The Burrito is back home, and happy to be there. His mama is pleased as well, so are Grandpa and myself. We elder two slept so well last night, I’ll assume the former two did the same. It’s Monday, 13 July, and after I write this post and take a shower, I’ll edit three chapters of The Hawk. Yup, life is totally back to normal….
Lol…. The new normal, of course. My father would have been seventy-one this past weekend, and being in my hometown stirred a host of feelings that previously I have never experienced. I’ve never lost a parent, never been a grandparent before either, hmmm…. This time last year my mom, siblings and I were planning a big bash to celebrate Dad turning seventy. He’d finished his last round of chemo, or had one more to go; I should recall this fact, but my youngest was pregnant and I was caring for her as well as Dad as well as sorting shindig details and…. Now a year later, the Burrito sits alone. His sense of balance is quite impressive, although he doesn’t get into that position by himself. Still, he manages to not fall over, well not immediately. He stays on his cloth-diapered bum, grasping for whatever is close; Duplo hippos and cacti, or his feet. I think the cloth diapers give him more stability, or at least more to sit upon. If nothing else, he’s mastered this achievement, and looks pretty cute in having done so.
What struck me most this weekend was how this new normal has enveloped me so thoroughly; Dad has only been gone for three months, but oddly it seems like longer. What does that imply? Perhaps the grandbabies enhance the sense of alarming change, as well as soothing the gaping hole left by my dad’s death. Or were Dad’s assorted illnesses so overwhelming that it’s easier for me to accept his passing, knowing fully well he’s in such a better place? I’m not sure what it is, but it’s something. This new normal isn’t as uncomfortable as I thought it was going to be.
Well, it’s not so bad for me. My mom still aches, but she too keeps busy. Yet, I didn’t live with my dad, he wasn’t my best friend. He was my father, living in immense pain, and now he’s free. Sure I wish he was here to enjoy the great-grandkids, but that wasn’t meant to be.
I have a full agenda for today; after some revising, I need to mop my kitchen, ha ha. I plan to do a little fabric shopping, then get to the store for groceries. The quilt I basted nearly two weeks ago is waiting to be finished, and the one on the wall…. Oi. I’ll think about that after I quilt the WIP. But amid all those tasks remains the lingering persona of a man who had been with me all of my life, but no longer loiters actively in this realm. A few days ago Mom asked me how I was doing, and I said that the grandchildren have been an enormous blessing. And that is one piece of a larger truth that for the most part I have a hard time expressing. My father’s death is another step on my journey of life. And while it’s not one of the more enjoyable bits, it is fashioning me into whoever I am still to become. None of this is of my own strength, let me add. It’s grace, pure and simple. And by God’s grace I will muddle on ahead, giving thanks for sitting Burritos and a smiling Little Miss.
She’s making her own noise, six weeks old and happy to be there. Soon enough she and her cousin will be fighting over Duplo hippos; thank goodness their Lego-loving auntie has plenty to go round.