My Son, The Ringbearer

The Village Wedding

My Dad called for my son’s eighth birthday. “I have his picture next to my bed,” he said. Every time I look at him, I think about him at Joanna’s wedding. I remember how he cried about the bubbles. That was great.”

“You know he wasn’t really crying about the bubbles, right Dad? He was just overwhelmed at everything at the moment.”

Really I think he was crying in reaction to seeing his grandfather in a wheelchair, but I didn’t say so.

I didn’t write much upon my return from the wedding because there was such a whirlwind of many mini-stories playing over in my mind. My Dad’s statement reminded me of one small part of the wedding worth dwelling on, if only because it will probably be one of those moments that are frozen into my son’s mind forever.

Going to a wedding is a far different experience than being in one. All the family dynamics come to play at a crescendo, for better or for worse (usually both). The adults are all caught up in their own personal dramas. I think we sometimes forget how it all must seem to a child.

In our case, we were traveling from New York to Tennessee and meeting the groom’s family for the first time at the wedding rehearsal. We arrived at 2:00 in the morning, the day of the rehearsal dinner. The children got their energies out at the pool, getting sunburned in the process, before the big pre-nuptial event. They did great, carrying out their instructions, and were made to feel welcome by all.

When my son came up the aisle, I replayed the memory, side by side with the present, of my little brother, at the age of 4, coming up the aisle with the ring for my own wedding. We had sewn the ring into the pillow so it wouldn’t get lost. When the best man tried to take it off, he had a nervous moment trying to get it detached!

Then my little sister came up the aisle, preceded by my two older daughters, and again I had a flashback to my own wedding, when she, at the age of 8, sweetly walked up the aisle in a lavender dress with a small bouquet. Not on purpose, I too was wearing a lavender dress at her rehearsal, and all these memories flooded back to me as she walked up the aisle. I couldn’t stop the tears from trickling down my face. When we were all together at the altar, the minister looked at my red nose and said, “I just love sisters.”

The next day was the wedding. We were all up early. The children showered and dressed, and we ladies and the children all traveled together, while my husband cared for our toddler. When we arrived, a hostess was ready to take my son over to the house where the groomsmen were getting ready. I insisted that I would take him myself. The poor little guy was in the company of a great many big guys. Fortunately, he knew both the groom and my brother. I gave my brother the charge of him and ran off to join the ladies.

Right before the wedding, my Dad came into the church, in his wheelchair. His health had been worrisome as of late, as he suffers from multiple sclerosis, and none of us were sure if he would be able to make it. I hadn’t seen him in five years. He was very thin and frail. I had tried to prepare my children for his appearance, but even I am never quite able to deal with the change that time brings upon him in my absence.

My sister came into the entryway and cried a little at seeing him. She was really happy that he had been able to make it.

The wedding went smoothly, beautifully, almost surreally (for me) and I was able to keep myself in control emotionally. The kids did a terrific job preparing the way for the beautiful bride.

At the end, we all came outside and waited for the couple to come out. Bridesmaids handed out bubbles to be blown for the pictures. The couple entered their vehicle and did a fake exit, driving around to the rear of the church for more pictures to be taken inside. I found my children and discovered that my son was quite upset. “I didn’t get any bubbles!” he said, his lower lip trembling.

“How could this have happened!” I exclaimed.

A bridesmaid came up to me, prodding me to come inside for the pictures. “I’ll be in in a minute, I said,” grabbing some bubbles from the basket that dangled from her arm.

Then my Dad rolled up to us. “This is your Grandpa,” I said to my son. And he burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” asked my Dad.

“He didn’t get any bubbles,” I tried to explain.

I received another reminder that they were waiting for us inside. I’m afraid I might have glared at the messenger. Here was a moment that my son might never forget, and I wasn’t going to rush through it until he was okay with everything.

My husband found us, and brought me my toddler, who also was very upset at having been separated from her mama. Her comparative outrage did some good in settling my son. Finally, we all went inside, and all went fairly smoothly from there.

It may seem puzzling why this might be a positive memory for my Dad. On a happy day, why would one want to remember the tears that occurred for ten minutes of it?

“He was just being a boy,” says my Dad.

And I think that’s it. Boys keep it real. If they are in a mood, they pout. If they are happy, they smile from ear to ear. You never see a little boy with a fake smile on his face, and they are usually not able to stifle their giggles.

