Flashback: It's that time of year...

I checked my blog stats the other day and noticed that this post is getting a lot of hits. Because this is back to school week, I think is deserves a flashback, no? Click on the link to read my thoughts about being Catholic, a natural/attachment parent and using the public schools...

Flashback: PSTD, the NICU and Control

If  you've read this blog for more than two seconds, you know that I suffer from PTSD related to my son's early birth and NICU stay. While his stay was shorter than some, and he is healthy overall, the birth and aftermath left me emotionally scarred for a very long time. The link below links to an old blog post from June of 2010. George was 19 months old, Cole was two months and I was still having dreams.

The good news? I am so much better than I was. SO MUCH. When my niece was born in April, I was able to walk into her room.  All I saw was a lovely little lady, my sweet Miss Who and all the things that made her Miss Who. Clinically, you can go on-line and read about what a micro-preemie looks like. I didn't see that. I saw her big hands and feet, her tiny cow lick and how she loved to hold her mama's hand. There were no overwhelming memories. No dreams. No huge, sobbing tears. The PTSD beast did not rear its head.

Unless you have been there, you have no idea how huge this is for me. Huge. And throughout the entire NICU journey my sister went on, I didn't have one knee-buckling flashback. Not one and I spent enough time in her room that I should have. I should have been on my knees, sobbing at the memories and I didn't.

Will this happen for everyone? I don't know. I can't promise that. It was a long slogging road and I won't consider myself healed. I do consider myself better, stronger and healing.

I can't promise that anyone will be able to walk back into a NICU room after having their own NICU baby. I can't promise you will be able to do what I did. But I can promise that, with the proper help and time, it will get a bit better. Easier. Healing.

Flashback: Trigger Control

Thank you, Sheepdogs.

For America's Memorial Day, it's time for a flashback of a flashback- the sheepdog essay I posted last year.

Thanks for always getting our back, guys.

(Please note that I did not write this essay. The author's credit is on the orginal post.)

Feminister Odyssey Blog Carnival

My post, "The Yellow- what now?," is featured in the Feminist Odyssey's Blog Carnival about women in literature. Pop over to  Our (Feminist) Playschool to see more wonderful articles about feminism, women and literature!

Labor Love

I don't "do" Worldless Wends. Nevertheless, here is a photo for you to enjoy! My doula took it 28 months ago when I was in labor with Cole. It was the perfect spring day and we went for a walk to help move the contractions along. George insisted on coming with me and insisted on being carried. He sat atop my belly and snuggled in. My doula told me he would smiled as I swayed, squated and hummed through the contractions. He took a nap in my arms, his last nap as the "baby" of the family. Just a few hours later, his brother was born. The next day, he went to the hospital to see him and told us, in no words but with actions, that this was HIS baby.

I love this photo.

Flashback: Druken Guardian Angels

A friend and I were chatting on Facebook about the difference between first children and all the others. Joseph didn't have a bouncey seat until he was two months old. The others had one and needed one from the get go. Why? To keep them safe while I showered or while they napped. I know you are thinking, "Newborns don't DO anything! What could they get into?" Well, it's not them... it's their siblings!

From Dec., 2008.

An on-line friend (her blog, Seven Angels... is linked on the right) once told me about a picture she has of an angel, holding a bottle of something, and looking like he's been put through the wringer. Today, I couldn't get that image out of my head. I think Georgie's Guardian Angel is going to be a drunk.

First the early birth. Then the NICU. Now, his sister.

I set George to sleep in his bouncy chair in our bedroom. He was happy and asleep so I went puttering around the house. The older two were watching TV, so I put things away, read the paper, that sort of thing. Then, I noticed only Joseph was watching TV, so I went to find Camille.

Her bedroom door was shut.

This means she is up to no good, because she HATES having her door shut. With a mad passion. HATES IT.

And I heard the baby crying.

From behind her door.

The chic had PICKED HIM UP and CARRIED HIM INTO HER ROOM and put him to sleep IN HER BED.

I knew she could get him out of the chair and sit on the floor to hold him but not this! Thank GOD she didn't put a pillow on his face like she has before!

