A Human's Work Is Never Done

I was working in the garden this morning, raking the ever present pine needles off the gravel, when I had a bit of an epiphany. I was thinking about yesterday morning and mulling over what happened to me emotionally. It began a couple days ago when Lana was hired for a new job and needed a copy of her high school diploma. A search ensued. I found my high school diploma as well as one from college. I found Allie’s high school and college diplomas and Eric’s diploma from law school, but nothing for Lana. 

During the search process I pulled out photos, family documents, baby books, sentimental notes, birthday cards, report cards and momentos of all kinds. I uncovered photos I’d been looking for and photos I did not remember. I came across precious paperwork about my grandparents and great grandparents. In my paternal grandfather’s file I found the poem my maternal grandmother wrote after my brother Jeffie died at the age of seven. There was also the Thanksgiving sermon my father gave three months after Jeffie’s death. 

Grandma Alice’s  poem left me gutted. I had the biggest, baddest cry. It’s been sixty-five years, but it still feels painful to think about my family’s loss. My father’s words surprised me. It was poignant that he talked about Jeffie in his sermon and I believe the little girl he was speaking of was me. I will share Alice’s piece, and a snippet from the sermon, but back to the epiphany. 

Clearly, the work of a human is never ending. The emotional journey is long and can be excruciating, but compelling, as part of the human process. Growth can be subtle, but so beautiful. I want to feel the feelings and do the work, but it seems life is a constant interruption. It seems that marriage is a constant interruption. My relationship is ever-present and needs a lot of tending. Sometimes I’d like to just put it on the back burner, on a low simmer, and tend to myself. Tend to myself in relation to my thoughts, my history, my feelings.

Our Boy George

It’s been a stressful time at our house for the past couple weeks because our boy, George, a French Bulldog, is recovering from ACL surgery. He has an orthopedic injury because he forgot he’s a Bulldog and chased tennis balls like a Labrador. We live in a three story townhome and George is not allowed to climb stairs for four weeks. We carry his sorry ass up to the kitchen / family room once a day for a hang. He’s not allowed to do ANYTHING and he’s the worst patient. In over two weeks he has only drunk water (actually chicken broth) on his own one time. The rest of the time we’ve had to give him water in a medicine syringe and add a bunch to his food 

Every time we think we have a method for getting six pills a day down his gullet he goes on strike and clamps down that square jaw. Peanut butter worked once, then he turned up his snub nose. Same for pill pockets. For a few days we just forced them down, but it wasn’t easy. This is a dog who literally will bite the hand that feeds him. I’ve put pills down the throats of Dobermans and German Shepherds with no problem. With this guy it’s a fight to the finish. He’s stubborn, but so are we. For now, soft French cheese has won the day. Seems appropriate.

He’s been up at night, popped a stitch somehow and started bleeding. We took the donut off to feed him and he reached up with the bad leg to scratch his ear. Aargh. The sedative makes him snore so loudly that we’ve been taking turns sleeping in the guest room. And by taking turns, it’s usually me that bails. To be honest, Boy George has been a bit of a jerk, but he’s our jerk and we love him. 

Now that I’m writing this I’m wondering if the epiphany is that I’m burned out from caring for the dog. Maybe both things are true, and to quote Robert Frost, we have miles to go before we sleep. This is going to be a long process. The recovery seems long, the marriage seems long, the life seems long. I know how grateful I am for all of it. I am fortunate in many ways and I am so loved. But for the moment, everyone can talk and snore amongst themselves. I’m going back into the hidey hole where I’ve got 1960 on my mind. 

Excerpt from “One Man’s Thanks” by Reverend Lynn Partridge. November 20, 1960:

Occasionally when I come home after having been away all day, which is unusual for me, I find a little girl with flashing eyes who says, “Hi! Daddy. Pick me up.” Sometimes I do, most always, I must admit. And she hugs me, tight and warm, nuzzling beneath my ear. And I am thankful for the young in life, through whose wondering eyes I am sometimes allowed to see a view of life quite startling to me, where the people are all big, the tables the height of one’s head. In that queer world it is a long climb into an easy chair and one meets the strangest creatures eye to eye. And sometimes I remember, in those misty moments, and in this one, too, a son I once had, but no longer do. What I remember is not his talk or quizzical way, but his courage and his bravery. As he lay, irreparably battered on the so-clean table of the hospital room, he did not know what would become of him, and yet he did not cry out, but smiled and talked. And I am thankful that I had the strength and the wisdom, too, not to scare him with death. When it came to him, as it must to all, it was as natural as it can be, not horrible as it may. And I am thankful, too, for the strength and honor, if such I have, to be a worthy father to a son such as he. 

