I’m veering off topic by a lot. I’m just going to say that my son is not worldly in the slightest and move on.

We were in the car on the way to my office when AJ asks, out of nowhere as per the norm, “Why do we celebrate 4th of July?” I’m not good with history, but I did my very best to explain our declaration of independence from England and why we chose to do so. He took this to mean that “we’re at war with England!” I explained that this was a long time ago and we are fine with England now. In fact, we’re pretty good friends. We like them. We do tea without tossing it over boats.

No. This is unacceptable. They were bad. They must pay. Grudges must be held.

I could feel the stewing going on in the back seat…and I chose to ignore it.

Until trivia night last night. There was a question regarding the back of the new quarters and the design on the back of one of them. The question had nothing to do with England, nor did it have to do with 4th of July or our war with England. But AJ chose to answer the question as “Florida. Because it has a direct line from England.”

I may not be strong in history. He’s not strong in geography. We’re both strong in grudge holding, but I think he’s got me beat. He mutters “England” in the same voice I utter “Derek Jeter.”

That’s my kid.

England, you better watch your back.

As expected, seeing my family had a calming, cathartic effect on me. It has taken many years for home trips not to stress me out, but my relationships there are finally where I feel like they need to be and I could have stayed much longer this go around. Sometimes you just want your mommy and your sissy. I think the whole trip can be summed up in these three pictures.

Sweet

Comforting

Loving

We’d moved to a larger room in the back of The Dubliner and our group was gaining people like crazy. By this time, many in the group were inebriated. I was drinking my Coca-Cola (yeah, yeah, I’m drinking caffeine again–I’ll pay for it later) and enjoying the show.

It’s not my job to tell you everything that they did or said. It’s really not fair to them. Truly. They desperately need to be tattled on, but they all have their own blogs and if they can remember, more power to them. What I remember most keenly was our waiter. In an Irish pub, anyone with any kind of European accent sounds Irish. This is particularly true when everyone in the room is inebriated. What happens is that everything is much funnier than it really is.

Because of this situation, when it came to conversing with the waiter, I thought that it was hysterical that he wasn’t really Irish (look, he SOUNDED IRISH–if it looks like a Lucky Charm and walks like a Lucky Charm–yep, I’m kidding and yep, someone is gonna take that personally and yep, someone is gonna call me names). If you’d like to call me sauerkraut, go ahead.

Anyway, I made it my mission to discover the heritage of our waiter. As such, I refused to give him my order until he would disclose. What? I was in Washington. Disclosure is the name of the game. You can’t live there and not carry around your birth certificate, right?

Eventually, he gave it up to me and my friend Sarah that he was English and French. Sarah is French so this was an incredibly delightful conversation that ended with us holding our waiter up for ten minutes while we compared family histories and had a new best friend who was now required to serve all of our food “with love” because it was inevitable that we were somehow related (me being 1/4 English and Sarah being French).

And yes, I required him to say that everything had love in it.

This was much better than the experience we had at a bar later in the week where they wouldn’t allow us in because Caleb’s license had expired and they refused to believe he was over 21 even though he was supporting a full logger beard and it was clearly him on the license. And then when the guy who refused to let us in mouthed off to Caleb and Ben and made the situation ten times worse… Oh, you want to hear about that, too?

It was a long weekend. And I met a girl named Beer.

People from Tennessee do not share this sentiment with me.

In fact, I would say that the term that applies to the fine folks here is “scared to death of snow and ice.” Last night, before a single flake of snow had fallen or flurried, the mere thought of snow had schools cancelled. This is how it has been here for the duration of the time I’ve lived here.

Schools have been cancelled tomorrow due to the threat of refreezing. Logically, I understand this. There are plenty of winding roads and hills and valleys here. Buses cannot safely travel them and if you can’t get kids to school safely, school should be cancelled.

What I don’t understand is the mad rush to the grocery stores to buy necessities? At most, the snow will last one day. I don’t know of anyone that doesn’t have a days worth of food in their home. Those that don’t have food don’t have the funds to mad rush Kroger.

When I lived in rural Arkansas, storms knocked the power out for days and it couldn’t be restored. They had a genuine reason for fear. In the Metro Nashville and surrounding areas, we generally don’t experience this phenomenon.

I’m not knocking my TN folks. I love living here and the people are second to none. I’ve just lived in different conditions. We’d go to school in 6 inches of snow. Teenagers, myself included, drove in it. Nothing was canceled and even when there was little heat in the schools, we went. No, I didn’t walk in 3 feet of it, smart alecks. But we did have the old school radiators and it was cold!