I scooped up the baby and pulled Camille out from behind the curtains, where she was hiding. I didn't get mad at her, even though she had PICKED UP THE BABY and WOKEN HIM UP. I told her Baby Georgie is too little to sleep in her big girl bed and she cannot pick the baby up without my premission. I got him back to sleep and back in his bouncey... but this time I managed to swaddle him, put him on his side and fasten the buckles. And boy was she MAD! She couldn't get him out now!

It was ten am but wasn't it five somewhere? I knew I could have used a drink and I bet Georgie's Guardian Angel was slumped against a wall somewhere, wiping his brow and slugging back a cold one!

Camille was almost 3 at the time, and Georgie was a few weeks old. I normally swaddled the baby and put him on his side in the bouncey, so he couldn't be strapped in. I figured out how to swaddle and strap him in after this. Oh, in case you are wondering, he's still Cami's "baby."

Flashback: Why We Will Never Go Back to Branson

Orginally published in July of 2006. Joseph was twenty seven months old and potty training. Camille was six months old. My brother was about to leave for basic training and my parents had the brilliant idea to have "one last family trip" together. It was a nice idea in theory but in reality... no.


After spending the morning with friend's while The Caminator and I went to a training session, Joseph helped me pack the van. When Adam came home, we threw the last minute items in the car and headed towards Branson, a 2-3 hour drive.

About 3/4ths of the way there, I smelled... something. Adam did too and we made plans to stop ASAP to change Joseph's pull-up. Then we heared, "Uh-oh. Blankey poopy."

Uh-oh indeed. Adam pulled over at the nearest town and we saw The Mess. It was the Worst Kind of Car Trip Mess. We drove... and drove... and drove all over town looking for a Wal-Mart parking lot. We had planned to stop and use one billion diaper wipes to get Joseph and his car seat presentable enough for the measly hour left in the car.

Then I had a light bulb moment. A friend had used one of those coin operated hand-held car washes to clean her son's exasaucer. I gave this idea to Adam, who thought I was brillant. We drove around looking for one of those before finding one at a Conaco.

I pulled Joseph out of the van and used a bunch of wipes and a trash bag at my feet to clean him off. I decided I didn't love his 50 cent garage sale find shorts enough to keep them, so they went in the bag with the pull-up. Adam clipped Blankey to the floor mat clips and hosed him off. Let me tell you, a power spray realllly gets poop off a blanket. Joseph stood there, howling, "Bllllaaannnkeeeey!"

Adam dragged the car seat to the hose and sprayed it off too. We got Joseph's legs, calling out, "It's not child abuse! It's poop!" to passerbys. (They were headed towards the condom machine. Ironic?) One man meantion he had three children... and he was chuckling at us.

Thankfully, I always carry trash bags with me, so we put one on the seat, one on the car seat, a thin blanket and set the slightly less stinky Joseph on it. We suddenly agreed that we needed a new car seat for Adam's car, so we headed to KMart for the cheapest seat we could find.

One new car seat, a pack age of pull-ups, laundry soap, Fabreeze and a MatchBox car later, we were out of KMart. As I waited in line with our purchases, I heard a mother trying to encourage her teenage daughter to get her tounge peirced. The cashier had a tounge peircing and they were telling the daughter how awesome it would be. I really, really wanted to say something but I had a feeling they would just dismiss me as a hot, tired, poop smelling mother with a baby who was diving-bombing for my boob. Not that that was happening, or anything.

While Adam installed the car seat, I climbed in the back to nurse the Very Hungry Camille. The breeze was blowing and the night was cool, so the hatch and both doors were open. A car pulled kitty-corner to us and a man and his young daughter (10-12) got out. The gentleman said, "Ma'am?" so I answered, "Yes?" rather coolly. Who was this guy and why was he talking to me?

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was talking to someone else," he said very politely. I smiled and nodded.

After he finished his conversation, he walked past my car, turned his head to look back at me and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell earlier. I am very sorry."

I thought he thought he had disturbed Camille nursing, so I said, "Oh, you weren't yelling! Don't worry about it! I was just sitting back here, nursing my baby. You didn't bother us at all!"

The man turned beet red, I could see this even in the dusk, and started falling all over himself with apologizes. "I'm so embaressed. I didn't even realize you were doing that! I thought you were enjoying the cool breeze! I didn't see the baby! I'm so sorry!"

I was laughing and trying to reassure the poor guy. "No, I nurse anywhere! You have nothing to be sorry for!" and so but he just spun around and RAN into KMart! The poor guy; I think I must have scarred him for life!

