My memories seem tied to the seasons, and August is now full of difficult thoughts. The first week of the month my mind kept wandering to last year when Larry was sick enough to be hospitalized. Although it turned out to be “only” a virus, it caused fluid on his heart and lungs which caused me to have many tense days and sleepless nights until he finally began to recover.
Next is the middle of the month, which three years ago was consumed by the heartbreak of miscarriage. Three years ago! Can it be that long since my wee Enoch was no more? With Baby Boy being, well, a boy. . .it is hard to keep my mind from wondering if Enoch would have been the baby sister for whom Twirly Girl prayed. Even so, the pain has slowly lessened with time. . .but it is still there, just below the surface. As I went through the mourning process, I found my friends belonged to two groups: those who had never had a miscarriage and didn’t know what to say, and those who had had a miscarriage and didn’t want to talk about it. For me I have found that talking (or writing) brings healing, especially on the rare occasion that I have been able to talk (and listen) to another mother through her own grief.
And then there is late August, also three years ago. I was still recovering from the physical aspects of miscarrying (to say nothing of emotional) when I was verbally assaulted by our next door neighbors. I took a boy over to apologize for having traced his name (with his finger) on their freshly washed car. The husband started yelling at me that if our kids so much as rode a bike down the sidewalk in front of their house he was going to throw them in his car and take them to the police, and then his wife leaned out of an upper window to join in yelling about everything our kids had ever done in or near their yard. Yes, there were things that our kids should not have done. Most were minor and more importantly the kids had already apologized for the only thing that been brought to our attention before that afternoon. I don’t know how long I stood there with my mouth hanging open while they continued to yell; finally I pulled myself together and took my boys home.
When Larry returned home, he went to talk to them, pointing out that taking our kids anywhere, even to the police station, without our permission is kidnapping. They were calmer, but their words revealed that they dislike all children and are racist too. Well! There isn’t much we could do about that kind of attitude! We talked to our kids, took them over to apologize, handed out punishment as we saw fit, and implored them to not ride their bikes east of our house.
I wish I could say that was the end of it, but a month or two later the wife was pounding on my front door because I had sent a boy into the backyard to throw his temper tantrum: he was making a lot of noise and wasn’t wearing a coat (mid-40s weather). From that time until we moved, I felt I was watching over my shoulder every time I stepped outside my house. Even now I find myself tense around anyone who looks like our former neighbors, especially the wife. And this time of year, those kinds of thoughts seem to come more readily.