Mandatory Pre-Wedding Mother/Son Lunch #2

Mandatory Pre-Wedding Mother/Son Lunch #2

IMG_1142

Patrick Francis Healy, my “middle child”, my #2 son, is getting married next weekend.

Named after St. Francis of Assisi and my father Edmund Francis Shaheen.  A classic Irish name with a bow to his grandfather, William Healy.  A lover of nature, an artist, a true renaissance man outstanding in his field.

After almost two days of laboring, Patrick was born with his brown eyes wide open to check out the world.  I think he was impressed.  We had a quick snuggle before the nurses whisked him away to the nursery to observe him.  “He’s too quiet”, they said.

In my hospital bed looking out the window at the stars, I couldn’t roll over and get comfortable.  He was still with me.  Safely tucked just under my heart.

My phantom limb.

Once home, Patrick was forced to contend with his two year old brother, Robert, who by the way was NOT quiet or tranquil.  Nonetheless, he almost immediately slept through the night and even when he wasn’t asleep, he would just lie in his crib, taking in his new digs.  His dad and I would look at each other and ask “Where did he come from?”

Robert loved him and would climb into his crib in the morning to talk to him and show him the many stuffed animals adorning.  Their bond has strengthen through the years.  I’ve often drawn a parallel to their lives with the story of the Prodigal Son.  (But that would be an entirely different blog!)

Nothing really ever rattled Patrick. He was happy playing with his GIJoes and reading his books on his own.  That is, until Peter was born and his status was disrupted.  But he quickly adjusted and life became even more fun and interesting with a little brother.

“He’s quiet”.  Those words spoken in the delivery room couldn’t have been more prophetic.  Quiet until he has something to say.  Quiet because there are creative things churning away in his very intuitive mind.

Walking to the park with my three sons after my mother died, Patrick so sweetly chimed  “Wouldn’t it be fun if Sitti was with us?”  He was 3 1/2 years old.

On the anniversary of my mother’s death, I put some of her perfume on just to have her close.  In the kitchen during breakfast Patrick said “You smell like Sitti!”  She had passed 7 years prior, and Patrick still remembered her comforting scent.

When we lived in Portland, we had a roof leak over some built in book shelves.  It rained (go figure..) and my books were ruined.  He helped me pull them off the self and dry them one by one.  “Oh Mom.. your books!”  At 14 years old he knew what was important to me and I was deeply touched by his empathy and caring.

I went to Patrick’s room to just chat one evening when he was in high school.  He was busy with a writing assignment.  I asked “What are you writing?”  He responded “An apology letter to the Dean of Students.  It has to be two pages.”  I said “What in the heck did you do?”  Later I learned that it was something rather significant that involved some shenanigans with several of his friends.  But Patrick took it in stride and did what he needed to do to rectify the situation.  Quietly.  Deliberately.  He took responsibility.   And then he put it behind him.

After leaving for college at CAL Berkeley, Patrick continued to come home every weekend.  I was always happy to see him but I finally asked him why he wasn’t staying at school and getting involved and making new friends.  He calmly responded “I don’t like the food in the dorm.”  And of course he had learned from me from a very early age that food is love.  So I figured he came home for some food.  And some love.

“He’s quiet”.  To be honest it was a rare moment to see Patrick rattled.  But see it I did when he came home from three years of graduate school in Denver.  He wanted to stay there.  He wanted a job there but he didn’t get one. Probably one of the first times he didn’t attain what he set out to get for himself.  We talked for hours.  I could feel his disappointment and distress.  I felt helpless.  I had never seen him so dejected.

But get a job he did in Santa Clara at Verde Design where he had interned after getting his BA in Landscape Architecture.  He wasn’t expecting to go back there.  He wanted something different.

Nonetheless, he found a place to live.  He made a spreadsheet of his expenses.  He pulled himself together and started that job at Verde.  A couple weeks in he heard the click click of a co-worker’s heels as she approached her desk after being on vacation in Spain.  Click Click.  I think he knew.  She appeared out of nowhere.

“He’s quiet”.  He holds his cards close to his heart.  After a two year warm and wonderful friendship, he finally risked everything to tell Nazaneen that he was falling in love with her.  And a year later they were engaged.

