onetiredmama: To Memories

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I'm peeking at my son stretched out in his bed, sleeping. He's in his undies only, because it's so hot. His arms are thrown over his head and I think, who secretly replaced my little baby guy with this long, lovely child? (Then I think man we are gooood with the sunscreen. It's the end of summer and there's not a tanline on the child.) But it hits me.

He's not a baby anymore -- he is a little boy! How did this happen? When did this happen? And then, there's a lump of realization in my throat. My god. He is the same age I was when my father died -- just over 4 1/2. And I can't believe that sad little girl is now the mother to this little boy.

And it makes me cry -- for so many reasons, and for so many people. For my son first, because, really there is no guarantee I'm going to be here for you tomorrow, buddy. I know that first hand. And sadly these past weeks, it's a new reality surely for thousands of people along the Gulf Coast. You glide along through life most days, but tucked in the back of your mind you know there are no guarantees. You just try to keep that reality folded in the recesses of your mind.

And this realization of my son's closeness in age to mine during that horrible time makes me sad, too, for my deceased father. My god, you were 27 years old when a brain tumor came out of nowhere and left you dead 6 months later. The same kind that killed Dr. Greene on ER. Still incurable. 27! I wasn't even married at 27.I am older than my father lived to be.

But I'm also sad for me. And truthfully, angry, too. I look at Jack and think 'I was that young when the most important man in my life was taken from me?' Jack may be a little boy now, but he's still little! I was so little and young! How would my life have been different had he lived? How would Jack's change if I died today? Would he know I had loved him? Because as absurd as it sounds, despite the photographic evidence of hugs and smiles, and no matter how many times every living relative has told me how much my father adored me, his first child, I just don't feel it.

Lisa, her father David, and baby brother Bryan -- before we knew what was to come.

Would Jack feel it, if I were to die? Have I done enough, had enough time to leave my mark of love on him? Did I once feel my father's love, but then lose it, because there just wasn't time for it to seep in?

Did I subconsciously suspect he had abandoned me when he died because I wasn't deserving of his love? I do have some memories. Of leaning between the rungs of the railing to kiss him goodbye before work. Of peeking into the aquariums full of the tropical fish he raised. But so much of what my mother tells me, I don't remember. "Oh, he'd take you everywhere. When we went to get bricks to build the house, you were right there in the wheelbarrow." I wish I could remember something like that.

Have I given Jack any memories to carry him through life, should I be taken from him? Chasing birds on the beach? Maybe walking to the grocery store to sit down and share a pizza? I feel like there should be something more wonderful than what comes to mind. I remember Oprah was talking about her favorite guests and she mentioned a little girl whose mother had died.

And her favorite memory during that time when her mother was dying of cancer, was getting up in the middle of the night to eat cereal together. Would Jack have a memory like that? Notice I don't even mention Riley. I don't suspect she'd remember me at all. My brother was one year old when my father died, and resentful of the few memories I do have. He has none.