Under Hopes

There remains a big part of me which hopes my son's in-laws will *win* their case and *save* me from this second parenting career. My original notions of grandparenting were of swooping in a few times a year with great stories and good times while I leave the parenting stresses to the parents. I would still rather make such arrangements with my son than his in-laws, but the cosmos have removed that possibility from the smorgasbord of life. I can still enjoy visitations while leaving the primary care to the in-laws. Who am I to question the logistics of their living with four disabled adults in a 3 bedroom duplex in one of the meanest barrios of a major U.S. metropolis? Am I showing bigot stripes to worry about the destiny of the sister whose coloring favors her gringo daddy? What's wrong with children being taught to call their other grandparents, "Gringoes?" Only bleachies can be racist. 

Leaving all that to the court officials, work continues at a piddle pace on our offering of a house big enough to give each of the orphans a room of their own. The furniture on order might take as long as 6 weeks to arrive in full, but the three kid rooms are nearing functional with tables and trays to hold their goodies. The two older sibs can easily find whatever clothes or toys they need/want. The baby paraphanelia is laid out and ready for use. The 3 kid rooms are as distinctive as the children we hope will occupy them. Just hoping. . . That ball is in State courts. I still wonder what will become of our perfect offering if the courts decide the children should remain in their hometown with my son's in-laws. The new house and its furnishings are FOR the children. It makes no sense, whatsoever, within the coupled retiree life Hubs and I were living at the beginning of 2019. Should it be our destiny to reclaim that life, I canae imagine the new house being part of that life. It is too big and too kid oriented for a pair of shuffling geezers. In truth, I canae imagine myself staying here in the dust bowl without the children. I miss my river region.

I woke with incontinent bowels this morning. I am saluting the nag flag that the doubts, too, need to be processed. Processing. . . Day-to-day, I most often use my cell phone as a pocket watch. Checking the time has been growing in difficulty for me. The difficulty is approaching phobic proportions. Why has it been so long since my son has initiated one of our collaborative text exchanges? I miss you, beloved son. Your children do, too.

I will hold you in my thoughts

I will take you to my dreams

I will touch you when you come into view

When the winter comes, I will keep the fires lit

And feel you right next to me. ~Warren Zevon (modified)