Today, when Patrick and I had our lunch together, we talked about having a partner in life and how important it is.  How the burdens and the worries of life are so much easier when they are shared.  I encourage him to continue to spoil her and make her feel special.  I crossed the line of politically correct and told him that every woman wants to be loved and taken care of.  (Shoot me now..)

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that my Patrick Francis will be a compassionate, supportive and caring husband.  And Nazaneen is just the woman who will appreciate his still waters that run deep.

We finished off our lunch today at the hair salon in Morgan Hill- Patrick a nice trim and style.  Mom- some highlights and a cut.  After Patrick left, Carolyn, the stylist, commented on what a wonderful young man Patrick is.

I know.  I’ve known it from the start.  My middle child. My #2 son.  He will always be tucked right below my heart.

My phantom limb.

Magical …

Magical …

IMG_0013

You know my heart and its ways

You who formed me before I was born

In the secret of darkness before I saw the sun

In my mother’s womb

~Psalm 139

Welcome to the world little Bear. One more sleep and I will hold you in my arms.  ❤️ Your Sitti

 

What are we busy about?

What are we busy about?

IMG_0122

“Your right ovary is enlarged.  That’s unusual after menopause.”

This is not something you want to hear from your gynecologist when your mother died from ovarian cancer at 61 years of age.  I stare at the ceiling and try to stay calm.

“Let’s schedule an ultrasound.”

I go mute.  I don’t ask any questions.  So unlike me.  I accept my sentence and graciously take my referral paperwork from the nurse and half listen to her instructions.  I need to get to work for a meeting at 9am.  I’ll process this later.  It’s Wednesday and life is busy.

On the following Monday evening, in anticipation of my early morning ultrasound appointment, I decide to go through my personal books.  In a Marie Kondo moment when I sold my house on Del Monte, I gave away boxes and boxes of books to the library.  I have to admit it was NOT life-changing magic.  It was like cutting off an arm.  What I have left on my bookshelves are most treasured.

I paged through them one by one- reading underlined sentences and comments written in the margins and tearing up over little pictures and holy cards I stuffed away in the pages intentionally.  It was the best kind of treasure hunt.  But who was this woman who read all these books and hungrily devoured their content?  What happened to her?  And where is she now?

I contemplate the woman I have become.  I’m busy.  Too busy.  But what am I busy about?

Meetings, counseling teenagers, paperwork, data, traffic duty, chaperoning dances juxtaposed with weddings, new grand babies, summer vacation…   how could I ever fit in (God forbid) surgery, radiation, chemo, oh my.  The what ifs took over.

The wine helped. I got a pricey bottle of red just for the occasion.

The next morning in the middle of yet another meeting I received an email from my doctor with a clean bill of health. It’s just a fibroid- nothing to be concerned about.  Back at work I feel relieved- yet oddly changed.  What matters?  What am I missing here?

And the larger more encompassing question… would it take a debilitating illness in order to give myself permission to step off this hamster wheel?

I started this blog over a month ago.  Hoping that a clever ending would make it’s way into my consciousness during a bike ride or a hike.  That’s what usually happens.  But nada, zilch.

What are you busy being about?  What are you planning on doing “some day”?  When the dishes are done.  When you finish the landscaping outside.  When you quit your day job.  When you win the lottery.

What are you waiting for?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And the seasons they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down. ~Joni Mitchelle

And the seasons they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down. ~Joni Mitchelle

IMG_7627 2

I’ve always love the song “Circle Game” by Joni Mitchell.  As an adolescent when this song first came out, I never truly appreciated the significance of the lyrics.  But at this time in my life, they pulse with meaning.

I’ve noticed an interesting pattern through the years and I wonder if other women my age are seeing it as well.  Our children leave home and go to college.  They acquire degrees and find careers that make them happy.  And life feels somewhat stagnant as a parent with an empty nest.  We take a back seat to many of their adventures and accomplishments.  We brag about them with our closest friends or a stranger in the market, showing pictures on our phones to whomever appears interested and feel blissful when they call home to say hi or I love you.  After a life full of raising sons and taking a back seat to their health, education and well being, I am often at a loss for how to proceed.

We’re captive on the carousel of time, we can’t return.  We can only look behind from where we came.

And then suddenly things begin to happen.  A wedding, a grandchild, another grandchild, another wedding.  Life takes on new challenges and excitement.  A flurry of new activity.

