking the charger on Dad’s boat motor.  She mentioned that in the car, after we left, and I wondered if my father felt it was easier to say that to his granddaughter, rather than to me.

All these new and exciting parts of life, and my grandson has yet to arrive!

Perhaps all these observations can’t be helped, the writer in me being so introspective.  I’ve put The Hawk away for….  Well, for who knows how long, but I did reach a good stopping place, at page 504.  This novel can be broken up into one-hundred page chunks, and last Thursday I inadvertently completed a chapter that neatly ended at yet another of those one-hundred page hunks.  With a second grand-baby due in May, I can’t rightly conjure as to when any writing will again commence, but I have come to relative terms with this novel; it’s not going to be finished anytime soon.  By summer both of my pregnant daughters will no longer be pregnant, but this abuela/author has plenty to keep her busy.

More quilts and comforters than our summer-like January temps require, but every baby needs lots of beautiful blankets.

More quilts and comforters than our summer-like January temps require, but every baby needs lots of beautiful blankets.

And that’s a part of this new world order as well; the changing of the guard.  Or guards; no longer is my life a swirl of noveling feats.  No longer is my dad living with cancer as a side note; his quarterly Lupron shots are like footprints washed away by the rising tide.  My youngest can still see her feet, but has a hard time recalling life before pregnancy.  And truly, all those lives we once lived are gone.  Each day brings a new challenge, and new gifts.  This time last year, I was busy with The Hawk, thinking I could complete it by the end of 2014.  My dad was starting chemotherapy, and both of my daughters were simply themselves, no freeloaders attached.  But nothing remains static.  And while some of these alterations aren’t ideal in outward appearance, they are blessings, a few in odd disguises.

That’s the saving grace in all this, embracing that which looks unembraceable.  Okay, so unembraceable isn’t a word, but that’s the key.  I hate seeing my father so ill, nothing about that seems correct.  But as I gladly anticipate the coming grandchildren, equally I have to accept my dad’s condition.  It’s not easy, nor do I always do it with aplomb.  Yet, griping about this or that is useless, and negativity detracts from the joys.  Sometimes going to my parents’ house is like living in the present and the past simultaneously.  They have two televisions, side by side.  Mom’s is set to westerns, Gunsmoke, Cheyenne, and the like.  Dad’s shows either sports or Law and Order.  While I’m there, I listen to Dad, my eyes noting a black and white screen or vibrant colour, as if I’m straddling two worlds.  Then I’ll gaze at my father, and I see my paternal grandmother, right before we left for Great Britain.  She was dying of lung cancer, her voice raspy and weak.  My dad is starting to sound that way, although much of that is chemo-related.

This is the way life evolves, sometimes so slowly we find ourselves wondering how it was ever any other way.  Sometimes it’s a flash of blinding light, and once we can see again, nothing is as we remembered, sort of like Saul on the road to Damascus.  I guess I’m trying to note these changes, that definitely is the writer in me.  I want to say I remember this very moment, or those over the past weekend, where my youngest was bemoaning still being pregnant to her languishing grandfather, who laughed along with her.

I want to remember this, to tell my grandson and granddaughter.  These are the moments early in our new world order they will only realize via stories.  But this is their history, and it is important.  For all that is lost along the way, I wish to pass along what matters.


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