Holy Mac-n-Cheese!
Ages ... absolutely ages since I've posted here. Got 3 kids now, two boys and a girl. Risa, who I usually refer to as B or Little B is just turned 3 a bit ago and is giving me fits in the potty training department. She knows the drill, she just sometimes chooses not to do it. *sigh* She's ultra girly and I have no idea where she gets it from. She loves shoe shopping, her favorite color is pink, she's crazy about Disney Princesses, she thinks kittens and horses are awesome, she twirls around and says she's a ballerina and she gets emotional at the drop of a hat. My middle child, Jared, just had to have a tooth fixed the day before yesterday. A friend "accidentally" hit him, causing his teeth to clack together, and chipped his tooth big time. Last year he busted his head open while playing dodge ball and ended up needing 18 staples to the head. He's 9, he's hyper, a junk food junkie, great at math and I usually call him Bare, short for Bare Bones ... though he thinks it's Bear. Lucas, who I most often call Monk, is 11, diagnosed with Asperger's and ADD, great at reading, kind of sucking at math, big on sports and wants to be a broadcast journalist when he grows up. I think he secretly dreams of being a sports commentator of ESPN.
Since the last time I posted an entry here my aunt Rosa, who was diagnosed with ALS five years ago, passed away May of last year. We were all very sad when she passed, but it was tempered by a certain sort of relief that she was no longer suffering. My aunt was a very lively woman. She loved to dance, work in her garden and she loved to be out walking. She walked almost everywhere. She laughed a lot and she was always the loudest voice in the room. By the time she passed she could no longer talk at all, she had been in a wheel chair for years, could do nothing for herself, was on a liquid diet and no longer left her house for anything. We miss her terribly, but we're all glad she no longer has to suffer. She was interred at the same cemetery as my grandfather and my cousin George.
My grandfather passed away five years ago. He was in and out of the hospital for a while and there at the end all his systems were failing him. Here's something I posted on my devientART journal about four years back:
"Every year since my grandfather's death I go to his grave on Dia de los Muertos and I take him his favorite cafe con leche and pan dulce. Sometimes I wonder what the cemetery folk make of that. Last year several of my family members showed up at the same time and my grandmother lead us in the rosary. Papa Nino was more than my grandfather, he was the only father I really knew and I still miss him. Even non-family members called him Papa Nino, and my grandmother Mama Nina. it was so strange to me, as a child, to hear adult neighbors call my grandparents that. The only people who called my grandfather by his name were his work buddies and even they called him Don Chano or Don Max. My younger son's middle name is Maximiliano, in honor of my grandfather. It meant a lot to him too. He used to call my son his tocallito. I miss him so very much.
When I go to the cemetery I always bring a bit of candy with me. You see, my cousin George is in the very same cemetery as my grandfather, in the children's section. It's been 11 years since he died on Cinco de Mayo. He was only 3 years old at the time. His family was in a home supply store, like Home Depot, Menards and Lowes, when a stack of drywall sheets fell over onto him. He died instantly, blunt trauma to the head. His brother, only 2 years older, was right by him when it happened and is still affected by it to this day. I still remember the phone call we got and my reaction to it. It was the first family death that really affected me. Every year my aunt Guera sets a little basket out by his plaque and whoever comes to visit him brings him candy for his basket. He'd be nearing 14 now had he lived. It's a sad thought.
Every year we gather at the cemetery for Dia de los Muertos and we remember the good stuff ... the fun stuff. And I always remember my grandfather, my nocoltzin, the way he looked on his birth day, the last one we got to celebrate. He sat in front of his cake with it's lit candles as we sang to him, his eyes tearing up, while he looked at each of us in turn with so much love and sadness in his eyes. I knew in that moment that he thought it would be his last birth day with us and it made me sad to think he was right, but as I looked around I realized that for his lat birth day, this was a good one. He sat surrounded by his children, his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren all there to celebrate him. And when he died, in that hospital room with tubes and machines plugged into his body, he was not alone ... we were there. He was surrounded by his children, his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren who had spent their every moment possible in that last week of his life holding vigil in the hospital. In his last days, his last moments, he knew he was loved and that he would be missed.
