The Portal: Portal-ity Thoughts

Today's blog is brought to you by our daughter, Kaitlin. She wrote it at 2 a.m. Y ou might want to grab a tissue. Ever wonder what it’s like being  in a dead kid’s house? I do.  It’s empty.  There’s an empty seat at the table.  There’s an unused bedroom.  There’s an empty spot on the couch.  There are uneaten snacks in the cupboards.  There’s less laundry to do.  Everywhere you look, something has been affected by the dead kid’s absence.  Usually, there are lots of pictures of the dead kid. Reminders of the memories that were made. The sad thing is that during those times, you have no idea you’re making “memories.” You simply feel that you’re living your daily life in an ordinary way. Then one day, the kid dies and you realize that those ordinary days become some of the most precious times you can hold on to.  You frantically search for videos so you can remember the dead kid’s voice because you know that one day, you won’t be able to

Mother's Day.  The day all of us moms look forward to with anticipation. Or at least used to. The day our kids call to say "Hey, thanks, Mom! Thanks for bringing me into the world, for loving me, taking care of me, for being that unconditional support system that every child needs." There is something special about your mom. Dads are awesome too, of course, but let's face it.  Your mom is your mom. My husband watches a lot of war documentaries and one thing they say over and over again is how common it would be to hear the men, in their pain or at the end of their lives, calling out for their mothers.  My mom was the bomb. She was hilarious and kind.  She didn't offer a bunch of unnecessary advice.  She never made us feel like we weren't enough or that we didn't measure up.  She just loved us for who we were and she enjoyed us. She raised us up and let us fly.  She always took our phone calls, and she listened.  She listened for as long as it took