Dad

I started this yesterday and thanks to firefox, I have to rewrite it. And now I don't have the juju vibes going. Oh well. Sentiment isn't my forte anyway.

I used to think I was the neglected middle child who never got any attention from my parents. I still think that sometimes, a little, and they both know it's true. But I'm different from my siblings. I'm introverted and they just aren't. I'm quiet and reflective and anylitical and they are just less so. So when they were relating with my parents, they talked and did stuff and went places and got really engaged in what they did.
I didn't have as much to say.
I was thinking about Dad and the things he used to do with us when we were kids, so many things he did with all of us together. Like bike rides and walks at the park and playing baseball and soccer and fishing and reading Hardy Boys to us at night. I love those things. I love those memories.
When I knew I was loved the most, though, were those times I had a few minutes with just his attention. He'd sit and play checkers with me (and probably let me win) just so I'd know how to play. He also played thousands of rounds of Hang Man, which I think might be the most tedious game to play with a little elementary schooler who can't spell. Once in a while we'd go out to ride bikes just the two of us, and I wish now that I'd done it more. Toward middle school I stopped wanting to go and ride bike because I preferred to have time alone. Maybe he understood that. I still wish I'd gone with him though.
When we moved to town, I left my bike behind by accident, so one night he took me out in his truck back to the old farm to try and find the bike I'd left. I don't think we found it, but we stopped at the gas station and he bought me some gum. I don't know why it seemed so important at that time, but it was.
He took me shoe shopping once, and he let me get the expensive ones because I liked them. And I'd been fighting with my mom about them for a long time.
He was always letting us use (and lose) his tools to make things. Mostly my brother was the project lead on these activities, but I was always close beside. We made a raft once, and Dad took it down to the river for us and let us try it out. We watched while it floated away and sank in the river. Then we went fishing, and I guess that was the end of that.
He just had so many other ways to spend his time, but he spent it on us kids. On me. And that's why I am the way I am. I think that he helped me be my quiet self by not pushing his way in and trying to make me be like my brothers. Maybe I was overlooked some. But I don't mind. Because there are a lot of kids who never even knew their dad, or who had to worry about abuse or disappointments. My dad didn't break his promises. My dad didn't leave me to fight through things on my own. He loved me and he showed me how to love, and he taught me about God.
And I'l lalways love him, no matter how old we both get.
That's what I'm thinking of on Father's Day. A man who grew up with a less-than-ideal father, who chose to break the pattern and be a good one. A man who knows more than half the people around him but never bothers to point it out. A man who can figure skate, ride a horse, wrangle a cow, quote the Bible, drive a bus, and troubleshoot circuit breakers. He's the Dad who was there. The dad who has time. The dad who didn't leave me with baggage. He's wise and strong and lives faithfully to the God who called him. And I am part of his legacy. What a blessing.

The 60's

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I am on a major 60's kick right now. Entertainment wise. It started when we looked up some old Haley Mills movies on youtube for the girls to watch, and now I'm all crazy for ugly hairdos and people saying "Daddy-o".
I'm watching the Parent Trap tonight. It's really a genius movie. Timeless. Even though Haley Mills might be the most annoying actress ever.
Other favorite sixties movies (not including westerns which are their own category and blog post):

Doctor Doolittle
Davey Crocket (Western but stands on its own. It's freaking awesome).
Swiss Family Robinson
Bye Bye Birdie
The Music Man
Summer Magic (Haley Mills. Ugh.)
Cheaper by the Dozen

For fun while I'm feeding Lois, I've been watching "My Three Sons". And then I remembered another show I liked when TVLand first started called "Family Affair". I recommend both shows. The kids love them, and they're good, wholesome entertainment.
And that is the purpose of this blog post. Maybe I just like the innocence of it or the technicolor, or maybe I'm in love with nice, handsome men in suits like Fred MacMurray and Brian Keith.


Totally random post. What can I say? I'm bored and alone at home, and I haven't slept well in weeks.

Five Years Later

I was in no mood to write this on what should have been Grace's fifth birthday, so I'm going to write it now.  It's been more than five years now. Five years of crying on Mother's Day, five years of watching my three friends' babies the same age grow up. FIve years of missed milestones. Five years of sorrow and joy, five years full of love and regret and wondering and wishing. Five years of freedom. Five yeras of healing.
At first people were so sensitive and thoughtful and I've appreciated the gifts and flowers and cards over the years. I guess five years is the mark when it's time for those to stop coming. I know my friends remember. I don't expect them to grieve like I do.
She would have been five, and I have no idea what kind of kid she would have been. Sweet and mild? Ornery? Would she like dancing and dressing up like her sisters? Or did I miss out on a wild-spirited tom boy who liked to play in the woods? She would have been five and I still wonder, all these years that have gone by, who she was. And I'll always have to wonder, and I'll sit together with my three girls on earth and wish that we had a forth spot at the table for Grace.
When do you fully heal? When does it stop hurting when that wound gets poked? When does it not ache inside on Mother's Day, May 8th? I don't know because I'm not quite there yet. And I don't think I really want to be. People might not understand that, and they might forget that I ever lost a baby. And they might not even know if they met me after that point. It's not important who knows. I know. And for me, that little remorse and pain is all I have of that child. That, and a promise of heaven, where I'll hold her, and she'll be the one who shows me around, and I'll tell her all of the dreams I'd dreamed for her, and she'll say they all came true because she's been with Jesus.
I know I don't have to cry, but I do. On Mother's Day and the other times I miss her like January 29th, the birthday that never was. I cry because it reminds me of her and it makes my heart stay soft.
Five years have passed, and each one has hurt a little less. It will continue to hurt less, but I'll never stop missing her or wondering, and I'll always, always hold her close to my broken-made-whole-again heart.