My night shift coworkers had a conversation on Friday about perfectionism and the lack thereof amongst the staff at our in-hospital coffee shop. A coworker had returned to the floor with a group order that included an iced coffee clearly marked “hot” on the outside, which is the temperature at which it was desired.
Grief is the furniture you inherited from your maternal grandmother living on your enclosed front porch for over a year because you didn’t want a daily reminder that she is gone inside your house.
Grief is slowly moving those items, one by one into your house, when it felt right.
Grief is the frame of the bed that you slept on when you spent two precious weekends caring for your Grandma when she was on hospice. It wasn’t too comfortable. The head of the bed was raised up on blocks to help with Grandma’s reflux.
This month’s antiracism title was Me and White Supremacy: Combat Racism, Change the World, and Become a Good Ancestor, by Layla F. Saad.
The chapter was “You and White Exceptionalism,” and I might be its poster child.
Between staying home and wearing masks, no one in our house has been sick since that dimly remembered time in the winter of 2019. No stomach bugs, no colds, and I haven’t missed it. Some of my most memorable parenting moments involve cleaning up after sick kids. Not this year! We were often anxious, but we were not sick.
Every once in a while over the past year, I’d take out the camera and take one or two photos of something because I felt like I needed to – a birthday, a book cover for a post, or a quick selfie with the baby because he is my last child and once he is grown there ARE NO MORE. But most of the photos weren’t very good because the apathy was just too thick and I didn’t take enough pictures to get a good one.
