March 21, 2011

Feeding Frenzy

        Today was a lazy Sunday, so to speak.  After many long 16-hour days, my man was off and we were all home together.  Last night, my son prayed, "That daddy can stay home long enough to watch a movie with me."  That's the kind of busy he has been lately; I'm thankful because a year ago at this time he had been laid off but it's hard on the kids to wake up and go to sleep never seeing their daddy. I get that.
        Today was also the day we were meeting to pick out our birds.  Translation: my Nana died almost twenty years ago and she had a grand collection of Lenox birds that she used to collect.  All these years later after the death of her son--my Papa decided it was time we took our birds home.  It wasn't a sad event--kind of nice time to gather with my brothers and cousins and choose the ones we wanted.  Even the great grandaughters were able to choose one.  That actaully meant more to me than even the one I chose for myself because my daughter was named after both her great grandmothers. . .I'm glad she has a remembrance of the great Nana she never knew. . .
       We SKYPED with Auntie Bee, ate, and hung out togehter. I love the sounds of the kids running thoughout the house--their enjoyment of playing together--the fashion show they put on because really...it goes so fast and I don't want to miss a single thing.  Not a minute of it. . .The little one in the high chair is turning one on the sixth, my ninth wedding annivwersary...my baby girl is close to sixteen months already. Where did it go?  My kindergartener transitions to a full day next week.  How did this happen?  I feel like I just walked him to his first day of kinder where he told me he would go but he wouldn'nt like it.  He goes daily and for the most part, he does like it.  How?  When? 
       And twenty years ago my Nana died.  Her death rocked my self-centered world.  She was the first one I ever knew that meant something to me to die. . .twenty years ago. . . where does it go?  How does it go so fast?  When will I grasp the gift that each day brings? Bittersweet. . .