Sunday, January 30, 2011
My Wilding
See that hair? That's been sticking up since last February or so. I just can't bring myself to cut it off though. Whose head would I smooth if it were short? Whose hairs would I wet? What would I yell to V every morning? ("V??? Did you comb Luca's hair? He looks like a wilding again.") So, without those stray hairs reaching to outerspace, I would be lost. Simply lost. 
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Vampires, Vomit, and Victory
Thomas Sutherland was held hostage in Beirut back in the 80s. He was chained to another man, Terry Anderson. For 6 years. They were held in a basement, tethered to a wall, in darkness.
I remember when Sutherland was finally freed, he said something that resonated so deeply with my dad. And my dad in turn shared that with me. I was 15 when Sutherland was released. I had hormones coursing through my veins but was stunned into silence when I my dad spoke about Sutherland's experience.
He told me that Sutherland had commented that he was never alone in that basement, bound to another man, tied viciously to a radiator in a cellar. He had his thoughts. He had his memories of "The Iliad". He had his knowledge of French. He had composers floating and dancing through his mind as time seemed to have left him behind.
I remember my dad telling me this....the power in his voice when he paused to mention each fascinating subject that Sutherland could grab hold of in those dark hours. Those dark years. I remember my dad saying that faith, too, would always keep you company. It was an inspiration to me. Sutherland and his strength. My dad and his quiet recognition of it.
So, I thought of Sutherland....my Dad....as I drove to my first breast MRI appointment. I had been dreading it. The woman who called to schedule it with me only set my anxiety afire when she asked things like Are you ambulatory? Do you have claustrophobia? Do you have panic attacks? I answered all of them truthfully. Yes. No. No. But I did ask what would happen if I developed one of those conditions. "Lose the ability to use your legs?" she laughed. "No. No....I mean suddenly develop claustrophobia. Suddenly come on with an incurable case of panic attacks?"
She did little to quell my fears. She continued to mention what sounded like some sort of bizarre torture. Breast coils. Arms extended over my head. 40 minutes. Loud banging. But she did say that if I felt anything coming on...an attack of nerves...a momentary lapse in sanity, I could scream. The machine is miked. They would haul me out of the device. Not what I wanted to hear but I guess if I developed the world's worst case of claustrophobia, I could be dragged out.
I drove and thought of the hideous tortures that humans can endure. And not only endure, but endure beautifully. I reminded myself that this was hardly torture. Just a procedure. Just a silly little test. I could do this. I promised myself to be brave and to stare my genetic misfortune square in the face. I promised myself to pull from own collection of lovely words that have been almost memorized....to listen to favorite authors again in my mind. To hear songs, and think about their lyrics. I actually just promised myself that I would continue to breath.
I arrived and knew immediately I might not be nearly as graceful as those who have suffered much much greater pain before me.
When they went to put the IV in, I scooted back in the straight folding chair, pressing my face against the cool tile on the wall. They searched in vain for a vein, and the lights above me began to softly form a tunnel....a way out. An escape. I was left alone in the room briefly when my nurse perused the halls with an SOS flag - she needed guidance in finding another vein. My arm outstretched, my poked at inner elbow already throbbing, I concentrated on remaining upright. I saw another nurse enter the room and knew when I wasn't alone, I could continue my plan. To follow that soft tunnel of light to another place.
I passed the hell out.
Hard.
I fell into a dream so deep it felt like an eternity later when I heard their voices beckoning me back. The bright sterile lights warning me that the true test of my strength hadn't even begun.
The nurse commented on how pale I grew. How very pale. As she lifted my arms to pull me to a cot, she pulled back in shock. My hands felt like ice. I asked how long I had been out, expecting her to say an hour - more. She said a few seconds. "I dreamt" I whispered. "About what?" she whispered back. "Edward" I murmured.
I felt embarrassment staining my cheeks back to their original color. "Twilight" I sighed. And so there it is. While I wanted to pull from so many notable authors during this trial, I pulled from Twilight. I dreamt of a vampire. I thought for a moment that maybe it was true, maybe Edward had visited me to save me. My pale skin. My cold hands. Maybe not the most inspiring choice of literary works to use to keep my mind busy, to keep me sane. But the thought of this vampire, Edward, coming into radiology to swoop me in his arms brought a smile to my lips. In a swirl of confusion, I leaned over and threw up at the feet of both quiet nurses. And the nausea hit me like a ton of bricks.
After some saltines and some o.j., I ended up in that machine. The whirling and buzzing. The clicking overhead. My body suspended in a metal tube. To be honest it was fine. Just fine.
