Processing XII

My beloved son and his wife have been especially active in my heart and thoughts since yesterday's errands run into the metroplex. I believe that is equally true for the other crew members of this little ship of fools, but my Gam-senses say this isnae a good time for shared nostallgia. Sometimes the processing needs to be strictly personal with as little cross-talk as possible. Nay a two of us had identical experiences with the lives we shared with this complex duo, far less identical perceptions. Those neural pathways scramble with micro-ease. More so the heartstrings.

The bonded ache of my son's absence feels comparatively simple and straightforward. Insert parent/child platitude here. The gaping hole of his absence is big and excruciating, but feels well-defined and easily tended. Nay so for his beloved wife. Is that three images I have of her? Quit shifting, wench. Let me focus, dagnabit! ! !

The first image is circa 2K when her future husband was working to lose his awkward teenage moves and nay much interested in maternal activities, especially when they concerned the "Life Nieces" who called him, "Cousin." It was the cousin whose mother and I shared pregnancies who spent the most time in my nearly empty nest. The boy and girl were born 2 weeks apart and the two families were already trading childcare favors at the respective births. How do you spell, "Cousin?" What does DNA got to do with ^it^? She and her three siblings clung to me like a hope for the future. They had most of their parties at my house. The parties at their own house spun out of control with distressing ease. The **liked** my clear, efficiently enforced rules. As of my son's funeral, they still did. It was these four siblings who carried me through the funeral. One of them flew in from Los Angeles for the privilege. When the eldest sister and youngest brother approached me in the funeral home parking lot, I was ready to throw a shit ball at the platitudinous fools. We werenae far into the pretentious hug before I recognized them and melted into the asphalt. They gathered me up and held me where I puddled until I had the strength to accept their help in rising and reclaiming the bench they had rousted me from.

My son's future wife was a HS special ed classmate of the cousin nearest his age. The cousin was classified as one of the politically corrections for, "Retard." Despite her disability check, I still believe this woman is the same flavor of "Retarded" that I am. You want a 76 on that test, Mommy Dearest? You've got it. Perhaps THE most confusing trauma of my childhood was that transition from "Retarded" to "Gifted." Can I go back to being The Retard? This genius biz bites daddy dick. I still donae know what classifications ushered this painfully shy "Ugly Fat Girl" into special ed, but I hadnae a doubt the mainstream HS classes were a cruel fit for her. For certain, she wasnae lacking intelligence. On the rare occasions she spoke, her insights were consistently profound.

The second image I have for my dumber-in-law is the post High School luncheon I had with her and my niece. By this time, the bonds between the families had fallen through the cracks of their father's drug addiction, etcetera, etceteri. Where my niece had been the facilitator of the HS encounters, her friend was clearly the leader in the lunch outing. Wow! ! ! What a change! ! ! Our "Ugly Fat Girl" was still a large woman, but? ? ? Are those muscles I see on you, my child? Are you ***REALLY*** looking me square in the eye and speaking to me without covering your mouth? Who are you and what have you done with my neice's friend? Later legends tell me that this is the future wife my son met on one of his home trips from his time in a distant city. Dunno. . . I was busy with my attempts to find a life after parenting. I still believed in those quaint theories back then.

The third image of her is from the MIL/DIL Blowout when Big Bro was a toddler and Big Sis was still that proverbial twinkle in Daddy's eye. She called me, "Monster-in-law." I called her, "Dumber-in-law." Let the party begin. Our relationship got rockier from there. Check fact before publication, but I believe the MIL/DIL Blowout was just before Big Bro's 1st birthday in 2014. If he had a first birthday party, I wasnae invited. One of my imaginings of my beloved son's last moment of life is her harrassing him like a "Dama que no se conducen" when he turned that vehicle into the path of that cattle truck behind him. Nobody side seat drives like a "Dama que no se conducen." Is there a greater driving hazard than an aggressive side-seat driver? Leaving that pointless wonder alone, the wonder wanders to a vague sense that she is the very muse of my PTSD Barbie yaddahs. Is it that dynamic young woman who gave my life niece the courage to arrange that luncheon I feel prodding the flashbacks? She preferred, "Hello Kitty" but she wore the girlie girl trappings like rays of desperation. On the days I most loved her, she was a natural and gifted engineer. Her kitty, too.

Dunno. . . Sorting. . . Processing. . .

Big Bro rousted me from sleep again this morning. A little more confidence in the rousting was the only variant on yesterday morning. It is nearly time to blow the school train whistle into the peaceful calm of the morning.