We finally got into Branson late that night. I really, really wanted a shower but I laid down with Camille to nurse her to sleep. Joseph had ANOTHER blow out and we popped him in the shower. As Adam tucked him into bed, I climbed into the shower... and considered never coming out.

Surprisingly, we have traveled with the children since this trip. Not surprisingly, we have zero desire to ever go to Branson again.

What is your best or worst memory of a vacation?

Happy Memorial Day!

May 28 is Memorial Day and my brother's birthday. In honor of him, my father, Adam's grandfather and everyone else who has ever served in the military, I think it's time to repost the "sheep dog" entry. Thank you, sheepdogs, for fighting for freedom.

Jill Edwards is one of the students at the University of Washington who did not want to honor Medal of Honor winner USMC Colonel Greg Boyington because she does not think those who serve in the U.S. Armed services are good role models. I think that this response is an excellent and thought provoking response.

General Dula is an Air Force 3 Star retired. Gen. Dula's letter to the University of Washington student senate leader.

To: Edwards, Jill (student, UW)
Subject: Sheep, Wolves and Sheepdogs

Miss Edwards, I read of your 'student activity' regarding the proposed memorial to Col Greg Boyington, USMC and a Medal of Honor winner. I suspect you will receive a bellyful of angry e-mails from conservative folks like me. You may be too young to appreciate fully the sacrifices of generations of servicemen and servicewomen on whose shoulders you and your fellow students stand. I forgive you for the untutored ways of youth and your naivety. It may be that you are,
simply, a sheep. There's no dishonor in being a sheep - - as long as you know and accept what you are. Please take a couple of minutes to read the following. And be grateful for the thousands - - millions - - of American sheepdogs who permit you the freedom to express even bad ideas.

Brett Dula Sheepdog, retired
----------------------------------------------------------

ON SHEEP, WOLVES, AND SHEEPDOGS
By LTC(RET) Dave Grossman, RANGER,
Ph.D., author of "On Killing."

Honor never grows old, and honor rejoices the heart of age. It does so because honor is, finally, about defending those noble and worthy things that deserve defending, even if it comes at a high cost. In our time, that may mean social disapproval, public scorn, hardship, persecution, or as always, even death itself.

The question remains: What is worth defending? What is worth dying for?
What is worth living for? – William J. Bennett - in a lecture to the
United States Naval Academy November 24, 1997.
One Vietnam veteran, an old retired colonel, once said this to me: "Most of the people in our society are sheep. They are kind, gentle, productive creatures who can only hurt one another by accident." This is true. Remember, the murder rate is six per 100,000 per year, and the aggravated assault rate is four per 1,000 per year. What this means is that the vast majority of Americans are not inclined to hurt one another. Some estimates say that two million Americans are victims of violent crimes every year, a tragic, staggering number, perhaps an all-time record rate of violent crime. But there are almost 300 million Americans, which means that the odds of being a victim of violent crime is considerably less than one in a hundred on any given year. Furthermore, since many violent crimes are committed by repeat offenders, the actual number of violent citizens is considerably less than two million. Thus there is a paradox, and we must grasp both ends of the situation: We may well be in the most violent times in history, but violence is still remarkably rare. This is because most citizens are kind, decent people who are not capable of hurting each other, except by accident or under extreme provocation.

They are sheep.
I mean nothing negative by calling them sheep. To me, it is like the pretty, blue robin's egg. Inside it is soft and gooey but someday it will grow into something wonderful. But the egg cannot survive without its hard blue shell. Police officers, soldiers, and other warriors are like that shell, and someday the civilization they protect will grow into something wonderful. For now, though, they need warriors to protect them from the predators.

"Then there are the wolves," the old war veteran said, "and the wolves feed on the sheep
without mercy." Do you believe there are wolves out there who will feed on the flock without mercy? You better believe it. There are evil men in this world and they are capable of evil deeds. The moment you forget that or pretend it is not so, you become a sheep. There is no safety in denial.

"Then there are sheepdogs," he went on, "and I'm a sheepdog. I live to protect the flock and confront the wolf." If you have no capacity for violence then you are a healthy productive citizen, a sheep. If you have a capacity for violence and no empathy for your fellow citizens, then you have defined an aggressive sociopath, a wolf.

