Apparently, in my family, death is like a giant snowball rolling down the hillside, growing larger as it rolls. Friday, my dad's half-brother John died. John was mentally retarded and lived in a home in Wisconsin. He probably had the mental facilities of a three-year-old and needed constant care. At breakfast, he was enjoying one of his favorite foods, a peanut butter sandwich, when a piece became lodged in his throat and he choked to death. I hadn't seen John since I was a very small child when at the time he terrified me. His image I have in my mind from a few photographs. Unlike a normal adult his age, John probably had no concept nor fear of death. I really hope he left this life doing peacefully and with the childish delight of a peanut butter sandwich to carry him into the afterlife.
I am continuing to mourn my grandmother in small ways every day. I really wanted to tell her how soft and cozy a onesie she'd bought for Alastair turned out to be. Out shopping, I see things I'd like to buy her. Reading her handwriting in a card she'd sent me after she moved, knowing I'll never see that script on an envelope in my mailbox again. Weird little worms of sadness eat at me everyday. Is this worse than bawling my eyes out for a few days and then moving on?
That's it. I'm so over death. No more dying, people. Ya hear me?
In more cheerful news, Alastair is fast approaching his ninth month. He now has one top tooth emerging from his gums and what is especially fun about the new tooth is that he hasn't quite learned the difference between kissing mommy and biting the shit out of mommy's cheek.
No crawling yet. Lots of rolling about and worming on his belly, but no crawling. My kid's just a lazy butt. Plus this is all part of my plan to win Worst Mommy of the Year which is the reason why he is not saying words, walking, or writing his first concerto just like everyone else's kid did at his age.