I just think it’s kind of…wimpy.

There. I said it. I think it’s wimpy.

I want enough snow to make forts like we used to when I was a kid and lived across from a church. They would plow the church and the entire small neighborhood would choose a side of the plowed area, dig into it and we’d have serious snowball fights. We’d sled down the 8-10 foot forts for hours. When we were done, we’d go into the house, have some hot chocolate, warm up, and be back out within the hour.

As I got older, and had older friends, we took it to the next level. There were bigger sleds and bigger hills at the park. One friend had a house in a rural setting and four, yes four, of us went down a hill at a time. I remember being between Rich and Chad and the sled tilting as we crashed into trees. I had a huge scrape on my cheek, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

Or Dave and I power sledding down what we thought was snow, but was really ice on the largest hill in the park. That was a huge mistake.

Or James and I attempting to snowboard down the hill behind his house and me biting it and vowing that I would never faceplant again because I was “never doing this crap snowboarding” again.

Or Jenny and Rachael throwing snowballs at me while I tried to get in the fort more quickly.

Or Olivia sprinkling Reindeer food on the snow so Santa would come.

Yes, please let it snow. I want my son to have memories like mine, too. Even if it’s just 2 inches of snow to make angels in or some flurries.

June 2008

Sometimes I think I’ve accepted my aunt’s death. Sometimes I know I haven’t. One of the last and best memories I have of her was when she and my whole family (Leon, Adrian, Olivia and Mom) went to Gatlinburg for a week. Besides listening to her snip at my mom while she smoked cigarettes and talked about drinking coffee with Adrian, we also wandered around the town.

I love Gatlinburg for many, many reasons. Mainly, though, when I enter the Pigeon Forge/Gatlinburg area I am filled with a sense of well-being that I don’t usually experience elsewhere. The beauty and serenity of the mountains there fills the empty spots I try so hard to hide in my life.

I didn’t know that the week spent there would be one of the last times I would spend time with my aunt. Traveling makes me irritable, crabby, and hard to get along with. I hate change. I long for a stable routine. What this means is that going on a trip is generally going to make me unhappy and snippy at some point even though I could be enjoying myself immensely.

After a particularly hard day of dealing with one another, we had all settled in at a hotel near the aquarium. One of the features of this particular hotel was its offering of karaoke on the weekends and we were there on a weekend. Anyone that knows Leon and I knows that we like to sing. Neither of us is as good at it as we used to be, but it increases our mood and decreases our stress. We made our way into the smoky karaoke bar area and after being surprised by a co-worker (who had no idea I was going to be there that weekend and vice versa) we settled down to watch some truly marvelous and truly awful karaoke.

Selection was slim as I am no good with “old school” country music and being Gatlinburg, TN, the majority of the music was such. They did have “My Ding-a-ling,” which will crack up several members of my family that remember when Mikey, Jeremy, April and I discovered the song at a young age. I wasn’t going there. We’d just bought one of the Karaoke Revolution games and it had the song “Why Can’t I” by Liz Phair on it. I thought I was somewhat rehearsed in it and wouldn’t feel completely inept, so I signed up to sing it.

I’ve always had stage fright. Even when I was required to be on stage due to extra curricular activities, I barely held it together. I never got solos in choir because of this fear. It made me shaky. Actually, I probably was quite terrible and that contributed to the lack of solo time, but the shaky voice was right up there. I digress.

As I was singing in the smoky bar, I noticed my aunt wander in and sit next to Leon happily smoking a cigarette. What made me laugh was that later she said, “You were so good I had no idea it was YOU on the stage.” Well, ok.

The rest of the week was memorable and I have some amazingly funny pictures. Later, I remembered that Gatlinburg was special to Penny because she got married there. She loved it there.

Tonight, I was thinking about her. Every now and then I put her name in a search engine. The only thing that comes up is notice of her death or memorial. It reminds me that it really happened. I remember how she looked the last time I saw her–but it wasn’t her. Those that don’t believe in a soul have never seen a beloved, fiery-spirited aunt lose her spark. The soul IS real.

I think of her often at night, when the house is quiet and I’m alone with my thoughts. I googled her, yet again, and realized that I was having a physical response to this. I got tense and shaky, but didn’t know why. And then I realized that Why Can’t I was playing on the tv. It was completely random, but I have to wonder about these things. Since that night, I’ve associated this song with her…

My faith is probably not as strong as it used to be. I spend a lot of time wondering about God and Earth and why things exist the way they do. Most of my thoughts center on a place outside of Earth and where people exist when they are gone. My beliefs about death and the afterllfe are conflicted.