Doug, Wendy, Priscilla, Jeffie

Grandma Alice with Doug, Priscilla & Jeff

Poem by my mother’s mother, Alice Freehafer

He’s gone

Gone awhile, yet not so long

That finding some discarded truck,

Or crumpled sock, or handmade toy

Quickly stops a busy foot,

And fills with wonderment and joy

A tired and aching heart.

For here again is that dear boy.

His spirit fills the room. 

Here is a truck that was pushed aside

To make way for a thought still untried,

Here is a sock rolled up in a ball

Because feet bare are best of all.

Here is that hastily hand made toy

Made by the hands of our dear boy.

Brief

Brief is the moment,

And then the ache,

And the emptiness of the room.

Then being the woman that you are,

You slowly pick up the broom.

He’s gone

Gone awhile, yet not so long,

That in the bustle of the day

A casual phrase from casual lips

Rocks a rollicking room.

His words, oft heard

Now yours from a flippant tongue.

A pause, a glance at an unmasked face,

Or simply rattle on.

Whatever is done, the fact remains

That again he was very near

Near? 

Near to a heart, yes,

But near to a hand

As spaceless infinity

He cannot be gone!

He cannot be gone!

He’s here in every room. 

He’s out in the yard climbing a tree

Or sliding in the snow.

He’s hopping out of the school bus now

Or in the car to go.

He’s standing beside the Christmas tree

His eyes bright with the glow,

Snipping and pasting and griping away

When rain continues all day.

And then the heat of summer here with fish and dust galore,

And thousands of bugs just waiting for

A jar with a holey lid.

Then leaves begin to change and turn

And nuts fall all around.

And there he goes to find a box

To gather them off the ground.

He cannot be gone!

He cannot be gone!

Oh, God

He’s gone

It’s true…

Words, words, painful words

Why do I write as I do? 

Certainly nothing comforting here

To help you when you’re blue,

Except to tell you that another heart 

Remembers and is aching,too.

If only my faith could help you now,

There are many things I’d say.

I’d say the loving God I feel

Is with your son today.

Loving, so tender, warm and true

As to make it Christmas the whole year through.

But these words probably cannot help

Knowing you as I do.

He’s gone

Yet he will never be gone.

He’s here.

He’s there with you.

Just as he filled the page I write

He seemed to be born anew.

But memories fade I’ve heard you say;

I say they only soften.

But memories aren’t the thing you know

It’s his spirit pure and true.

It’s the qualities that made him Jeff

That no other child could do.

This is the challenge that faces us now,

Not fluid memories.

Follow the example your son has set

And he’ll always be near to you.

Bravery and loyalty, love and trust

To be true to him, follow we must.

Vitality and eagerness and creativeness

Craving for learning and happiness.

These are his stars and to keep them bright,

They must be born anew in our hearts each night.

These are the things that will help him grow

As each new day we start. 

To try we’ll give him a purpose in life

Rather than oblivion in the dark.

And so this Christmas when we hear,

Of a babe in a lowly manger

And how he’s born anew each year,

And how wandering men bowed low in fear

Yet followed his radiant star.

Remember that Jeffie’s little star

Can glow with a lovely light,

And he, too, can be born anew

On this beautiful Christmas night,

And be with us and be with you,

Not just tonight, but our whole life through.

  

*************************************************

My parents, my grandparents and my brother are all stars in the sky now. Sometimes I feel their spirits.

George is doing slightly better and turns four years old today.

I’ve found Lana’s diploma and have almost cleaned up the chaos created by the search. 

The search

No Kings

Yes on Proposition 50. Obviously. It only gets implemented if Texas does its dastardly gerrymandering. These are not normal times, and we can’t act like they are. If you live in California, for the love of humanity, please vote in the special election. 

It could be the waning light or the full moon, or my dog’s impending surgery, but things feel fraught and raw right now. We are also coming up on the one year anniversary of the election, which is the same day my daughter, Lucy, was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of forty- two. She told me when she was picking up my grandson. I was paralyzed with fear and numb from shock. The election returns were coming over the transom, the tv was on, but it sounded like so much babbling to me. 