When my sons were growing up, my childrearing “bible” was The Gesell Institute of Human Development.  Anyone remember the books “Your One Year Old”, “Your Two Year Old”, “Your Three Year Old”?  Their research shows that children’s growth is not always an even ride from less to more maturity.  Instead, smooth and calm behavior alternates with unsettled and uneven behavior.  Children go through periods of “disequilibrium”- when they are learning new skills and abilities, growing quickly and experiencing more anxiety and less confidence.  And “equilibrium”- a period of stability and consolidated behavior- when they practice the skills already mastered- when they are easier to live with…

Wowzy..   sounds like my adult life! 😱

2018 was smooth sailing.  A year of equilibrium.  I had the grandmother skills honed and the mother in law persona figured out.  I’d finally settled into my townhome after grieving the sale of my memory-filled yet large and empty house.

2019 will be the year of disequilibrium for me.  A new grandchild.  A wedding.  A new daughter in law.  Growth, challenge, frenzy, a year of learning.  I see the pattern emerging.  What has been lost to the past is being reincarnated in the present-  layered with periods of anxiety and the mastering of new skills.

As they say in Portland, Oregon.. if you don’t like the weather wait an hour or so.  The clouds and rain give way to sunshine and blue skies.  The painted ponies go up and down.  We’re captive on a carousel of time.

And oh what an incredible ride it is.  

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

Comfort and Joy 🌲

Comfort and Joy 🌲

fullsizeoutput_198b

It’s 12:30pm on Christmas day and I’m upstairs bathing my grandson, Boe, enjoying his little boy antics and squeals of glee.  I check my watch and call down to whomever will hear “Hey!  Don’t forget to put the roast in the oven at 1!”  My sons and daughter in law are scurrying about preparing for our 20 plus guests- straightening out the toys, figuring out the logistics of the oven and deciding whether or not to do the veggies on the grill outside.  “I need a bigger kitchen!”  – my mantra since my first apartment as a new bride. I inherited the tendency to cook for a crowd from my mother who taught me that food is love.  I’m afraid my kitchen lust will only get me in trouble.  If you build it they will come!

Oh Lordy.

I am mentally checking off my to do list until the first guests begin to arrive.  Caught up in conversation and coat hanging I relinquish control and my sons and daughter in law take over.  The last minute preparations are all taken care of.  It happens like that every year.  Patrick, the kitchen guru, masterminds the veggies outside on the grill while tending to the 18 lb. prime rib in the oven.  Rob organizes the gifts for the white elephant game.  Breezy and Peter replenish the appetizers and open wine.  It’s magical.  When it’s time to eat, I have no idea how it all came together.

Along with the gluten free, vegan, dairy free and vegetarian dietary preferences, I prepared an invocation or “prayer” if you will for all types of believers or non believers- Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, Athiest, or just plain hungry for something!

Beloved Lord,

we do greatly thank you

for the abundance

that is ours 

Amen

For a crazy moment I want to freeze time and keep all these people in my house with the Christmas tree all lit up and the table set with the finest china- the gifts under the tree and the love in the room- little Thomas and Boe young and innocent forever- it all brings me such strength, comfort and joy…  I believe we have collectively in this room the power to change the world.

A quote that my sons and daughter in law threw around in jest for several days before Christmas was:

With great power comes great responsibility.  ~Voltaire 

How providential.  The abundance is for us to enjoy.  Yes.  And it is also ours to share. The beauty of it is that it doesn’t take a particular religion (or food preference) to feel the responsibility to be a man or woman for others.  We have so much.  We have much to give.

I love my family and I don’t want for a minute to take my “wealth” for granted.  I could bottle up all this love and keep it for myself.  But it’s such a privilege to be able to “pay it forward”.

Maybe a big ass kitchen wouldn’t be a bad idea after all!  Just think of all the guests we could seat and feed!

Perhaps we would entertain angels…

Merry Christmas to you and yours.  ❤︎

 

Mothering Sons

Mothering Sons

IMG_6176

I’ve come out from my writing hiatus in order to respond to an instagram post by @monbon6985-  a picture of her handsome husband, @el_nater, and their precious new baby boy, sound asleep.  The caption reads “If only it was always this easy!”

To which I responded “Oh boy… so much fun to come!”

I wanted to write more but instead I’ve taken it to my blog in order to write to all mothers of sons who get their information from the internet.  Here is what GOOGLE will not tell you about raising boys.

