Missing

miss·ing  Adjective 1. (of a thing) Not able to be found because it is not in its expected place. 2. Not present or included when expected or supposed to be. Synonyms lost - absent - wanting - lacking - gone Missing is hard.  That's one thing Miriam Webster forgot to include in the definition, which I suppose has something to do with the fact that when your keys are lost, or your cellphone, or the remote control, it's no big thing, an annoying inconvenience, sure, but life goes on.  You tug at your hair a bit, sigh loudly in exasperation, maybe swear under (or over) your breath, toss things willy-nilly around your house like a frenzied tornado during the frantic hunt, and eventually you find what you need and carry on with your life none for the worse.   With people, it's much different.  With my brother, it's vastly different.  If you read a post written long ago, before William Christopher (my son/sun, moon, and all the stars in my sky) was born, then you know a little about him, my brother Christopher.  You know a drop of water in the ocean.  My brother is not in his expected place, he's not present where he is supposed to be.   He is missing. Most times I'm a glass half-full kind of girl and some people may at times be annoyed by my optimism.  No, I am not naive and no, my life hasn't been all sunshine and daisies.  This post may come off a bit raw and rough edged, that's how it is when you are really honest with yourself.  I guess I am finally ready to talk about him, think about him, and be angry about the unfairness of it all.  My brother, whom I have always proudly called "Bro" , lived more life in his 34 years than most people do in 76.2 years.  Why 76.2 years, you ask?  That's the average male lifespan in the U.S. (according to an article I googled).  That statistic brings great anguish.  In a black and white, wrong and right world, clearly it's wrong that I was robbed of roughly 42.2 +/- years with my brother, there's something undeniably cruel about that. There have been a few triggers that spurred these thoughts and led me to write about my brother because writing brings healing sometimes, and at the very least it's a cathartic experience.    Lately, whenever Will wakes from naps during the day, the light filters through his shades and he gazes directly at this.  It's a picture of my brother, happy, very much alive, and goofing with his dog Buddy.  It gives me chills every time to see Will get so excited over a photograph, but also makes my heart smile and I can't help but go inside the happiness mingled with sorrow.  Chubby little sausage fingers reach out and he wiggle bounces in my arms, lurching forward to touch the picture, squealing in excitement.  This happens every day, which is a gift. He smiles.   I smile.  Somewhere inside the bottom drops out a little, letting some of the sorrow in, but only a little.  When I think about it too much, feel it too much, it becomes an abyss and I worry I'll never find my way back out again.  So, just a little, bit by bit, and maybe someday this missing will get easier, maybe the heart will heal.  My brother died.   There.  Said it.   Somewhere in my soul, this acknowledgement feels as though boulders came tumbling, careening off a cliff picking up speed and crashing down.  It's something my family doesn't discuss.  Worse yet, the circumstances surrounding how he died are changed, adjusted, altered to fit the social situation when telling people how we came to be a family missing a member.  Missing an older brother, missing a son, missing a grandson-nephew-cousin, missing...   He died. Part of the reason it hurts so much for me, and for others, is directly related to the fact that I can't shake the image of my brother, my big brother turned super-hero through my eyes, dying in a hotel parking lot in the early morning hours of a lonely Thanksgiving morning, thousands of miles away from his family.  I am not ready to talk about the hows and whys, but 6 years, 3 months, and 24 days ago... the phone rang and my life was forever changed.  No amount of staring at the wall during the longest night of my life changed anything.  Closing my eyes, conjuring up ghosts in our history, I can still recall the cheap wood paneling of my college apartment, how I tried to find meaning in that ugly wall for hours, like cloud creatures in the summer, but nothing emerged.  Nothing but missing.   All of this time later, it's still all too tragic, too far from my reality and yet it's real, it happened, and that's never going to change.  Grief is such a strange bird, flying in on ominous wings out of the clear blue sky and hovering, just out of sight, ready to swoop in and knock you down just when you get too comfortable & forget to scan the sky.  It leaves behind nothing but the burden of missing.  No amount of Hallmark coated well-wishing changes that. I don't want to hear "everything happens for a reason".  Things happen.  I don't want to hear, "At least you had wonderful memories while he was alive."   You know what I want to hear?   I want to hear my brother's voice, dancing with mischief, spilling from a sideways smirk saying "Hey kid, let's take a drive."  In the movie of my life, I want to rewind and play over, and over again the sound of him cheering at my ice hockey games, hear his laughter, hear his serious voice when we talked about God, his girlfriends, my boyfriends, and life.   I don't want missing.   But for now, missing is here to stay.  For now, I will watch my little boy, my wonderfully curious and charming William Christopher, grow and explore, and find joy in the image of his Uncle Chris, an uncle he will come to know not through playing catch, or jokes, or rides in an old pick up on a dirt road... but instead through my stories, my memories, old photographs.  We will say "Hi Uncle Chris" to a photograph after nap times.   Because something is missing.

