I weep for my son

I know it has been a while since my last entry.   Today’s events prompted me to sit down and get these thoughts out of my head. 

Today started with my thoughts on other parents in our hometown, where a threat had been issued to shoot twenty children in five schools between two counties.  No names or places had been specified, it was a general, vague threat, but it was there.  I was thankful that I was able to get a job that enables me to homeschool my son.  I wasn’t faced with the choice of putting him potentially in harm’s way or potentially losing the job that allows me to feed him. 

There was no question in my mind that he was safe, at home with me, re-enacting various battles from World War II.  I hugged him repeatedly, finally eliciting an “Ugh, mommy.  That’s too much hugging.”  I am OK with that, since he is alive to tell me it was too much. 

As I got ready to leave for work, though, reports of the Boston Marathon bombing started hitting the newswaves.   I want to not talk about it in front of my son, I want to avoid this topic because now, he is getting old enough to understand that this stuff is bad, that our world is not safe.  And I want to cry.    

The last mile of the race was dedicated to the Newtown victims.  Someone deliberately destroyed something that was there to comfort the families of that tragedy.  If they find out who did it, my bet is on a gun nut because of the national discussion of gun control, and I feel shame.  Someone took a marathon and a memorial and used it as an attempt to politicize it, additionally causing more pain and hurt. 

How is this our world?  How can I look at my son and tell him that good will prevail?  I will continue to teach him about peace and love, forgiveness and hope.  I believe in them, even in our darkest hours.  But right now, it’s pretty damn dark, and hope seems so very far away. 

I've decided

I don't want to get over her.  I just want her back. 

Death of a Pet

When someone you love dies, be it a pet or a human, you grieve. 

Today we lost my beloved cat, Caitlin.  I had raised her from kittenhood and took her through 12 years of her life.  Last year, around this time, she stopped eating.  I poured food and  milk down her throat and bullied her back into fighting shape.  For a year, she was back to herself.  She bullied Tiger, she bullied our dog, she hogged all the food.  Not bad for a cat who barely weighed five pounds at her top weight.  Then, last week, I got worried.  She wasn't eating much anymore. 

This time, there was no saving her.  I tried.  Since Thursday, I made her drink, I made her eat, but at the end, she was barely moving, stiff, and cold.  Last night, when I held her, she tried to purr at me, and I knew for certain that this was it.  She was leaving. 

I've done this before.  I am a veteran pet owner.  The downside of the loving is the losing.  I try to explain that to Little Guy, who struggles right now with the concept of death and "gone forever."  This is his first real experience with it, and he's reacting the way a six year old does.  This is painful, this is sad, and that means this is something to be avoided.  If you ask him if he's sad, he'll tell you no.  If you ask him why he cries, he'll tell you he's not even as the tears are falling down his face.

He wants to get a new cat, something I think to distract from the pain.  We told him that wasn't going to happen for a while.  We needed to grieve for Caitlin.  A new cat could not replace Caitlin; it would simply be a new cat.    I'm going the whole "It's OK to miss her.  It's OK to be sad.  That shows that you loved her." 

I lie to him too.  I tell him that everything is OK.  I think that's a lie all parents tell their kids when it comes to death and dying.  Because, let's face it.  It's not OK.  It won't be OK for a while.  Someone we loved died.  It hurts.  It is, however, a fact of life.  It will take time for things to get back to normal.  I just opened a can of cat food for our Tiger cat and started bawling. 

*sigh* 

Wordless Wednesday - Spring?

Jonquil