Put your mani/pedi, tea party fantasies aside and role up your sleeves.  Fasten your seat belt and make sure you have easy access to oxygen and know how to put your mask on.  Raising boys is not for sissies.

A mother of sons has a certain quality that distinguishes her from other mothers.  It’s something called GRIT.  It’s both under her fingernails and in her character.  We find each other and become fast friends- not unlike war veterans or earthquake survivors.  With boys, it certainly takes a village and all hands on deck to keep them on the straight and narrow.  Or to keep us sane.  Whichever is the most important at the moment.

It’s the little things that can throw you a curve.  The various items you find in the pockets of their pants when you are doing their laundry.  The “senior trip” photos that he accidentally left in the back seat of your car.   Or the alcohol in your pantry that suddenly tastes like water.  The camping trip to Mt. Madonna that you had a strange hunch about and wouldn’t let him go to at the last minute, thankfully.  Or the phone call from Mexico when your son and his friend, Nate, slept on a random beach and lost their car and personal artifacts to the incoming tide and had to hitchhike their way back to civilization.. or at least that’s the story they told me.

It’s when they are playing basketball shirts and skins in your driveway and you notice that one of their friends, Chris, has a gigantic tattoo across his back and pierced nipples.  “Does your mom know you have that?” I asked… wondering if I should strip my boys down naked and examine them from head to toe.  Or when you’re greeted at the door by your son and his friend who just painted his bedroom.  “Hi mom.  Oh BTW the paint on the chip is REALLY different from the way it turned out.  Just sayin’!”  After which I climb the stairs to his room and Boston Ivy from Home Depot reaches out and violently grabs me.  BTW, Will Carter, I think I still owe you some money.

When you come home from work and the girls you just had for detention a half hour ago are at your house (in their rolled up uniform skirts) BBQing with your sons and their friends.  “Oh Hi, Mrs. Healy.”  Deserving a mention is the trampoline pushed up to the garage.  One look and I knew.  “Were you boys jumping off the roof onto the trampoline???”

They cannot lie.  I must tell you.  Boys totally suck at lying.  That’s a good thing.

They will grow up and suddenly outweigh you.  But you must convince them that you can outsmart them.  At least for several more years.  Long after you can no longer carry them in your arms, you will carry them emotionally and spiritually.  And if you do this whole boy thing right, they will become your knights in shining armor.  They will fix your technology and help you with home repairs.  They will start having the parties YOU used to have for them and all their friends and invite you to come and just relax. They will take your arm when you cross the street together and carry your packages.   They will tell your significant other “Thank you for taking such good care of my mom”.

Through all of this you must never let them know that you have no idea what you are doing.   Don’t ever let them see your weakness.   Don’t let them know that you stay up all night worrying about them.  Act “as if” you’ve got this mother of sons thing under control.  Poker face.  Don’t let them see you sweat.

You got this @monbon6985.  And @thetateway, @neneboehealy, @sarah_h_lucero, @carliebuys, @lindsbot_, @eringrubisich.

You will survive.  Tattoo it on your heart.  Write it across the sky.  Trace it in the dust he lets settle in his bedroom.  Always stand by your man.  He needs your love and support.  Even when he throws the proverbial pitcher of water at you and walks off into manhood.

Thank you Robert, Patrick and Peter for making me one tough mudder.  I couldn’t have done this without you.  And thank you for not telling me EVERYTHING.  I love you with every fiber of my being.  And believe me.. I wouldn’t change a thing about our journey together.

Ok.. maybe just a few things.

IMG_6179

 

 

 

 

 

 