But what if you have a capacity for violence, and a deep love for your fellow citizens? What do you have then? A sheepdog, a warrior, someone who is walking the hero's path. Someone who can walk into the heart of darkness, into the universal human phobia, and walk out unscathed.

Let me expand on this old soldier's excellent model of the sheep, wolves, and sheepdogs. We know that the sheep live in denial, that is what makes them sheep. They do not want to believe that there is evil in the world. They can accept the fact that fires can happen, which is why they want fire extinguishers, fire sprinklers, fire alarms and fire exits throughout their kids' schools. But many of them are outraged at the idea of putting an armed police officer in their kid's school. Our children are thousands of times more likely to be killed or seriously injured by school violence than fire, but the sheep's only response to the possibility of violence is denial. The idea of someone coming to
kill or harm their child is just too hard, and so they chose the path of denial.

The sheep generally do not like the sheepdog. He looks a lot like the wolf. He has fangs and the capacity for violence. The difference, though, is that the sheepdog must not, can not and will not ever harm the sheep. Any sheep dog who intentionally harms the lowliest little lamb will be punished and removed. The world cannot work any other way, at least not in a representative democracy or a republic such as ours. Still, the sheepdog disturbs the sheep. He is a constant reminder that there are wolves in the land. They would prefer that he didn't tell them where to go, or give them traffic tickets, or stand at the ready in our airports, in camouflage fatigues, holding an M-16. The sheep would much rather have the sheepdog cash in his fangs, spray paint himself white, and go, "Baa." Until the wolf shows up. Then the entire flock tries desperately to hide behind one lonely sheepdog.
The students, the victims, at Columbine High School were big, tough high school students, and under ordinary circumstances they would not have had the time of day for a police officer. They were not bad kids; they just had nothing to say to a cop. When the school was under attack, however, and SWAT teams were clearing the rooms and hallways, the officers had to physically peel those clinging, sobbing kids off of them. This is how the little lambs feel about their sheepdog when the wolf is at the door.

Look at what happened after September 11, 2001 when the wolf pounded hard on the door. Remember how America, more than ever before, felt differently about their law enforcement officers and military personnel? Remember how many times you heard the word hero? Understand that there is nothing morally superior about being a sheepdog; it is just what you choose to be. Also understand that a sheepdog is a funny critter: He is always sniffing around out on the perimeter, checking the breeze, barking at things that go bump in the night, and yearning for a righteous battle.

That is, the young sheepdogs yearn for a righteous battle. The old sheepdogs are a little older and wiser, but they move to the sound of the guns when needed, right along with the young ones. Here is how the sheep and the sheepdog think differently. The sheep pretend the wolf will never come, but the sheepdog lives for that day. After the attacks on September 11, 2001, most of the sheep, that is, most citizens in America said, "Thank God I wasn't on one of those planes." The sheepdogs, the warriors, said, "Dear God, I wish I could have been on one of those planes. Maybe I could have made a difference." When you are truly transformed into a warrior and have truly invested yourself into warriorhood, you want to be there. You want to be able to make a difference. There is nothing morally superior about the sheepdog, the warrior, but he does have one real advantage. Only one. And that is that he is able to survive and thrive in an environment that destroys 98 percent of the population.

There was research conducted a few years ago with individuals convicted of violent crimes. These cons were in prison for serious, predatory crimes of violence: assaults, murders and killing law enforcement officers. The vast majority said that they specifically targeted victims by body language: Slumped walk, passive behavior and lack of awareness. They chose their victims like big cats do in Africa, when they select one out of the herd that is least able to protect itself. Some people may be destined to be sheep and others might be genetically primed to be wolves or sheepdogs. But I believe that most people can choose which one they want to be, and I'm proud to say that more and more Americans are choosing to become sheepdogs.

Seven months after the attack on September 11, 2001, Todd Beamer was honored in his hometown of Cranbury, New Jersey. Todd, as you recall, was the man on Flight 93 over Pennsylvania who called on his cell phone to alert an operator from United Airlines about the hijacking. When he learned of the other three passenger planes that had been used as weapons, Todd dropped his phone and uttered the words, "Let's roll," which authorities believe was a signal to the other passengers to confront the terrorist  hijackers. In one hour, a transformation occurred among the passengers - athletes, business people and parents. -- from sheep to sheepdogs and together they fought the wolves, ultimately saving an unknown number of lives on the ground.