8 paws, 2 tails & lots of poop: A Tale of 2 Puppies

As you may already know, we lost our sweet Bailey dog in September to a cruel cancer, I poured my heart out about her a bit here, but grieving is a long slow process and we still miss her every day.  I have finally been able to go visit her sacred place under the apple trees, draped with Tibetan prayer flags, and thanked her for being our best friend and for fighting for so long.  I let her know that we miss her now and always will.  I created a photo book of some of our favorite memories.  After saying goodbye to her, we were faced with only two options: 

1.  Never, ever endure that kind of heartache again

OR...

2.  Get another dog soon.  

For those of you who aren't dog people (Is there such a thing?) it might be hard to understand, but if you've ever given your whole heart to a furry best friend, you probably get just what I'm trying to say.  

Fast forward to November, after much debate we opted to get another dog, and somehow ended up with two.   Yeah, we have no self control, when faced with an adorable litter of puppies, what could we do?  I introduced our brand spankin' new pups in a post I wrote back in December.  Say hello once again to Maggie and Clementine, affectionately known as "The Ladies" or the little "Wooly Bears", like the caterpillar, because they are always curled up together in a sweet, soft, brown and black bundle. 

For your viewing pleasure, this is when we first brought them home at 9 weeks 

(insert ample ooohing and aaawing as necessary)

They have grown and grown by leaps and bounds (literally and figuratively), and both are nearly 40 lbs now, with much more growing to do.  They have become part of our family pretty seamlessly, although I still hold a part of my heart closed off for Bailey alone, I have a strong sense of loyalty for my sweet girl.  These two definitely keep things chaotic interesting, that's for sure.   

Calamity Clem is a fierce protector of W, they are two peas in a pod and at least one of said peas is finally housebroken!  When Will was first beginning to really notice his surroundings and interact more, he would seek out Clementine and stretch his little starfish hands to her.  When she would saunter by, toes clicking like a typewriter across the wood floor, he would erupt in giggles and crane his neck to follow her with his eyes, wide as saucers and completely enchanted.  If he cries, she comes running to lick his face and see what's up, ready to defend her tiny human.  Between her and Maggie, she's the brains in the operation, when you look into her amber eyes you can tell she's thinking.  Like all pups, the ladies are rambunctious little wrecking balls at times, rumbling around the house in a furry ball of energy.  What makes me laugh the most is when the two of them are fighting over a toy and William crawls right into the fray, snatches the toy, and tries to put it in his mouth.  Inevitably one of the pups will take the toy back, only to have it taken again by her sister.  It goes on like this for a while and I'm beginning to think maybe Will considers himself to be a puppy.  I suppose there are worse things to be! (Like someone who isn't a dog person!)

I mean seriously, how cute is this pair?

Kev jokes that we have two dogs; a smart dog and a black dog.  Maggie is sweet, loving, attention craving and has so much to offer, but you couldn't really accuse her of being a genius... or adventurous, or brave.  I think she just follows Clementine's lead most of the time, which is a wise choice.  Miss Margaret is also the most vocal pup I've ever met.  When she's sleepy, which is often, she makes the craziest squeaks mid-yawn then looks at us as if we were the ones who made the noise.  She yowls and yips and whines to let us know how she's feeling and most often, she wants snuggles, cuddles, and love... our seat on the couch or food.  I'm usually happy to provide all some of those things, except when nursing Will, it makes things tricky when there's one mama and several needy babies.  I am seriously outnumbered here!

On a snowy afternoon a month or so ago we took our gang snowshoeing out in the back woods behind the house.  Clem was in her element, all you could see was a brown blur bounding through drifts like she was born for it, charging ahead and running back to see what was taking us so long.  

And then there was Maggie.  

It was impossible to take a single step on snowshoe without her trying to ride the back of it, yelping and whining to be picked up all the while.  Finally, Kev picked her up and tucked her into his jacket, zipping it to the collar.  Of course, my camera's battery was dead, but I have the funniest mental image.  There we were in the snowy woods, me carrying a sleeping baby in the Bjorn, Kev carrying a snuggling black pup tucked tight into his jacket, and the brown bullet blazing through the trees willy-nilly, hell bent for adventure.  I wouldn't trade this family of mine for anything. 

Here we are on a later hike, myself, Will in our backpack, puppies at our feet.

Oh, and a very recent revelation.  

There is a reason mud rooms were created.  

Meet two of the most convincing ones:

Our house does not have a mudroom, epic fail.  I have spent a lot of time the past couple warm days chasing after muddy prints with a mop, crawling baby hot in pursuit, tiny hands slapping the floor at an ever quickening pace.  

My life cracks me up.