Suddenly it's summer here. Actually, we kind of had summer in March for about a week, and then it got cold again and stayed cold until a couple of days ago. Every year this seasonal switch results in at least one sunburn in this household. Every year we seem to say, "Well, I didn't know it was going to be this sunny
this early!" no matter how early or late the warm weather actually arrives. And who knows; it is perfectly possible that we will have another snowfall this month. Regardless, our grass thinks it's summer, and yesterday my brother-in-law came and showed my son (who did all the mowing last year) how to do the start-of-summer maintenance on the mower. And then today my son showed me (who has mowed a lawn perhaps once before in my whole life) how to cut the grass. I stood there, stunned into actual laughter at the incredible teaching skills he has. He started by asking me questions to get me thinking about the process:
What do you think you do first? No, what do you need to do before that? Ok, what next? Then he demonstrated each step for me, explaining as he went. And then he made me do it myself, and provided feedback as I went. After I had gone around the yard a couple of times, he stopped me and explained a few details he hadn't told me yet, and corrected a mistake I was making. Clearly this child has an instinct for teaching, and clearly he has also picked up a few strategies from his parents over the last 14 years. I was proud enough to bust, and I wished Ramsy could be here to bust with me.
This is what I am finding is the thing that underlies the sense of wrongness over him not being here: it is not a feeling of injustice that he has been denied these moments or experiences, but the fact that he is not here for us to share the experiences with. I would have had so much fun talking about our boy with him, giggling in that funny pride that we shared all these years. Nobody else in the world knows what our son has always been like, his little habits, the peculiarities of his speech, the personality traits that he has developed or struggled against, and so no one else in the world will see a moment like this with all the same nuances that I do anymore. It's just me. It's a searing loneliness.
On a different note, the melting of the snow also brought me a sense that it was time to choose a headstone for Ramsy's grave. On my first visit to the business I chose to work with, the owner was very careful to assure me that there is absolutely no rush to this decision. He says that sometimes people feel pressured to have a headstone up by a certain date, or to appease people who might ask, "Have you put one up yet?" I personally have not felt at all pressured, but it seemed so kind of this man to say that this is my decision, not the general public's, and I will know when I am ready. We worked together on a list of decisions, and then I let it simmer for a few weeks. On the next visit, I gave him a sketch to have made up into proofs; then I picked up the proofs and let it simmer some more. Although for me this is not an emotionally difficult process- to me it feels like another opportunity to express something about Ramsy, and about me- I have noticed an underlying anxiety. When I paid attention and listened to what my anxious thoughts were saying, this is what I discovered: I was worried that I would finalize the design and have it ordered and put up, and
then discover that I really wanted to say something different. It's like when I'm shopping for a new skirt, or whatever, and I have been to every store in the mall, and I have already
found a skirt that I like-but what if in some other unknown store, there secretly exists The Perfect Skirt, and I don't even know it?
Once I realized that this was simply another form of that shopping worry, I felt a lot better. But here's the thing that I find quite funny- you know how, when we are talking to someone about a decision and there is still some lack of certainty about it, we reassure them by saying, "Well, it's not carved in stone"? Uh, this time it will actually be carved in stone. In actual fact. I get quite a few laughs from this absurdity every time I think of it. Man, life is crazy. And you just have to laugh.