So, since I’m human, I put my faith in something that knows more than me and choose where she is based on my heart and not my head.

For me, my Aunt is and will always be in Gatlinburg. She was with me there when we ran in the middle of a thunderstorm up a hill for 3/4 of a mile to get the car with her cursing mom the whole way there while I tried not laugh for fear of passing out. She’s in the aquarium where we made comments about crabs doing illicit things. She’s in the smoky karaoke bar where I sing to her without her realizing it’s me. She’s terrified on the skylift but dealing with it by smoking. She’s resting by the stream that we watched our first day there. Yes. That’s where she is.

Why can’t I breathe whenever I think about you?

Here’s one example.

In the middle of a disagreement…

Leon: (begins laughing uncontrollably)
Jillian: WHAT?!
Leon: I was just thinking “Maybe if I stay very still she’ll think I’m dead and attack something else.”
Jillian:…
Jillian: …
Jillian: I don’t even know what to say right now
(Later he admits that he thought “It’s not working, run away!”)

Yep. That’s our marriage.

When Leon or I am sick, he hates to go to school and when he is here, he will bring ice packs, aspirin, wet washcloths and as many hugs, kisses and cuddles as we will take. There are many nights that he went to bed on a Friday night at 7:30 because I was sick with a migraine and laying there. He would lay next to me, patting my hand, and would eventually drift off.

There is a certain sense of guilt that comes with having chronic pain–that burden that you place on the people around you. The feelings that you may have of feeling like less of a person some days often express themselves at the weakest moments and not always in the best of ways. They often present in anger, misery or irritability. AJ is immune to that when someone is sick.

This isn’t to say that he doesn’t have his egocentric “me me me” side, because he certainly does, but it has never been as strong as I expected. And I’m watching him shed it rapidly and sooner than the developmental scales predict and I wonder about the kind of man he’ll become, and how quickly it will happen. Will I ever be ready for it? People keep telling me to have more children. My guess is that they recognize that there is so much love within me for this little guy that it breaks me.

I worry less about it when I see that I haven’t done an awful job and that my health issues haven’t affected him so dramatically. As he was going to bed tonight, he kissed my cheek, hugged me tightly and said, “I hope you feel better tomorrow, mama.” Then, he gave me the dimpled grin that melts my heart and he and his hoppy little weiner dog went to sleep.

Somehow, I think we’re all going to be alright…

Until recently, I have never really been a Beatles fan. I always associated The Beatles with the bee bop music they did in the late 50s, and I disliked it. Then recently we got Rock Band: The Beatles and that all changed. I realized that I knew dozens of good songs from the 60s (mostly from movies and the like) that were Beatles songs and I just never knew it.

As a consequence of my not being a fan of the Beatles, and my wife not listening to them very much, AJ was also never really exposed to The Beatles until Rock Band came along. Instantly, he was hooked. He bee bopped along with the music and shook his groove thang all night long while we played. Eventually, he asked something he’s never asked about a band before: “Dad, can we go see the Beatles play?” The following conversation then ensued:

Me: “No, buddy, they’re not making music anymore.”
AJ: “Why not?”
Me: “Well, two of them are dead now, but before that, they broke up.”
AJ: “How did they die?”
Me: (Not exactly remembering at that moment how George Harrison died) “Well, one of them got shot.”
AJ: (in horror) “WHY WOULD SOMEONE SHOOT ONE OF BEATLES?! THEY’RE SO NICE!!”
Me: :blank stare: “Honestly, I have no idea.”

I will tell you that since that conversation, I have had to learn about the history of The Beatles, because there has been a neverending blitz of questions from AJ about The Beatles: which ones are alive, which ones are dead, how they died, whether the ones who are still alive are still singing, and most importantly whehter we will ever get to meet any of The Beatles. I’ve had to repeat most of this information four or five times; AJ wanted to learn it well enough so that he could tell other people all about The Beatles as well, and I have caught him more than once telling other people “did you know” facts about the Beatles.

Now here is how I know AJ will have good musical taste for the rest of his life: on Saturday, we went out trick-or-treating on a street here in town where all the houses were decked out in Halloween garb. One of them had a KISS cover band, complete with costumes and make-up. We stopped to watch them for a couple minutes, then proceeded down the street. As we were walking away, AJ turned to me in disgust and said, “Why do people dress up like KISS?? They’re not popular.” Then he shrugged and said dismissively, “They’re dead anyway.” I informed him that they were not dead, and he shrugged again and walked off. I haven’t heard a question about KISS since.

