Sometimes I forget this tiny boy isn't even 2 years old. He shows more love and empathy towards people than those 10x his age. He'll give a smile and wave to anyone who'll make eye contact with him. He has a tender spot for the elderly and people in wheelchairs. At the same time, this is the boy that asked to be put in his baby sisters crib, then peed on her sheets. He's a tiny little pistol, full of mischief and curiosity, and 100% boy. As we near his 2nd birthday, I can't believe he's been around as long as he has. I still stare at him in amazement and can't believe he is my baby. Every day he is spouting new words and bringing up something we did days ago. His memory is sharp as a tack and if he's heard you say something one time, you better believe that word or phrase is now a part of his vocabulary. He has handled moving to the farm like a pro. He's always liked coming out here and seeing the barn, tractor, and riding the 4-wheele
There's so many little moments I look back on now and wonder if it was the disease. Years ago my husband started commenting on how bad my mom was at making coffee. I just added more creamer and drank it down, not giving the stale tasting coffee a second thought. She had been making me coffee for years, maybe her pot just needed to be de-calcified or maybe she was cutting back on the amount of beans used? Eventually, it just became easier for me to always take her a Starbucks than have her brew us a pot. There was a strawberry pie incident that left the first (and only) bite of pie sizzling on our tongues. She had been making this pie my entire life, but surely it was a simple ingredient mistake, nothing that I should to be alarmed about. As my grandparents aged and required moving from the town of Santa Claus to the same town as my mother, she became the caregiver for their daily needs. Besides working at the library, she was now taking my grandparents to every doctors ap
A diagnosis didn't help, it just sort-of explained things. But an explanation doesn't take away the heartache. I thought I'd clean up her cookbook today. It was an item I had asked dad for a year or so ago. Mom was no longer cooking and there were so many things she used to make that I wanted to make for my family. Her cookbook must have been something she looked through frequently even as her brain was no longer working the way it should. The recipes were no longer in order based on appitizers and meats, but haphazardly strewn throughout the book. There were multiple handwritten recipes, but with items omitted or duplicated (I only realized this when trying to bake one of her pies and the ingrediants were not correct. I wanted this book to be in order, and toss the recipe cards out that were incorrect. As I opened the book and saw dinners and desserts that she frequently made, the realization of what my children and I have lost, hit me like a freight train. I mis
Awesome sharing
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