Just felt like sharing ... that's what journals are for, right?"
Well, that's where things stand. I'd say that I'll post more later, but I'm really bad at actually doing it. I haven't blogged much for a while now. It takes time and effort. Time, I'm always short on and effort ... well, I'm lazy by nature, so ...
I'm on Twitter, if anyone cares to follow.
Since the last time I posted an entry here my aunt Rosa, who was diagnosed with ALS five years ago, passed away May of last year. We were all very sad when she passed, but it was tempered by a certain sort of relief that she was no longer suffering. My aunt was a very lively woman. She loved to dance, work in her garden and she loved to be out walking. She walked almost everywhere. She laughed a lot and she was always the loudest voice in the room. By the time she passed she could no longer talk at all, she had been in a wheel chair for years, could do nothing for herself, was on a liquid diet and no longer left her house for anything. We miss her terribly, but we're all glad she no longer has to suffer. She was interred at the same cemetery as my grandfather and my cousin George.
My grandfather passed away five years ago. He was in and out of the hospital for a while and there at the end all his systems were failing him. Here's something I posted on my devientART journal about four years back:
"Every year since my grandfather's death I go to his grave on Dia de los Muertos and I take him his favorite cafe con leche and pan dulce. Sometimes I wonder what the cemetery folk make of that. Last year several of my family members showed up at the same time and my grandmother lead us in the rosary. Papa Nino was more than my grandfather, he was the only father I really knew and I still miss him. Even non-family members called him Papa Nino, and my grandmother Mama Nina. it was so strange to me, as a child, to hear adult neighbors call my grandparents that. The only people who called my grandfather by his name were his work buddies and even they called him Don Chano or Don Max. My younger son's middle name is Maximiliano, in honor of my grandfather. It meant a lot to him too. He used to call my son his tocallito. I miss him so very much.
When I go to the cemetery I always bring a bit of candy with me. You see, my cousin George is in the very same cemetery as my grandfather, in the children's section. It's been 11 years since he died on Cinco de Mayo. He was only 3 years old at the time. His family was in a home supply store, like Home Depot, Menards and Lowes, when a stack of drywall sheets fell over onto him. He died instantly, blunt trauma to the head. His brother, only 2 years older, was right by him when it happened and is still affected by it to this day. I still remember the phone call we got and my reaction to it. It was the first family death that really affected me. Every year my aunt Guera sets a little basket out by his plaque and whoever comes to visit him brings him candy for his basket. He'd be nearing 14 now had he lived. It's a sad thought.
Every year we gather at the cemetery for Dia de los Muertos and we remember the good stuff ... the fun stuff. And I always remember my grandfather, my nocoltzin, the way he looked on his birth day, the last one we got to celebrate. He sat in front of his cake with it's lit candles as we sang to him, his eyes tearing up, while he looked at each of us in turn with so much love and sadness in his eyes. I knew in that moment that he thought it would be his last birth day with us and it made me sad to think he was right, but as I looked around I realized that for his lat birth day, this was a good one. He sat surrounded by his children, his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren all there to celebrate him. And when he died, in that hospital room with tubes and machines plugged into his body, he was not alone ... we were there. He was surrounded by his children, his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren who had spent their every moment possible in that last week of his life holding vigil in the hospital. In his last days, his last moments, he knew he was loved and that he would be missed.
Just felt like sharing ... that's what journals are for, right?"
Well, that's where things stand. I'd say that I'll post more later, but I'm really bad at actually doing it. I haven't blogged much for a while now. It takes time and effort. Time, I'm always short on and effort ... well, I'm lazy by nature, so ...
I'm on Twitter, if anyone cares to follow.