There is no safety for honest men except by believing all possible evil of evil men. - Edmund Burke

Here is the point I like to emphasize, especially to the thousands of police officers and soldiers I speak to each year. In nature the sheep, real sheep, are born as sheep. Sheepdogs are born that way, and so are wolves. They didn't have a choice. But you are not a critter. As a human being, you can be whatever you want to be. It is a conscious, moral decision. If you want to be a sheep, then you can be a sheep and that is okay, but you must understand the price you pay. When the wolf comes, you and your loved ones are going to die if there is not a sheepdog there to protect you. If you want to be a wolf, you can be one, but the sheepdogs are going to hunt you down and you will never
have rest, safety, trust or love. But if you want to be a sheepdog and walk the warrior's path, then you must make a conscious and moral decision every day to dedicate, equip and prepare yourself to thrive in that toxic, corrosive moment when the wolf comes knocking at the door.

For example, many officers carry their weapons in church. They are well concealed in ankle holsters, shoulder holsters or inside-the-belt holsters tucked into the small of their backs. Anytime you go to some form of religious service, there is a very good chance that a police officer in your congregation is carrying. You will never know if there is such an individual in your place of worship, until the wolf appears to massacre you and your loved ones. I was training a group of police officers in Texas, and during the break, one officer asked his friend if he carried his weapon in church. The other cop replied, "I will never be caught without my gun in church." I asked why he felt so strongly about this, and he told me about a cop he knew who was at a church massacre in Ft. Worth, Texas in 1999. In that incident, a mentally deranged individual came into the church and opened fire, gunning down fourteen people. He said that officer believed he could have saved every life that day if he had been carrying his gun. His own son was shot, and all he could do was throw himself on the boy's body and wait to die. That cop looked me in the eye and said, "Do you have any idea how hard it would be to live with yourself after that?" Some individuals would be horrified if they knew this police officer was carrying a weapon in church. They might call him paranoid and would probably scorn him. Yet these same individuals would be enraged and would call for "heads to roll" if they found out that the airbags in their cars were defective, or that the fire extinguisher and fire sprinklers in their kids' school did not work. They can accept the fact that fires and traffic accidents can happen and that there must be safeguards against them.

Their only response to the wolf, though, is denial, and all too often their response to the sheepdog is scorn and disdain. But the sheepdog quietly asks himself, "Do you have any idea how hard it would be to live with yourself if your loved ones were attacked and killed, and you had to stand there helplessly because you were unprepared for that day?" It is denial that turns people into sheep. Sheep are psychologically destroyed by combat because their only defense is denial, which is counterproductive and destructive, resulting in fear, helplessness and horror when the wolf shows up.

Denial kills you twice. It kills you once, at your moment of truth when you are not physically prepared: you didn't bring your gun, you didn't train. Your only defense was wishful thinking. Hope is not a strategy. Denial kills you a second time because even if you do physically survive, you are psychologically shattered by your fear, helplessness and horror at your moment of truth. Gavin de Becker puts it like this in "Fear Less", his superb post-9/11 book, which should be required reading for anyone trying to come to terms with our current world situation: "...denial can be seductive, but it has an insidious side effect. For all the peace of mind deniers think they get by saying it isn't so, the fall they take when faced with new violence is all the more unsettling." Denial is a save-now-pay-later scheme, a contract written entirely in small print, for in the long run, the denying person knows the truth on some level.

And so the warrior must strive to confront denial in all aspects of his life, and prepare himself for the day when evil comes. If you are warrior who is legally authorized to carry a weapon and you step outside without that weapon, then you become a sheep, pretending that the bad man will not come today. No one can be "on" 24/7, for a lifetime. Everyone needs down time. But if you are authorized to carry a weapon, and you walk outside without it, just take a deep breath, and say this to yourself..."Baa." This business of being a sheep or a sheep dog is not a yes-no dichotomy. It is not an all-or-nothing, either-or choice. It is a matter of degrees, a continuum. On one end is an abject, head-in-the-sand-sheep and on the other end is the ultimate warrior. Few people exist completely on one end or the other. Most of us live somewhere in between. Since 9-11 almost everyone in America took a step up that continuum, away from denial. The sheep took a few steps toward accepting and appreciating their warriors, and the warriors started taking their job more seriously. The degree to which you move up that continuum, away from sheephood and denial, is the degree to which you and your loved ones will survive, physically and psychologically at your moment of truth.