Choose your adventure…

Choose your adventure…

IMG_5098

On our way to the Nashville International Airport, Boe and I reviewed all the lessons learned during my week long visit.  First a little Arabic…
Di´ddy Di´ddy is what you say when you hit your head or your arm or some other extremity on something that hurts!  Repeat over and over while hitting the guilty object until the hurt is gone.  Fa´dush!  That’s what you say when someone sneezes.  I think it means God Bless You.  If a person is coughing or choking on something, place your hand on their back and tap lightly while repeating Sa´ha!  And lastly, when dinner is ready get yourself to the table in a hurry!  Ya´la!
Next, some basic manners.  Boe, keep your foot to yourself when in the car seat or Sitti will have to take a bite out of it!  Also, make sure you sit on your teezee (bottom, buttocks, bum) in the bathtub and when riding in your red wagon.
Now, a grammar lesson.  In the south, BBQ is a NOUN, not a verb!
ASSWHATIMTALKINABOUT says Uncle Mickey!
We’ve arrived now at the airport.  “No long goodbyes, Boe.  I will see you soon!  Chin up!  Ok.. just one more bite of your toes!
Standing at the curb, I wave and watch as Peter, Breezy and Boe pull away.  I didn’t want to cry and be THAT gramma.  But as I walked through the airport terminal every little baby squeal or laugh reminds me of Boe.  Every sweet kiss and snuggle.  That baby smell.  Those contemplative blue eyes.
Sigh….
When my boys were little we read to them a series of books entitled “Choose Your Adventure”.  In each book, the reader would get to choose how the story progressed and make decisions at each impasse.  Until they would reach the final destination.
As parents, that’s pretty much what we strive for.  We want our children to choose their own path, set goals and create their own lives.  We begin to train them when they are little- pick up your toys, get ready for school, comb your hair, do your homework!  We continue (with added fervor) when they become teenagers- get a job, save your money, go to college!  We long to have our own lives back and to be able to traverse life unencumbered by the awesome demands of parenthood.  Well, at least for a day or so.  😌
So when my son announced that his little family was going to move across the country- 2000 plus miles away- like a good parent, I listened, showed my best game face, and celebrated.  Isn’t this what I prepared him for all along?
And amidst the confusion, sadness and eventual resolution, there came a profound epiphany.  Life has a funny way of turning the tables.  Our children become our mentors.  Their adventures become our adventures.  They teach us that we also get to choose.  And there is, indeed, life after parenting.  That the world is vast and there may be no place like home, but there are also journeys and experiences and adventures to be had- near and far.  👠
So, in the wise words of Max from the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are… dry your tears onehipdiva and “Let the wild rumpus begin”!

IMG_5056

Being Sitti

Being Sitti

FullSizeRender-17

I have been reflecting on the awesome responsibility of being a grandmother.  It has been a transition to say the least. And with all transitions there is an adjustment period and an awkward sense of the unknown as well as the anticipation of what is to come and how it will all look once everyone finds their sea legs.

My gracious son and daughter in law let me choose the name I would like to be called by little Boe and it was a quick decision.  Like my Sittis before me, I felt that the Arabic name for grandmother was more than appropriate because it speaks of a long history of Lebanese women who wanted nothing more than to cook, feed, and make a cozy home for their families.  And even though I had the means and awareness to get a college degree and beyond and have a thriving and rewarding career, I have to admit my first goal when I stepped onto a college campus at 17 years old was to get my MRS degree, have a family, and create a loving home for them.

I was named after my maternal Sitti, Rosa Maloof, and of course like all good Catholic girls, the Blessed Virgin Mary.  (My parents must have had high aspirations for me!)  I had to do some fact checking with my brothers and as my memory serves me, I only saw my maternal grandmother three times in my entire life.  She and my grandfather lived in Atlanta and were not fond of flying.  We were a family of eight in California and traveling across the country to see our grandparents was a bit out of the budget.  I was able to spend time with them once as a little girl, once as a teenager, and much later when I was 30.  When my mother passed away at 61 years old, they did not come out for her funeral.  It is still incredulous to me today.  I would move heaven and earth to see my children in any state (or state).

My father’s mother, Louise, died in childbirth along with her fifth child.  My dad was the oldest and we think (our collective memories) he was about 6 years old when she died.  The baby’s name was John and I remember my dad telling me the story- never with a straight face- always with tears running down his cheeks.  My brother John was named after my dad’s little brother.

My grandfather sent for a wife from Lebanon (cousins.. can you do some fact checking for me?  This is part urban legend passed down through oral history).  Her name was Madeleine and she had to quickly adjust to a new country, a new husband, and to my grandfather Thomas’ four children.  They went on to have four more children of their own whom my grandmother favored.  And she favored their children as well.

With that said, I must confess that I don’t remember having a Sitti who wanted to kiss me and hold me, babysit me and get on the floor and play with me and/or agonize over the next time she might be able to spend time with me.

