Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Happy Holidays

Margret and me the Christmas we got matching shirts and wore them at the same time.
Wishing you all

Friday, December 19, 2008

SNC's version of Twelve days of Christmas

I ran across a link for this at one of the message boards I visit (thanks ladies) and I'd like to share this with you. It's a really cute and well executed diversion of a song that can get tedious, long and boring.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

A Little Lovin

I was looking through some photos on my computer and found a very grainy one. I thought of posting it here, and remembered I had taken a frame from a short video and printed it for Margret because she wanted a photo of her holding a baby. I hunted some more, and found the video clip.

I was sad for a bit, watching, because Margret never realized her dream of being a mom. If you asked her if she had any regrets, I think she'd say it was not being able to have children of her own on account of her health issues.

Then I noticed how marvelously happy she looks, carefully cuddling and rocking her niece, and I had to smile. Margret was very very good at being an Auntie. This video shows how much she enjoys and values babies.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Do or Not Do, There is no Try

To quote Yoda, there is no try, either you do something, or you don't do it.

Me, I sometimes make an attempt, fall short, scrap it, and make another attempt. Sometimes I don't scrap what I consider yet another unsuccessful attempt, and the not me portion of the world thinks it's OK. That always surprises me. But I digress.

In my case, I guess I am not doing. *sigh*

Writing is not coming easily to me now. Maybe there is too much to say, too many topics to choose from, too little motivation to just PICK ONE and write about it. I can't pick just one reason, or one theme/topic/subject.

Husband and I are going to the 9th Annual National Children's Memorial Day Candle Lighting Ceremony on Sunday. I'm looking forward to another formal remembrance for Margret.

And now for something completely different:

BILL are a band in the Boston area. I found mention of them on Unringing the Bell. Thanks Tricia.

They even have a MySpace page with some music playing on it.

But what, you ask, is so special about this band that you post about it in your Margret space?

Firstly, the lead singer has Down syndrome.


Secondly, he isn't some adorable little kid. He and his brother are men, in their forties.

It's different for me to think of a man with DS as the front man for a band. Margret liked music well enough, but her singing was not great, definitely not front man quality. Mine isn't either, but that is another story.

Here we have yet another career open to persons with the inclination to pursue it, whether they have the normal count of chromosomes, or whether they have an additional one in the 21 set.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Time to Go, a poem for my Mother

Time to Go

My eyes are hot with unshed tears
My chest is tight with muffled sobs
I am choking
on stifled howls of grief -

My mother is dying.

It isn't fair.

We had so little time together,
to laugh, to love, to share.
She's going now, no choice in that,
just how. She chose to stop fighting,
to tame the pain with drugs.
I respect that.
What use is an extra day,
an extra week, an extra month
filled only with endless agony?

I take her outside to look at the flowers;
I name the blooms, name the colors and she remembers them.
I sing to her as we go.
Sometimes she lifts her voice to join mine.
Was that so very long ago when we sang together often?
Yes. Decades.

I smile and tell her stories,
tales of my children,
the grandchildren she hardly knows.

I help her bathe. How frustrating for her,
so independent, to need help with her toothbrush.
I tuck her in at night, and say, Mother, I love you.
She says, Thank you.

I push her chair, then we stop
to watch a group of deer, in the dusk,
feeding in the field. There are six of them.
Or perhaps seven. One wiggles its ears, snorts and bounds off.
The rest follow, with great strides and much leaping,
white tails flipping some code string in the night.
She doesn't want to go in until the last one has been gone
for long moments, and the night chill begins to penetrate her afghan.

I read to her, rub lotion on her feet
and feed her ice cream a spoonful at a time.

I wash her clothes and shorten pants that have become too long.

I love her the best I can in the short time we have.

I forgive her.

I think she forgives me.

She dies.

Goodbye mother.

I love you.

I always have.