I sat on the couch literally unable to move. I was home alone because Eric was working at the polls. Finally, I called Lucy’s biological father because the oncologist would need family history. It wasn’t reassuring. That side of the family has so much cancer. Even a male cousin died of breast cancer because it wasn’t diagnosed in time. 

Fortunately, Lucy’s prognosis was good, they caught it early, but it was still hard on everyone. Lila and Finn were five and eight and Mommy had surgery Christmas week. We got through it all and Lucy was a trooper, as usual. The radiation was no fun, but manageable and now Lucy is back working hard, as she does. It’s possible I may not have properly processed this chain of events, but I’m so grateful for the excellent medical care she received and that life is normal again for my grandkids. 

Usually I can stomach the news, but right now it feels overwhelming. Ukraine. Gaza. A judge’s home exploded with her family in it. Our cities are becoming militarized. Innocents are zip tied and abducted from American streets. Little kids are shot to pieces. There have been over 300 mass shootings already this year. As Shannon Watt says: when there are guns everywhere we aren’t safe anywhere. 

Every time I open a container of food or medicine and have to peel off the tamper resistant packaging I become so frustrated. In 1982 seven people in Chicago were killed after using cyanide laced Tylenol. An entire industry evolved in response to those incidents. Of course we don’t want American citizens to be poisoned or killed! Clearly there was no financial
incentive to keep the status quo. 

Perhaps we were able to reign in the lobbyists. Our congress people weren’t bought and paid for so directly. Citizens United opened the financial tap and it has only flowed more fiercely. Thanks to that 5-4 Supreme Court decision in 2010, corporations were considered “people” and able to wield disproportionate influence and political power. 

In the San Francisco area we have had some cruel Octobers. The Loma Prieta earthquake hit the Bay Area on October 17, 1989. The Oakland Hills Firestorm began October 19, 1991. Polly Klaas was kidnapped and murdered in October 1993. The month started to feel cursed and I began to dread it. 

Perhaps I’m feeling sensitive and blue because I’m halfway through Fredrik Backman’s 448 page novel, My Friends. Backman has such a gift for simultaneously exploiting human brightness and darkness that it’s challenging to keep up emotionally. People are shit and treat others like shit. People are beneficent and treat others with beneficence. Back and forth. 

These times are cruel, draining, frightening. When Jane Fonda and Joan Baez say these are the scariest times they’ve ever lived through, it makes them feel even more scary. There are all the normal irritations and tediums  of daily life and then everything else on top of it. I think about Trump and Netanyahu and wonder how many people have to die and how much of this Earth has to be destroyed so two guilty, corrupt men can keep themselves in power and out of prison. And by the way, I still hate gas powered leaf blowers.

Brown Eyed Boy Of The World

Photo by Torrey Fox

It was a late November afternoon and the setting sun was reflecting off the windows in the hospital waiting area. I was getting more and more anxious. My baby was having a baby and it had been hours since I’d had any news. My daughter and son-in-law were on the same floor, really just down the hall but I could hear nothing. The last update was around mid-day when Allie texted saying they thought she’d be able to start pushing soon. That was hours earlier. I reached out to everyone, looking for ways to ease my mind. Was Allie ok? Was the baby alright?

This baby was my fifth grandchild and I’d never felt this nervous before. Three of them had been preemies so there had been no time to be anxious before the births; just plenty of time after. This baby was full-term, my daughter was huge and it was all baby. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving and the photos from the holiday showed a beautiful woman who was more than ready to be a mama. I texted my son in law’s mother asking if she’d heard anything. No, she had not and she was also on pins and needles.

At 3:24 I sent Denzel a message: You guys ok? Nothing came back. At 4:49 pm, just when I was about to jump out of my skin, I got the best text I’ve ever received. Denzel wrote this: He’s here. Then: And healthy. It still brings tears to my eyes to think of it. I wrote back: I’m over the moon. I waited a few minutes so they could tend to Allie and then went to meet my new grandson. When I walked into their hospital room music was playing and the baby was skin to skin on his father’s bare chest. The baby name had been under wraps the entire pregnancy. We had extracted some clues, and did a lot of guessing, but we were nowhere close. Allie told me his name was “Zay”. It was the first time I’d heard this name, but since then I’ve heard it several times. They were smart to keep it a secret. People, and I consider myself a person, have so many opinions, and they’re not afraid to share them.