I write all this not so that you will feel sorry for me.  I write it for my own understanding and for my children’s understanding.  I write it to rub a salve on a wound that has just recently been exposed as I reflect on my own experience as a grandmother.  I write it to help me understand this longing in my heart to be near my new grandson and be a part of his life.  I write it because I know I am not alone in this reflection and confession and to open a conversation about the role of a grandmother in a child’s life.

In the song Both Sides Now Joni Mitchell sings “Something’s lost and something’s gained in living every day.”  Life is not always easy.  Family is not always as Norman Rockwell would illustrate but I believe people try.  In the absence of holding me and reading stories to me, my Sittis cooked and cleaned and fed me and I suppose they thought that was enough.  But this Sitti wants something different with her grandchildren.

I would love to hear your thoughts on being a grandparent.

 

 

 

 

My Easter Confession

My Easter Confession

 

IMG_4591

Bless me Father for I have sinned.  It has been so long that I can’t even remember when I last went to confession and these are my sins.

Or at least the latest ones.

Or the ones I can remember.  BTW are we responsible for the ones we can’t remember?

Oh Lordy.  Well here goes.

I did not attend any Easter services this season.  Not Holy Thursday.  Not Good Friday.  Not Easter Vigil.

Zero, zip, nada.

I did this intentionally so now you know why I’m here today.

Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

Instead..

I cleaned my house and did my Target, TJMaxx and Trader Joes shopping. I worked in my garden, fertilized all of my succulents and marveled at the first spring flowers on my Cecile Brunner Rose. I cooked a bit and squeezed lemons to freeze for future Lebanese delicacies.  I went to dinner and a movie with a good friend. I finished a novel and started a new one.  Took a morning hike and photographed several cows with their calves.

For the grand finale, Easter, I shared a meal with my wonderful family, chased toddlers around the house and played with my little grandson.

For these and all my sins I am sorry.

Now, Father, I’m sure you want to know why this cradle Catholic defied all of the rules.

My reasoning?  I wanted to see what it was like to live in a secular world without the sacred.  I wanted to see what it’s like to not believe, to not have my Catholic community, to not sing and pray for my loved ones and the world at large.  I wanted to see if God in nature was enough for me.

All in all it was a very spiritual experience.  But here is what I discovered.

I realized that I missed the incense, the chanting, the candles and the ancient scripture.  I missed the washing of the feet and the opportunity to meditate on service and being a woman for others. I missed the veneration of the cross and the church bells and the bowed heads. I missed the experience of humility that comes from believing in something that is beyond myself and out of my control.  I missed the celebration and the lilies filling the sanctuary.  I missed the Alleluia and the joy that comes after the sacrifices of Lent.

I missed the good old fashioned Catholic aerobics… standing for a half hour gospel and then springing up and down and up and down to the rhythm of the rituals and the liturgy.

I missed it all.  And now I feel an indescribable void.

So, Father, I guess you can take the girl out of the Catholic but you can’t take the Catholic out of the girl.  I’m sure you have an appropriate penance for me?  10 Hail Marys and a Glory Be?  100 continuous genuflections?  A Novena with my head covered?

You missed it, my dear.  Penance done.  Amen.  Hallelujah.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Boe…

Dear Boe…

IMG_8085

I just wanted to write to you and tell you how much I enjoyed our play date this weekend.  I had been looking so forward to it ever since your mommy set it up for us.

I think I’m in love with you.  Oh my…

I especially had fun this morning when we were crawling on the floor together, exploring all the ins and outs and unders of your living room floor.  You were quite interested in the plugs and cables.  Perhaps you will be an electrician when you grow up.  Or a deep sea diver.

Or a secret service man.

You’re such a good crawler.  You get around with finesse.  Remind me to invite you to my house next time I need someone to get that thing that rolled under my sofa.

I’m home now doing my laundry.  And I’m giggling at the combination of dog hair, snot and mashed bananas on my nightgown. Good thing I raised three sons and have lots of Shout It Out and I know how to use it!

I’m reminiscing of our time together.  Sigh.  And I’m thinking of you. ♥♥

You’re the avocado on my sandwich.  You’re the frosting on my cupcake.

You’re the garlic in my baba ghanoush.

This kind of JOY is new to me.  It’s wonder, awe and rapture all wrapped up into one.

It’s a little boy with eyes of blue.  Oh, how I love you!

Your Sitti