Dad.

Our family is grieving again, so here I am. Two Tuesdays ago, D’s dad passed in his sleep suddenly and unexpectedly. He’d been active, vibrant, and living his life up to the last. He would have been a young 74 next week.

In a strange coincidence, I had been thinking about Mila the night before. I think of her routinely, but am at a point now where it doesn’t usually upset me to think of her. But that night in the shower, I found myself remembering the emptiness of losing her. I remembered how after an initial period of shock and silence, how strong my urge had been to document everything I could about her. I remembered my horror at the realization that, since no one else had known her, it fell entirely to me to tell the stories of her life; and if I failed her in that duty, it would be as if she had never existed. This blog exists because I could not bear that she would leave no trace on the world. And at the memory of that feeling, I did break down, hard.

It had been an unremarkable day and I still wonder why that memory came to me that night, seemingly unbidden. I stood in the shower afterwards wondering, apropos of nothing, if it would be any easier to grieve someone who had lived a full life, full of family and friends who could help carry the weight of remembering all their stories. Then I went to bed and thought nothing more of it.

Now on the other side of that night, I can say, no, it’s not any easier. Different, but not easier. Everyone Dad touched in life has their own stories about him; those, I don’t have to carry. But I knew him as another dad to me and the grandfather of my kids; those are the stories I carry. Those are the stories that I have to put out into the universe. Here they are; let them be remembered, for ever and ever.

To the best Dad and Grampy our family could have been blessed with.

We still can’t believe you are not here. We keep waiting for you to walk through the door with your big smile, ready laugh, and a big hug for the kids.

You doted on Isla. She had a seat on your lap whenever she wanted it, and ready access to your iPad. She could always convince you to go swimming with her, no matter how much you protested. Like you, she loves planes, and her toy box is full of toy planes that you picked out for her. Every time one flew overhead, you could tell her what kind of plane it was and where it was going. She loves biking too, just like you, and you were so proud of her progress this year. I’m quite sure you spent hours researching the perfect new big-girl bike to get her for her 5th birthday next month.

You had a soft heart for Jake, too. When he was a wakeful young baby and we were staying at your house before we moved into our own, you let Jake sleep in your office. You would always clear out of there at 5:30pm, carrying your computer and all your papers, so that he could go down and D and I could get some sleep too. You did this for months. And when Jake was older, your office was like heaven to him. You let him press as many buttons, rifle through as many drawers, play with as many gadgets, and steal as many golf balls as he wished. Jake’s toy box is full of trucks you picked out for him, the newest ones from just this past week. When Isla got to sleep over at your house without Jakey, you sent a set of trucks for him with a note explaining that you didn’t want him to feel bad about being left out of the fun. What a sweet Grampy you were, to worry about that even though he was still too little to understand that he was missing out. I am so glad that I saved the note for him.

When Mila was stillborn, you showed up in San Francisco the very next day. You read all my most difficult blog posts about her in the very dark year that followed, and during a time when most people did not know what to say, you did. You always offered such loving reassurance and support. I will never forget that.

And Schmorgy, well, we all know Schmorgy hates pretty much everyone but he always, always loved you.

No matter where in the world we were living, whether it was Boston or San Francisco or Spain, you were always ready to jump on a plane to come see us and the kids. And it was always a fun adventure. When you visited us in Madrid, you talked up everyone in the neighborhood and made friends with everyone from the local bakery employees to the guy at the mobile phone shop down the street, and somehow seemed to know all about the neighborhood goings-on, even though you barely spoke any Spanish. I am so glad that we came home in time to give the kids the last couple of years together with you. I just wish that there had been more.

You and Mom raised two wonderful men. I see you in D every time he thinks through a strategic or logistical puzzle, and also when he drops everything to help a friend or family member and makes sure everyone is taken care of. I see you in the kids every time they get excited to see a plane flying overhead or are able to give us turn-by-turn directions from point A to point B. The two of you created a loving and welcoming home that is always at its best, loudest, and most fun when it is filled with grandkids, cousins, nephews and nieces, aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers, and a crazy dog or two. We lost you too soon. There is a hole in our hearts and we miss you incredibly.

Six.

Happy almost-6th birthday, baby girl. Six years ago tonight I was curled up at home with you, looking forward to the holidays, and unbeknown to me, sharing some of my last moments with you. Where would we be now, if you had stayed?

When we lost you, suddenly everything that really mattered to me was so clear. All the daily annoyances and insecurities fell away, for a time, and there was just that quiet knowledge. That was one of your greatest gifts to me. Nowadays, with the noise of everyday life, it's harder for me to access. My innermost thoughts are not as clear. But I'll keep working at it.

Schmorgy sniffed at your box of mementoes when I took it down from my closet this evening. His expression was curious and sensitive, all soft ears and knitted brows, and I think he knew it was something special. I think you would have loved him. Isla knows a bit about you, and she'll know more as she gets older. She is an imaginative, nurturing, artistic, particular, reserved, and defiant four years old. Your baby brother Jake is still too young to know about you, but he will too. He is still a little guy, 20 months old, and full of giggles and affection. He likes anything that "go-go's" and pretty much every dog he's ever seen.

