We used to hold hands and spin in circles on the playground until we couldn’t hold on any more and wobbled around before falling down and laughing. There was a push-action metal top at Grandpa’s house. I sent it wobbling across the floor over and over and over. He had a gyroscope too. I stacked blocks until they wobbled and crashed down all over the floor. The word for the week makes me think of a lot of wobbling play, not the least of which is learning to ride my too-big bike on a tar and chip road. I’ve still got the scars.
“Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.” My little brothers loved Weebles and we sang that a lot.
Sometimes I wish life were still so simple. I woke up thinking about work problems, then the fact that I have to drink 32 oz. of water in an hour this week for a medical test, and then I remembered that Mickey died on Friday. Life sucks. That’s 3 people for me in November, so if deaths really go by 3s then I guess I’m done?
I don’t know if I feel physically wobbly from all the stresses, but I feel emotionally wobbly. Or maybe just bone tired from dealing with life and funerals. I’d rather sit on the floor with the jacks my sister got me for my birthday. 1s… 2s… 3s… start over, 1s… 2s…
I played jacks a lot when I was a kid which is why she gave them to me now. Life wasn’t perfect then, but the simple act of counting and bouncing was a calm in the storm. Sometimes I would count before going to sleep and wake up in the morning still counting.
Sometimes I wonder if other people ever learned to calm themselves? There was a time that my niece was having a fit and struggled to breathe between tears. I put her on my lap and told her to ignore the instigators. Breathe! A ragged sob inward. Good. Do it again! A slightly less ragged inward sob. I rocked her back and forth and kept reminding her to breathe between new sobs of the unjust world. She finally got herself together and then the instigators had to start up again, but at least she found that she had the power to control herself.
Sometimes I need to remind myself that I have that same power. Unclench my jaw and fists and breathe. Tomorrow hasn’t happened yet, nothing I can do about the past, just breathe. Remember the happy times when Mickey came through the door 40 years ago, all smiles and handsomeness, ravioli, back step talks while we marginally watched the grill or maybe the kids in the back yard. Little moments, but important to my feelings of acceptance and affection.
I baked cookies from the recipe Sharon sent me. I’m pretty sure ginger, cocoa, and sugar solve at least some problems. Thanks Sharon! Cookies will go great with the post-Thanksgiving soup I made yesterday. Today I’ll help make 200 meatballs for the post-funeral lunch.
And in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for the people who have made my life better. Perhaps all these funerals are a reminder to appreciate all the important people who have already passed on and appreciate the people still living while we’ve got them.
My deepest sympathies to the Caine/Rosato families and to all of Mickey’s many friends.