"If It Weren't For The United States Military" "There Would Be NO United States of America"

(This essay is not my own but was published on my first blog in June of 2008. I was teaching in a homeschool co-op and the students had alot of questions about the war in Iraq. My brother was deployed with the US Army and I asked him what he would tell my students. He sent me this.
The images are taken from Facebook, authors unknown.)

Flashback: Grief and Joy

(This post was originally published on November 4, 2009 on my first blog. You can read it here. It has been updated and edited from its orginal version. At the time of the writing, Georgie was 11 months old and I was pregnant with Cole. I am reposting this in honor of our March for Babies, which is today)

Someone once told me that once you are a parent, you can understand how pure joy and pure grief  can co-exist. I didn't understand it then and I didn't fully understand it when Joseph was born. Not even when Camille was a baby, did I get it. I mean, I understood pride and grief. I am so, so proud of my kids when they master a new mildstone but I grieved a little for the fun, sweet stage they were forever leaving behind.

Then Georgie was born. And I got it. I did. I was so joyful my baby was born but I grieved so much because he wasn't with me. I was joyful when I pumped milk, but I grieved because there was no tiny mouth guzzling it directly from my breast. Everything, everything was a swirling mixture of those two strong emotions.

[In 2009] Georgie's nursing story was recently in LLL's New Beginnings.  I wrote it because I was asked, because there is a need for successful preemie nursing stories and because I thought maybe I could give hope to someone else in my situation.
.
JOY

Last night, when I got home from group [therapy], Adam told me someone named "Beverly" had called his parents looking for me. We were confused, because as to why someone would call his parents looking for me since we have different last names. And they couldn't know me very well if they didn't know my husband's first name! But, yet, the name sounded familiar.I took her number and promised my husband I would call her back.

This morning I had a fleeting thought, "I think that is the NICU's lactation consultant." And it was.

JOY.

We had a wonderful conversation. She thanked me for sharing the story and for being brutally honest. She said that alot of mother's go home breastfeeding and tell her that they continue but, of course, you don't REALLY know. On a professional level, she was happy to know that one of the preemies DID go home nursing.

And I am JOYFUL that Georgie's story could make someone else happy!

She asked about the troubles we had, which were touched on in the article. And I was brought back to that HORRIBLE month where my baby slept for hours on end and had to be forced fed. I remembered vividly standing in the hallway of the church where LLL met, telling my friend, "I'm not convinced he's home to stay." It took all my willpower to not burst into great, gluping sobs as she hugged and me and promised me he was home for good.

GRIEF.

I remembered being scared and fustrated when Georgie's bili levels wouldn't go down. My doctor promised me that he would request a bili blanket to do home photo- therapy for Georgie so, no, he wouldn't have to go back to the hospital. I trusted my doctor but I lived in fear and grief.

It is the most gut wrenching, GRIEF-filled thing to take your baby home and then fear he's going back.

The LC said that they have a parent group at the hospital so they can get feedback from the parents on how to better serve them. She said the problems I had with him coming home were due to his gestational age. Honestly, I don't remember them telling me he could have problems gaining or with his bili levels. That doesn't mean they didn't tell me; there are chunks of time that I don't remember. And would I have listened? I was so filled with JOY at FINALLY bringing my baby home that I really didn't give a damn about anything except getting HOME.

When we got off the phone, I was glad I had to take Camille to dance class. I couldn't sit around crying; I had things to do. I'm going to pick Joseph up from school and go to the mall since I need some shirts. I think we might do lunch too and then get their hair cut and pick up some medicine for me. I need to be busy and forced-feed myself joy or I will fill up with grief

I don't know why it made me so sad. I think it was the vivid memories, the retelling, the reminder of how HARD it was. It's the fear that we will be back there, the fear that this baby will have it WORSE than George. It's the grief.

Georgie's story needs to be told. There needs to awareness of what happens to late term preemies, what is normal and what isn't. People need to know you can nurse but it will be a long, slogging road. People need to know the JOY in every birth, no matter what the gestation, but the GRIEF too, that comes with seeing a child born too soon.

When I got off the phone, I picked up my big little guy, hugged him and kissed him, because at the end of every grief there is always, always joy.