That’s my boy.

I remember the terror I felt the first time I realized that he no longer had the baby scent.

And then the first time he smelled. I mean really smelled. As in “go take a shower you smell.”

And the first time he actually met my mouth instead of my chin or my nose when he gave me a kiss.

And all the small things that I find myself now terrified of losing: his hand when he crosses the street, the goodnight kisses, when he falls asleep in our bed–his little hand searching for my shoulder and the sweet smiles in his sleep when I say his name and tell him I love him, the first time he’s embarrassed when I tell him I love him in front of his friends, or the first time he doesn’t rush to greet me when he comes home from school.

Every stage of his life has been my favorite. He’s my favorite. He’s always been my favorite. No one makes me laugh as hard as him. He has my sense of humor. Of course I’m going to think he’s hilarious. He’s thoughtful and serious and sensitive and laughs at fart jokes because they are hysterical. They are. I don’t care what you think. THEY ARE HYSTERICAL. Prudes.

I don’t know how to let him go. But I will because I love him with quiet desperation and care. And the day will come when he has to let me go, too. Loving someone means that you will eventually feel the loss that comes with letting go. And I’m scared to death.

Days like these motivate you to do something. Rain makes me want to curl on the couch with my book or my nap blanket, and hermit away the hours in someone else’s life for a while. The sunshine either makes me want to hide my head under said blanket or roast my porcelain skin so I can feel the sun on my hair. It’s almost as if mother nature finally sent the memo to Nashville: fall has come. The air is crisp and has the clean scent of the season.

Fall is my favorite. I am excited to take pictures of the changing leaves and hills here. I love to wear my blue jeans and long sleeves and a jacket and turn the heat on for just a minute to defrost my car in the morning. I love hot chocolate and clear night skies to look at the moon and stars. I like the lack of bugs and the increase in orange and all the Halloween decorations that show the fun side of people that normally come across as, well, a bit rigid.

Fall break comes in two weeks. Maybe I will finally take the time to explore the Civil War areas around here. Granted, the area I live in is all historical area, but we never go to see the “sight-seeing” places. I think that people that live in towns rarely do. There is beauty surrounding me here. Fall brings it out in full force. I’m exhilarated by it.

Oh! Yesterday was a big day in our house. We had 6 very merry UNbirthdays and 1 very merry birthday to celebrate! We did so with ice cream with a side of ice cream. It’s how it should be for his day. AJ looked at the cake and said, “Mama, you are making my mouth slobber!” Happy UNbirthday today to Leon.

I remember one time when my cousins and I were in my grandparents basement during a storm. Clearly, it had to be after Easter, as we had each dragged a bag of candy onto the bed downstairs and we were bartering candy to one another so that “no one would starve for the duration of the storm.” Melodramatic little beasts, weren’t we?

There is something about a good storm that appealed to my grandfather. I don’t think he could explain it, however, because I have inherited it and I can’t explain it, myself. Rain, thunder and lightening are peaceful to me. They soothe me.

It could be because they remind me of him. He’ll always be the father figure in my life and he’ll always be my hero. Maybe the rain reminded him of someone.

Maybe it just had the “cool” factor that it has for my son, AJ. He likes nothing more than to stand in the rain. He’ll curl up next to me and use his cajoling voice and ask me sweetly if he can wear his rain coat and boots and stand outside. I smile just as sweetly and tell him no. Most times.

But part of me, that part that is still the child on the porch, smiles sweetly back and, now and then says, “Get them on. You’ve got 10 minutes and if you see lightening, get back in here.”

There’s just something about a thunderstorm.

It was time to get out of the house and try to regain sanity after being sick most all of the week.

A.J. had scrounged up some pocket change. I have no idea where he found it, but my guess is that he raided couches and bathrooms and tables. He had almost $5. In little boy world, this is a fortune and can be spent on things that will drive your parents absolutely nuts.

He’d scored some Halloween window clings from the $1 bin and some matchbox cars. Of course, they had to be done in separate trips to a very patient cashier who counted out his change with him. She deserves an award.

As we walked out to the car, in the pouring rain, without umbrellas or coats (we laugh in the face of pneumonia), I heard him softly singing next to me: “I ammmm a happy boy, a happy boooooy, a happy BOY! I ammmm a happy boy, a happy booooy, a hap-eeee-BOY!”

I guess we’re doing something right.