Boondock Ramblings

The most awesome snow slide ever. . .

It's time for me to brag a bit about my dad.

On Sunday we visited my parents and there was still a good amount of snow on the ground. I convinced Jonathan to go outside because I wanted to build a snowman with him. I had been promising we'd build one for months, but either because we didn't get enough snow, or received powdered snow, I couldn't make one.

Fine, I couldn't make a snow man on the Friday after the storm because I had no idea what I was doing and the snow wouldn't stay together for me!

I am a snowman virgin, K? OK? Fine. There, now you know.

There ya' go. I could have used that for Jen's "confessions" Spin last week!

Where was I? Right. At my parents. Where my dad decided to roll the biggest snowball I've seen in a long time and then another one and then he built my son a snow slide, complete with steps and a snow tunnel underneath it. Memories of a snow slide and fort he built me when I was about 9 came rushing back to me. That was the most awesome snow fort ever. If I can find some photos of it, I'll post them here in a future post.

For now, here is Jonathan enjoying his snow slide and tunnel.

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(You should be able to click on those smaller photos and have them appear in the bigger slot. . .)

See? My dad is awesome.

How about you? Any fun snow or just outside activities this winter?

Part of Photo Story Friday. For more Photo Story Friday's visit Cecily at My Chaos My Bliss.

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Conversations about death with a 3-year old

"My twain is falling off a clift! Waaaaa!"

It was bath time and Jonathan was deep into playing with his toy train and superheroes.

"Here, the Avatar will rescue it..." I said, because I knew that at any moment he'd order me to play along with him.

"No. She dead."

The words hit me hard. Dead? Dead? Why would he say 'dead'? He's three. Why does he know this word and  use it so loosely?

"Dead? Why would you say that? We don't say that people are dead."

People die. It's not like it is a secret and Jonathan will have to learn about it sometime, but the sudden utterance of the word was was striking me particularly hard on this day because the day before we'd had our cat, Tubby Thomas, put to sleep.

"Do you know what it means when someone is dead?"

He looked at me with his big blue eyes.

"It means they're gone, they're not coming back. They're in Heaven with God and not here with their mommy and daddy anymore."

"With God?" he asked, his eyes bigger and bluer than ever.

"Yes." I said. "Honey, Tubby Thomas the white kitty, remember I said he is gone? That's because he is in Heaven. He's gone. . .He's with God."

"But I like the white kitty."

"I do too, honey."

"Whoa! My twain falling off the clift again! Whoosh!"

He was on to things of three-year olds again and I wondered if he'd understood anything I'd said. I didn't worry if he didn't. He's three, he doesn't need to know about death just yet.

I thought our conversation was over but a moment later the topic came up again, when our other cat, Smokey ran into the bathroom.

"Oh! There is Smokey!" I said surprised to see her dart past us, when usually she avoids the bathroom when the bathtub is full, as if she thinks we'll dunk her in the water too.

"He back! He back!" Jonathan said, looking too late to see that it was Smokey who had run by, not Tubby Thomas.

"No, honey, that's Smokey, not the white kitty. The white kitty is gone."

He looked up at me, then back down again, sadness spreading across his small, precious face.

"Oh," he said softly, "He's dead."

He'd understood after all. . .Shoot.

(On a lighter note...I loved that cat, but boy he did have some of the dumbest expressions sometimes!. *snort*)

For more WordFUL Wednesdays visit Seven Clown Circus.

Winter Wonderland . . . Finally

We haven't had much snow this winter, at least where I live. Everyone around us has been nailed this winter with snow. Us? Not so much. And it felt weird. So when a winter storm started to move into the area yesterday, it felt more like a normal winter around here.

I knew we would need some photographs for the next day's paper so I headed out to find some kids sledding or someone shoveling their walk. What I found was the snow hanging from the trees, making a winter wonderland.

I wish I'd had more time and could have walked through it. The world seems so quiet when the snow falls like that. 

The noise of life. . . it seems to fade away in the heavy snow. 

And I need that right now . . . to have the noise slip away. . .as I feel myself slipping into some kind of winter blues, I guess you would call it.

Luckily I have a blue-eyed, blond to keep me lifted up out of the depression abyss. I'll have to keep looking at him and remembering why I'm so lucky.

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Also, visit Better in Bulk for Give Me Your Best Shot. . . her button isn't working for me!

Happy 90th birthday grandma (You old bitty)

I'd heard the stories before I arrived.

"She's a mean lady," the woman who had hired me to take photos had told me.

"Well, she's 90 . . ." I started.

"No. She's always been nasty," the woman said matter of fact.

"Oh."

I shouldn't have worried. Great-grandma was as calm as could be, but her cranky past was evident by the rolling of eyes, the exchanged looks and the mouthed curse words of those around her.

The respect and the affection for the woman was there, don't get me wrong. But I still found it interesting how family members came to the table and said "Hello Grandma" or "Hello, great-grandma" but then quickly settled themselves at tables far away from the woman.

Great-grandma found it interesting too and at one point she called over her granddaughter and hissed, "Why don't you put some chairs around my table and have people sit with me."

"Get your chair and go sit with great-grandma," the granddaughter told the woman who had hired me, who hissed back at her mom, "No way, you ******."

The woman  was smiling and laughing a little even as she cursed at her mother, but she still didn't move her chair closer to her great-grandmother.

I mentioned later I thought her great-grandma had "behaved well" and she admitted she had.

"It probably helped that she ripped my mom a new one before it all started," she said.

"Oh."

(She looks pretty pleasant here, doesn't she?)

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More WordFUL Wednesday's can be found at Seven Clown Circus.

He was just a cat. A stupid cat. A stupid, sweet cat.

 He had a good life.

He had a long life.

You couldn't let him suffer.

He wouldn't have lived a normal life.

He's in a better place.

I've heard each of these statements at least once since Thursday afternoon and I can't say I disagree with any of them.

They're right.

They're accurate.

They're true.

They also suck.

"If I'm going to write about this," I thought as I drove back from the vets office. "I'm not going to be sappy and morbid and over-dramatic like I usually am when things like this happen. I'm going to write about how I'm glad I won't have to wipe anymore cat drool off the kitchen island. I'm going to write about what a pathetic loser I felt like because when Hubby hugged me, while I sobbed outside the vets office, the lens from my eyeglasses fell out and bounced off the sidewalk. I'm going to write about how I thought about all the illness I've had over these last two months and how I hope I'm not the next one to be put down. I'm going to write about what a brain dead cat Tubby Thomas always was and now he's really brain dead now. I'll make it funny and we'll laugh."

"I'm not going to write about Crazy Dog whimpering and freaking out when Hubby took his best friend out the front door, how he seemed to know he wouldn't be coming back. I'm not going to write about how much I will miss going into the kitchen and not seeing Tubby sitting on the kitchen island, reaching out with a paw to grab my hand and ask (beg) for a pet."

"I'm not going to write about how I don't know how I'm going to tell our three year old Mama's kitty is gone. I am not going to write about how he was pacing in the cage, trying to get out, but that he paused with his head against the carrier for several moments so I could rub his nose as if to say, 'finally you've stopped long enough to pay attention to me.' I am not going to write about how the vet said the tumors on his neck would keep coming back even if they surgically took them off and how they were affecting how he swallowed, and breathed and that putting him to sleep would be the best thing for him."

I am not going to write about how I'm crying over a cat.

Just a cat.

A stupid cat.

A stupid, sweet cat.

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