Sometimes Life's a Bitch

  

From inside the house I heard the scream of fear coming from my son outside. When I reached the backyard my son and our neighbor boy explained to me that something had dug a hole under our play set and they saw it. As they were unable to explain what it looked like, thus I couldn’t determine what it was, I instructed them to stay away from that part of the yard. Well, come on people I wasn’t going over there and the kid’s dad would be home soon to embark on that investigation. Fortunately my son is skittish and kept his distance until his father was home. Armed with a long metal rod and a hammer, obvious creature investigation tools, my husband headed toward the hole. I watched from the safety of our upper deck. I never would have guessed they would locate a rabbit nest. With absolute pure uninhibited joy, only a child possesses, my son yelled, “Mom, you have to see this. It is a bunny nest and the babies are precious! They are precious like sissy!” During my husband’s poking and prodding he uncovered a rabbit nest with no less than six babies in it and I was overcome with happiness. Like my 4-year-old, I too had never seen such a thing and I agreed it was precious.

I grew up around farmers and avid gardeners, so I am aware that rabbits can be huge pests. Precious might not be the adjective some would use, but I was filled with the awe of new life. As a mom of two, the latest add-on arriving only 7 months ago, I couldn’t help but think of the mother rabbit that so carefully and meticulously dug this hole, filled it with her babies, and covered them with grass and fur. The baby rabbits were tiny and helpless, but cuddled close to each other as we gazed down at them. I was struck by the miracle of new life, even that of bunnies. Every little creation a wonder.

 My boy can be quite rough and tumble, but has the most tender heart. He asked a million questions about the babies and was concerned about their mommy and daddy. Aware of the possible negative outcome of disturbing the nest and afraid of the disappointment our son might have to face, we explained that we needed to leave the rabbits alone and that the momma might not be accepting of her young since we had uncovered the nest.  We also discussed the possibility that something else might “get” the bunnies. He suggested we cover the nest back up and hope that the babies’ parents would come and take care of them.  Then he spent much of the evening staring longingly and protectively out the window in the direction of the nest.

This morning my son literally jumped out of his bed in a t-shirt and underwear. He ran for the back door. He could not be stopped or contained as he screeched something about HIS baby rabbits. He was a 4-year-old with the heart of a parent. He was driven to check on his babies, so out we went underwear and all. We reached the nest and I could have felt the fist hit me in the gut. The hole was vacant and two precious babies lay next to the former nest dead. I knew this could happen. My husband and I even discussed the real likelihood this could occur, yet in the morning sun with my own baby holding my hand I just wanted to cry. My raw heart was reacting to this sad little event, but my hurt originated somewhere else.

Life is precious, a gift, and (as my mother always told me) sometimes it’s a bitch. I have watched two people I have loved since the beginning of my time struggle with old age. The toll of living a long life. Are their struggles life threatening or is the end just around the corner, no. However, life will not get easier for them. They are losing the ability to do the things they love, and they are in physical pain daily. There is nothing I can do, but lend an ear, run an errand, send a package, and love them. I can’t take away the struggle, I can’t kiss the owie and make it better, like they always did for me. They have been the shelter I sought during every storm of my life. I thought, and honestly still think, they are super heroes capable of taking down every evil in my life and protecting me from all real harm. I am drowning in sadness as I work to accept the reality that they are not invincible and that old age will be their kryptonite. Their life will end; it is reality. Reality bites!

Seeing those dead bunnies struck me because my greatest fear right now is the death of my little old people. The truth is I don’t fear death for them, but the reality of their death for me. I believe in life everlasting and a world without pain. I know He promises to heal my people and provide them a real home when they leave this world. However, my breath catches in my throat as I think about living my own life without them. Pretty selfish.

In the aftermath of the dead bunny discovery my son has danced joyously in my living room, painted rainbows, and created with his play-doh. He still has mentioned the bunnies and said he is sad, but his life is going on. Perhaps He is showing me there will be real pain, but there will also still be silliness, joy, and dancing.

Bob's legacy lives on...

I gave my son my grandfather’s name; little did I know that my 4-year-old would regularly channel his namesake. Like Whoopi in Ghost, my kiddo shakes and shouts and then Bob appears. My son shares several physical traits with his great-grandfather, such as short stature, muscular build, and a notch out of one of his ears. However, it is the quirks and idiosyncrasies that flare-up and makes me take note that my son is so aptly named. The fantastic personality similarities include persistence, perseverance, strength, fierce loyalty, and attention to detail. I hoped my son would embody these types of ideals when I named him, but I never anticipated that my grandfather’s legacy would literally live on through my son by means of possession. Bob has a few tendencies that can be, let’s say, challenging. He can be gruff, stubborn, impatient, moody, and requires a regimented routine. The best mental picture I can paint for you is think 92-year-old Archie Bunker; rough exterior, but with a real deep love and soft spot for his family.

I first started to notice my son was having Bob Moments while we were driving in the car. My mom and I were talking about a friend of ours and some issues she was having. Last I knew, my boy was reading Fred & Ted in the backseat. Suddenly, I hear a voice from the back state, “her business, is not your business.” The voice was disgusted and chastising, more importantly it sounded nothing like my son. When I looked in the rearview mirror I fully expected to see a wrinkled frail Bob in Dickies and a plaid flannel waving his crooked finger at me while strapped into the Britax. It was not just that my son was saying something my grandfather would say; his inflection, affect, body language and sentiment were Bob.

The Bob Moments, are often just that, moments. On a few occasions Bob has taken over and made himself at home for quite a while in my little guy. One such occasion occurred when my mom, grandma, and I took the kids for a trip to the park. We swung, we spun, we climbed, we slid, we ran and we inevitably had a need for a toilet. It was early spring and the park restrooms were still locked up tight. I thought, hey, this is no big deal. One of the benefits of being a boy is he does not have to be limited by the typical confines of a restroom like girls. The world can be his toilet, or at least a nearby tree can. My mom takes my boy to hunt for a good spot. Seconds after they stroll off, my son is running back to me. His face depicts horror and his tone is highly agitated as he recounts how his grandmother had the audacity to suggest he urinate on a tree. He screeches, “Only babies go potty outside and I am NOT a baby.” I try to calm him and assure him it is perfectly acceptable for him to go outside. His face drops further and he quickly slams his arms across his chest, he has identified me as the enemy, right along with his grandmother. He stomps off and Bob takes possession and hunkers down for a good long time.  My boy, now about 15 feet away, keeps his arms firmly crossed, kicks the dirt up, wanders angrily in a circle, and mutters and mumbles about his asinine mother and grandmother who had the gall to believe he would relieve himself outdoors. He had completely forgotten he needed to go to the restroom; his concern had shifted to the injustice of being forced to consider peeing on a tree. The only way Bob could have been more present at the park that day was if “damn it” was a part of my son’s acquired vocabulary.

My grandfather will be gone someday, and as the day gets closer I often wonder how I will live without him. While I am comforted by the wonderful personality traits my boy has in common with his great-grandfather, the real gift God has given me are the Bob Moments. I know long after Bob is gone he will live on in my son, quite literally. I will get to see the quirks, the tone and the thoughts that make him uniquely Bob with every Bob Moment my boy has for years to come. This promise of having Bob with me forever makes me smile. My prayer was to get to keep my grandfather; turns out God heard my prayer. His plan was not mine, it was better.