My selfish grief.

This weekend marked the 10th anniversary of the September 11th attacks. 

I did my best to stay away from the television, the newspaper, etc.

Of course I remember where I was that day.  Much the same as I remember where I was when the Challenger exploded, or people remember where they were when Kennedy was assassinated. 

I don't need to go over any of those details.  If you were alive at that time, you know them well enough.

My grief over Mom is still too raw for me to join in others grieving.  While I by no means know the horror those people have faced the last 10 years with those horrible events on that September morning... I know my own horror.

Like them, I know what it is like to wake up feeling normal one day, to have that all suddenly riped from you in an instant.  I know what it's like to miss that person taken from me under terrible circumstances, and I know what it's like to wonder if that person would be proud of the person I am becoming.  I know what it's like to miss the sound of their voice, or the touch of their skin. 

I know.  I remember.  I can never forget.

I should not compare my one single loss to that of an entire nation.  My loss has been private, not put out there for everyone to see over and over.

But what I should or shouldn't do isn't always up to me. 

In a way... I know what those people have gone through.

And in a way... maybe this grieving nation of ours knows a little more what I've been through too.

Socks

I'm nesting... i.e. driving my poor husband James insane...He's taken to calling me things like "Mother Hen" and Woody Woodpecker"... (He has wisely stayed away from calling me BIG bird... and I've wisely chosen not to wear yellow to tempt him)

I think that finding out that our little one will be here a couple of weeks earlier than originally planned might have something to do with my current state of panic.

This weekend I started packing my bag for the hospital.

I think that was the give away that I was nesting.. since I never pack until about 10 mintues to departure.

I opened up my drawer of socks, and had to pause to collect myself.

I love socks.  I love just plain cotton socks.  My favorite are fresh out of the package socks. 

I've said many times, that when I'm famous and I make appearances, the venue will have to supply me with a new pair of socks for every event. 

So when I opened the drawer of my collected socks, looking for a pair to take to the hospital, I flashed to a memory of my loony Mother.

When I was induced with Suttie, the doctor decided to try to hurry things along by breaking my water.  Not long after this, I was waddling my way to the bathroom, and well... let's just say my water finally gushed... all over my socks.

I have plenty of socks.  And I know they say "water" but come on... it's not really water now is it?

But my Mother, dear sweet Mother, was just SURE that we should save those socks and "just throw them in the washer!"

I took a stand.  I put my soggy foot down and told her that by NO MEANS were we going to keep those socks.

I assume she did as I asked...and threw them away

But knowing her... maybe she didn't.

I wonder if somewhere there in my sock drawer... are those socks. 

I wonder if she's smiling her little "shit eatin grin" at me right now while I try to figure it out.