Zay Ramon Allen was absolutely perfect. He was strong and lively, his color was good, and his hair! My side of the family has never seen a newborn with such hair. Long, black, beautiful silky hair. Looking at Zay’s face after he was born was eerie. He looked so much like Allie as a newborn. They have the same cheeks, chin and downturned mouth. The top half of his face looked more like papa, especially the slightly puffy eyes. When Denzel was born his eyes were so puffy that his mother refused to believe he was hers. The nurses brought Denzel to Casandra and she said, “That’s not my baby. That’s an Eskimo!” The photos prove her point. Fortunately, the swollen-face stage did not last and he grew into a very cute kid and a handsome man.

Zay and I had a little hang after he was born. We had a chat and I told him some things. One of the things I told him was that his mom and dad had loved each other for a long time and they had been waiting for him. We all had been waiting for him and we already loved him so much. I held his hand while he got a shot and wailed, then settled down.

Those newborn days seem so long ago. Zay is now a 16 month old toddler running all over the place. His life has gone exceedingly well, thus far. Before the age of one, Zay took numerous 
airplane flights, including two trips to Europe. At seven months he went to a wedding in Tuscany with his parents and his other grandmother. At nine months Allie and I took him to Stockholm which is where his maternal grandfather was born. In Swedish the term for mother’s mother is “mormor”. One day we were having “fika” at The Hotel Diplomat Cafe when a handsome Swedish man (don’t get me started on how good-looking the Swedish men are) looked at us and asked, “Mormor?” Yes, a thousand times yes. I am Zay’s Mormor, aka Gigi, even though I don’t have a drop of Scandinavian blood in me.

While we were in Stockholm I thought a lot about my former in-laws who met on the street in that very city. I also thought about how my immigrant ancestors arrived in Massachusetts in the 1600’s. I have a relative, Martha Carrier, who was hung as a witch in Salem. We’re also distantly related to both Taylor Swift and Jeffrey Dahmer. Go figure.Allie’s father is half Swedish and half Norwegian and he is the immigrant ancestor. Denzel is African American with a grandmother from Panama. Our big, beautiful melting pot, embodied in one tiny person. 

Zay is obsessed with tennis and loves "reading". He's extremely strong, but has a sweet disposition and gentle demeanor. In addition to European jaunts, Zay has cruised the East Coast and spent a lot of time in museums. He’s usually among the first to catch any of the great exhibits in San Francisco. He loves his meals and snacks and afternoon naps and outings in the car. In fact, Zay lives the life of a senior citizen.

My first four grandchildren all have bright, blue eyes. Zay’s eyes are brown like his Dad, but they look so familiar to me. I look in his eyes and I see my mother and her mother and my sisters and my brother who died long ago. I am the only one with green eyes and I was hoping Zay would take after me, but his eyes are just right for him. The hair is always going to be a thing for Zay. People notice it and comment on it and want to touch it. It’s not black person hair or white person hair, it’s Zay hair. The smooth, silky hair has given way to a gorgeous cap of tight curls. It’s quite dark, but in the sun there are lovely copper glints.

More time has elapsed, as time is wont to do. Our sweet boy is now careening towards two years old. His second birthday will be on Thanksgiving. Zay’s childcare has been a group effort. When Allie went back to work I began caring for him on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Allie worked from home on Mondays, while also running her business. Denzel has him on Wednesdays and on Fridays his parents trade back and forth.

This week they toured a preschool and it sounds like he will begin in a few months. I felt a little sad thinking about ending our Gigi / Zay days, but preschool will be good for him. He’s ready to be with other kids his age. The school is excellent and diverse. Except for his father, most of the faces he’s seen around him are white. When we’re out in public and Zay sees a black person he just stares at them. He needs to know more people who look like Dada.

Grandmothers In Love

I hope Zay has a little brother or sister. Siblings are important. I will share in caring for him or her, until they are ready for preschool. By that time I will be around 70 years old. I have been helping raise kids since I was 13. I had my first child at 23. I have a degree in developmental psychology and I ran a licensed home daycare. I have been a nanny, a babysitter and a live-in au pair. I took care of kids as babies who are now in their fifties. Raising children has been the longest, strongest thread woven throughout my life. I am ready to be relegated to after school pick up and special occasion Gigi.

I have dedicated my life to supporting others and helping them succeed. I have three daughters, a step-daughter and five grandchildren. I’ve had three husbands. My kids are all successful people and I am proud of them, individually and collectively, but with my eldest it’s easiest to see how I wouldn’t be who I am if not for her, and she wouldn’t be who she is if not for me. Our circumstances were fragile, and it was my first time being a parent. We succeeded through grit and will and perseverance and love. It’s my time. If not now, then when?