We miss you, but we are so lucky. We are so lucky, but we miss you.

Love you always,

Mama

Fourth birthday.

Happy 4th birthday, sweetie. You would be such a big girl now!

I'm a day late in posting to the blog this year, since life's getting more hectic with a two-year-old in tow. We've driven down from Madrid to Andalucía to spend the holidays in a house in the countryside surrounded by orange trees, lavender, and artichokes. This year Mila's candle, instead of being a quiet zone, is surrounded by toddler chatter and toy cars. Isla is growing into a girl who is sweet, funny, empathetic, and button-pushing all at once. She seems so grown-up to me at two, chatting and flirting and sassing me in both English and Spanish; but I wonder sometimes how different our dynamic would be if Mila were here to be the big girl of the family. Maybe Isla would still seem to me like a baby in comparison. Maybe I'd coddle her more, and maybe she'd lean on her more experienced big sister. Maybe Isla would not be Isla. Maybe we would not have undertaken our Spanish adventure. I'll never know for sure.

Down the path our lives have actually taken, Isla will be the big sister of the family, because we're expecting her baby brother in April. We're firmly in alternate-universe territory now, because this third pregnancy is the one I would not have planned to have if Mila had survived. I'm happy that he and the pregnancy look healthy and normal so far, but it does feel a bit strange to me. I'm definitely feeling the wear and tear more this time. I'm five years older and despite lugging around a 25-pound kid every day, I wasn't nearly as fit when I started this pregnancy as when I got pregnant with Mila. My body's getting creakier and more fatigued by the week. I've had more than my fill of pregnancy and I'm looking forward to hopefully being finished with it for good. 

I also (based on no logic whatsoever, but nevertheless) never expected to have a boy, always having felt like more of a girl mom, especially after having had both Mila and Isla. But here we are! We'll give away our old pink onesies, stock up on more boy-friendly ones, and figure it out.

Third birthday.

Cable: 42, Level: 66, Light: 3970

For our baby girl Mila on your 3rd birthday.

I still remember watching the Bay Lights light up for the first time from our first apartment in San Francisco. It was just months before you yourself twinkled into being.

They were (and are) gorgeous. We could stand out on our deck to see them. There was also a beautiful unobstructed view from our top floor windows. We could also lean out over the low wall at the end of our dead-end street to see them. Every night as I arrived back home, I’d stop to look at the Bay Bridge shining over the water before going inside. Sometimes the lights thrummed from one end of the bridge to the other like the strings on a harp; sometimes they rippled like fish just under the surface of the Pacific; sometimes they raced back and forth; sometimes they just twinkled; and sometimes, in their first error-prone weeks, they got stuck. But it was always beautiful to watch. It’s one of my fondest memories of San Francisco. Although we are no longer there, my memories of you always will be.

We’ve dedicated a light to you to celebrate your birthday, to support public arts in your city, and just as one more way that you will keep shining forever.

Love,
Mama & Dada

Moving on, and remembering.

Moving on.

It has been a while since my last post. Lots of changes are afoot. I will try to write more about it when I have the time, but the short version of the story is that we are leaving San Francisco -- at least for now -- and relocating to Madrid, Spain for a year. I have a lot of complicated feelings about saying goodbye to San Francisco. We've been here just about four years now. It has been a life-changing four years, many times over, in both good ways and bad. San Francisco made me grow up, beat me up, picked me up, made me strong, made me weak. For better or worse, we're now parting ways.

Remembering.

Since we knew we were leaving the west coast for at least a year, D and I decided to spend our summer vacation in Hawaii, while it's still only a few hours' flight away. Every year on Memorial Day, there is a floating lantern festival in Honolulu to honor lost loved ones. Anyone can participate. So we went, and spent the evening remembering. Here are some photos.

Mila, 

It feels right that we should remember you here in Hawaii. We have been here together before, and it will always remind us of you. You have seen dolphins here, visited green sand beaches here, and swum in the ocean here. 

We miss you and always wonder who you would be today, a big sister to Isla and Schmorgy. You will always be in our hearts, and will always be our little Nuggsy.   

Love and love and love for always, 

Mama and Dada

We'd summoned you.

We'd summoned you out of ourselves, and you were not given a vote. If only for that reason, you deserved all the protection we could muster. [...] I knew then that I must survive for something more than survival's sake. I must survive for you.

Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between The World And Me

Imbalance.

I still get lots of people asking me if Isla is my first child. It's part of the standard battery of very innocent questions: How old is she? What's her name? How's she sleeping? Is she your first? The experience of raising her is so different from anything I got to experience with Mila that it's not as hard anymore to say "Yes" just to get along with my day, but I still always add the mental qualification: Yes, my first living child. Which is what they mean after all, even if they don't know it, isn't it?

It makes me so sad that we have so little of Mila to remember, especially in light of the incredible new memories we are making with Isla every day. I want to love them equally, but it is impossible to love them in the same way. One I know better and better every day, and one I can never fully know. In one hand I have a mountain; in the other, a grain of sand -- and every day, the disparity grows larger. One doesn't subsume the other, does it? My brain says no, but still I am afraid. I guard the space around my little grain jealously.