In the middle of a smiling crowd, where some adults might be smiling to hide personal sadness, or to be polite and sociable, he was able to express his true emotion. Later, he would be running around by the lake, laughing and dancing. Whatever his actions, they were true.

So when my Dad sees his school picture sitting on his side table, with the same smile that my little brother has always had, he can see it all: the tears, the laughter, the genuine boy-ness. That still shot, combined with the living memories, will sustain him until our next visit.

To Go to School, or Not?

Visiting Day at the Hospital 1889

“You’re not lonely today, are you, Mrs. Miller?” asks the school nurse when she calls me today.

No, I’m never lonely, I think, but play along anyway, and laugh, pretending I have a sense of humour.

Lately, I have not had one. It’s been a tough winter, with kids continually out sick with something. Now hit me all at once with all of them sick and me feeling crummy. I try to tell myself it could be worse, they could be in the hospital, we could have the Black Plague, but it doesn’t work. I recognize the cognitive behavioral definition of depression while going through it myself: the cycling of negative thoughts. You know it’s going on but feel helpless to break it. Like a drowning swimmer, you need someone to throw you a lifeline. My online friends do that for me, sending me prayers right when I need it.

None of my kids went to school today. It feels like that was the right decision, when I find out the flu is going around. The kids all received the flu shot this year, but this is a different strain.

My oldest one was out for three days last week, due to a fever. She never fully recovered and now has sinus pain, the reason for her absence today. My littlest one had a fever for three days over the weekend, followed by a constantly running nose that turned into a bloody nose after all the constant wiping. Perhaps my judgment was a little off, due to lack of sleep, when I followed through on my promise to distribute snacks at the school yesterday.

The second grade teacher complained about my son’s coughing, more than hinting that perhaps he shouldn’t return to school the next day. And my fifth grader came home hacking something scary. When I told them they weren’t going to school the next day, they complained. My fifth grader had a science bee she was looking forward to. My second grader just loves school – imagine that!

My seventh grader attempted to reason with them: "If you're sick your immunity is lowered and you are less resistant to catching the stomach virus. And if you get it we all get it. And I REALLY want to see the cousins!!!" We missed seeing them over Christmas break due to a stomach virus, and are looking forward to making up the visit next week.

They continued to insist they wanted to go to school. I said they could if they didn't cough once all night. But my eldest and I secretly plotted to not set the alarms so no one could wake them up on time.

It wound up being a balmy day, and after lunch we were all out in the backyard. Jacketless, I propped myself up on two chairs and picked up on my reading of Les Miserables. They played baseball, after finding a place that was not too muddy. My littlest one hates to get dirty, but she eventually let me put her down on the soggy ground in snow boots.

From our time in the sun, I had a good dose of natural melatonin to boost my mood. The kids can go back to school tomorrow; I’ll cross my fingers so they don’t pick up something else. I finally break my cycle of negative thoughts by repeating to myself, “I’m never alone, never alone, never alone, never alone.”

Random Confessions of a Little Girl

My little one was off and running during every softball game last season. At one field, there was a huge jungle gym of sorts, off-limits except during the gym period at the junior high school. A sign said to keep off unless under official supervision, but we went on it anyway, rolling balls up and down the ramp.

Two little girls joined us, a few games in a row. I wondered which mom they belonged to. One told me she was five, the other six. They told me about their big sister, who went to the high school, and their other big sister, who went to the junior high school. Once I actually saw them. They looked like nice girls.

One day the littlest girl kept scratching her rear end. After she had been playing catch with my son and holding hands with my daughter, she told me she had an infection. “You should really keep your gloves on, then,” I said. (“Ooh”, I’m thinking, saying a prayer to chase infectious germs away.)

The second littlest left her notebook open – right in front of me, mind you - so I could see. When her back is turned, I read the freshly written page, which is face up.

Dear Daddy
I love you and Im not really mad at ziggy I just miss you cuz I wish you still lived at home with us and not with her
Love me

Now I am thinking, no wonder I never see their mom. She’s raising four sweet girls all on her own because of this rotten father who abandoned them. My heart is breaking for them and I wish I could make it better but I can’t. I wonder why me? Why did she leave her notebook out for me to see? So she could be heard by someone? So I could pray for her? So I could be thankful for what I have at home?

Maybe all of the above.