Life is fleeting and ephemeral and all the cliches. We don’t know how much time we have. I still work, and probably will for quite a while. I do some volunteering and that’s important to me, but I’d like to get back to writing. I’ve been so disconnected from it and my concentration skills have been sabotaged by the internet and the pandemic and the politics of our time. And the grandchildren.

It’s been an intense nine year run with the grandkids. Three of them were born prematurely, at 31, 32 and 35 weeks. It’s been dreamy and tedious and made my spirit soar. At times it almost broke me. I will never forget the winter day that I tried to get Finn into his car seat after ski lessons. He yelled at me: I hate you, my crazy stupid grandmother and I’m going to split your head open with an axe! He said this while wearing head to toe camouflage. We’ve moved past that and Finn has settled down, but that moment was hard to shake, as much as I know it wasn’t personal. It rarely is.

Zay's grandfather is so eager for Zay to talk. His verbal skills are snowballing. He’s saying new words every day. There’s no stopping it. I’m not in such a hurry for the words. Kids say the cutest things, but I have had words hurled at me that I didn’t need to hear. He’ll get there. Just give him time.

Baby Boy - Adventures With Finn

 

Everyone is a beneficiary (or victim) of their circumstances. Each person that comes into our lives rides in on their own wave of time and space. The most recent important person to enter my life is Finn. He is an extraordinary child born into challenging times. Finn was born September 29, 2019. He weighed in at 4 pounds, two ounces and was eight weeks early. 

Finn is my grandchild, the fourth born within three and a quarter-years. Of the four, three were born premature. Finn is the son of Lucy and Greg and little brother to Lila. Finn is a lucky boy, because he is dearly loved. All babies born should be exactly this lucky. 

Though Finn arrived at 32 weeks, he had to be stopped from making an appearance even earlier. Mom spent a fair amount of time in the hospital in the weeks leading to his birth, which was hard on everyone concerned. I still have an emotional reaction when I think about going to that hospital before and after his birth. Finn had some struggles in the first few weeks and even popped a hole in his tiny lung. 

One Friday night I went to see him after he’d had a rough day in the neonatal intensive care. The wastebasket in his room was filled with medical waste from one day in the NICU. That night was really hard. I sobbed when I drove back over the bridge towards home. I felt so cheated. Why did we have to have another baby with an extended hospital stay? Why couldn’t it be a joyous occasion without all the stress and worry? I’d had one grandchild I could hold after she was born. For the others, it took weeks. We don’t know why these kids were early. They just were and we had to cope. 

Finn was safe and got excellent care. Soon, he began to thrive. Although he did not know it, the world roiled outside the hospital doors. All four of my grandkids lived through the Trump regime. Finn was also born in California wildfire season. In response to the deadly Camp Fire in 2018, the utility company proactively shut off our gas and electricity. While Finn was in his hospital tower in San Francisco, across the bridge in Marin we went without heat or lights or cell service for 76 hours. I bought gas when I visited him in the City and charged my phone in his room. There was also a small earthquake while Finn was in the NICU. Just another day in Northern California in 2019. 

Finn was discharged in late October. He was home with his family for his first Halloween. He was tiny, but healthy and we knew the drill about how to care for him, which was mostly scrupulous care about germs and keeping him warm. He did get a cough which lasted a long time, but it may have been exacerbated by reflux. Other than that, he was on the glide path to crushing all his tiny baby goals. Then the Coronavirus hit. The pandemic would change Finn’s life, along with ours. 

In February we started to have a niggling sense of fear. In the middle of the month Aunt Allie (known to her nieces as Lili) turned 30. Finn came on a girls’ getaway in Sonoma to celebrate. He spent his first night in a hotel. We expected there would be many more such nights when Mom returned to work in April. Trips to New York and Hawaii were on the horizon. Allie had dozens of cross-country flights scheduled for 2020. She had numerous work trips planned and many friends who had scheduled weddings. I was supposed to go to Palm Springs in March for the BNP Paribas tennis tournament and New York in April to see my dying friend. Our Hawaiian vacation was scheduled for August. We know what happened. None of the flights were taken. Other things, some of them very good, happened, but none of it was what we expected.

With Great Grandma Judy

At almost 16 months, Finn has yet to get on an airplane. By this age his sister was a frequent flyer, logging a trip to London and numerous trips to the East Coast. Finn has only been able to go to a playground recently. For months they were all closed due to the pandemic. And yet, he has developed beautifully. He was an early walker and started saying quite a few words just after one. He’s wiry and strong. When you look at him in the tub he’s absolutely ripped. He’s a towhead with the bluest eyes and only four teeth – two top and two bottom. The top two look like they belong to a china doll. The bottom teeth resemble a beaver. He climbs on everything, like it or not. He seems to be mechanically inclined with his mother’s perseverance. Prior to Finn, I’d never seen a toddler figure out how to unlock a baby gate. 

It may be a wild ride with this one, but what a sensitive boy. He is devastated if reprimanded, but still goes back to touch the hot stove time and again. He wants to behave, but the urge to experience is far too strong to control. It’s best to redirect him, since this is an internal conflict he’s too young to sort out. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent this much time with a boy this age. I think of Finn as a baby even though he can walk and has begun to speak. Emotionally, he’s more baby than toddler. He rarely stops moving, but when he needs a cuddle, he really needs it. Interestingly, in the last week he’s reverted to crawling a bit. I’m not sure why. Maybe he’s tired of tripping and falling. 

Watching Finn develop has made me think of the expression that children are not short adults. Of course not! Far from it. And little boys are not little men. Every time I hear the expression “little man” or “my little man” I cringe. You don’t hear people refer to tiny girl children as little women, except in a Louisa May Alcott book. 

There is such an expectation for boys to be strong. “Big boys don’t cry”, is the worst thing you can say to a little boy. Of course they do, and if they don’t they really should! And little boys are going to cry many, many times because they are physically hurt or their feelings are hurt. When I worked with kindergarteners sometimes a little boy would be crying so hard that I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I found it helpful to ask if they were physically hurt or if their feelings were hurt. More often it was their feelings, but answering the question helped them figure out their emotions. 

Finn is a little dude, for sure. He’s a guys’ guy and he definitely gravitates towards men. He LOVES his daddy and his Poppy and constantly wants them to hold him, partly because they’re tall and he can see more of the world, but that’s not all. A few months ago, Finn spent the night at our house and Greg came to get him. When Greg picked him up Finn put his head down on Greg’s chest for the longest time. It was so sweet. Being at grandma’s was fine, but dad was home. 

What is it that makes a man a man? What makes a boy a boy? I guess it depends on the man and the boy, but grown men hopefully have acquired some traits that we won’t likely see in boys, especially baby boys. A man is patient and wise. A man can think through problems and take the long view. A man can exhibit strength through tenderness. Men are surprisingly sensitive, but often don’t feel like they should be. A man knows how to share. A man knows right from wrong. A man is kind and loyal. A man can control his impulses. A man has empathy. A good man is everything a little boy is not.

It’s a privilege and heavy responsibility to help raise children. Everything matters and everything counts. There are no do overs. Each child has one childhood, and all the influences and environments mean something. Every time he looks into your face and sees a warm smile is a little building block for the future. Kids really are like little monkeys, imitating what they see you do and say. 

Finn is a quirky little kid. I play "calming classical" music when we are in the car. He "sings" along at the top of his lungs like a little Pavarotti. He also loves to hold something. Last summer, when he wasn’t even  crawling yet, he would hold a big spoon that you use for cooking. Lately, he’s gotten into that again and calls it “cook”. He will hold it all day long – even for naps and walks in the stroller. I’ve never seen anything like it. He also very into the Swiffer which he likes to drag around the house. 

I’m not sure if this is a boy thing, but this little one is an accident waiting to happen. As his mom says, he approaches life with 110 percent effort. Just this week he stuck a bobby pin into a socket and gave himself a shock. Then he did a face plant outside on a walk and got a lump on the forehead. A couple hours later he tumbled headfirst into the tub, fully clothed, while I was running a bath for him. He poured hot coffee on himself. Last night he tripped while swiffering and got a bloody lip. It sounds like he’s running around unsupervised, but someone has been with him the whole time. He has no sense and tons of drive. Keeping him safe is clearly going to be a challenge. 

It’s such a treat to watch Finn grow. You can just see his little mind working and he’s learning like crazy. He’s mostly happy and it’s wonderful to see how Lila has come around to being a fine big sister. Finn is lucky to have her and we are so very lucky to have Finn. There will be many years for Finn to be a man, and I expect he will be a good one. In the meantime, we will cherish the baby boy.