But the emotions leading up to it were close to unbearable. The thoughts of my dad. My mom. My sister. My fate. The thoughts of people forced to endure what they haven't chosen. The thoughts of how to be brave when you don't want to be. It wasn't the damn needle that sent me searching for a way out. It wasn't the idea of a scan. It wasn't even the use of the word "breast coils" by the scheduler. It was so much more. It was loss. It was having to deal with a disease I didn't bargain for. It was scary thoughts of leaving my two unbearably sweet babies. A husband I adore.
But, finally, I found myself outside by my car - not after finding yet another trash can to hover over momentarily. I was weak and still ruffled by nausea. Extreme nausea. And I bawled the tears I should have cried a long time ago. I whimpered into the phone to V that the whole thing was over. And it would never be as bad as it was today because I knew what to expect now. Which may or may not be true.
I drove home with the windows down and my music on. I cried still. I had done it though. I had gone through with this preventative measure. I could retreat back to my life, my lovely life. One that I'm profoundly grateful to have. But I felt one emotion heavily over all the others on that drive home.
I felt victorious.
I remember when Sutherland was finally freed, he said something that resonated so deeply with my dad. And my dad in turn shared that with me. I was 15 when Sutherland was released. I had hormones coursing through my veins but was stunned into silence when I my dad spoke about Sutherland's experience.
He told me that Sutherland had commented that he was never alone in that basement, bound to another man, tied viciously to a radiator in a cellar. He had his thoughts. He had his memories of "The Iliad". He had his knowledge of French. He had composers floating and dancing through his mind as time seemed to have left him behind.
I remember my dad telling me this....the power in his voice when he paused to mention each fascinating subject that Sutherland could grab hold of in those dark hours. Those dark years. I remember my dad saying that faith, too, would always keep you company. It was an inspiration to me. Sutherland and his strength. My dad and his quiet recognition of it.
So, I thought of Sutherland....my Dad....as I drove to my first breast MRI appointment. I had been dreading it. The woman who called to schedule it with me only set my anxiety afire when she asked things like Are you ambulatory? Do you have claustrophobia? Do you have panic attacks? I answered all of them truthfully. Yes. No. No. But I did ask what would happen if I developed one of those conditions. "Lose the ability to use your legs?" she laughed. "No. No....I mean suddenly develop claustrophobia. Suddenly come on with an incurable case of panic attacks?"
She did little to quell my fears. She continued to mention what sounded like some sort of bizarre torture. Breast coils. Arms extended over my head. 40 minutes. Loud banging. But she did say that if I felt anything coming on...an attack of nerves...a momentary lapse in sanity, I could scream. The machine is miked. They would haul me out of the device. Not what I wanted to hear but I guess if I developed the world's worst case of claustrophobia, I could be dragged out.
I drove and thought of the hideous tortures that humans can endure. And not only endure, but endure beautifully. I reminded myself that this was hardly torture. Just a procedure. Just a silly little test. I could do this. I promised myself to be brave and to stare my genetic misfortune square in the face. I promised myself to pull from own collection of lovely words that have been almost memorized....to listen to favorite authors again in my mind. To hear songs, and think about their lyrics. I actually just promised myself that I would continue to breath.
I arrived and knew immediately I might not be nearly as graceful as those who have suffered much much greater pain before me.
When they went to put the IV in, I scooted back in the straight folding chair, pressing my face against the cool tile on the wall. They searched in vain for a vein, and the lights above me began to softly form a tunnel....a way out. An escape. I was left alone in the room briefly when my nurse perused the halls with an SOS flag - she needed guidance in finding another vein. My arm outstretched, my poked at inner elbow already throbbing, I concentrated on remaining upright. I saw another nurse enter the room and knew when I wasn't alone, I could continue my plan. To follow that soft tunnel of light to another place.
I passed the hell out.
Hard.
I fell into a dream so deep it felt like an eternity later when I heard their voices beckoning me back. The bright sterile lights warning me that the true test of my strength hadn't even begun.
The nurse commented on how pale I grew. How very pale. As she lifted my arms to pull me to a cot, she pulled back in shock. My hands felt like ice. I asked how long I had been out, expecting her to say an hour - more. She said a few seconds. "I dreamt" I whispered. "About what?" she whispered back. "Edward" I murmured.
I felt embarrassment staining my cheeks back to their original color. "Twilight" I sighed. And so there it is. While I wanted to pull from so many notable authors during this trial, I pulled from Twilight. I dreamt of a vampire. I thought for a moment that maybe it was true, maybe Edward had visited me to save me. My pale skin. My cold hands. Maybe not the most inspiring choice of literary works to use to keep my mind busy, to keep me sane. But the thought of this vampire, Edward, coming into radiology to swoop me in his arms brought a smile to my lips. In a swirl of confusion, I leaned over and threw up at the feet of both quiet nurses. And the nausea hit me like a ton of bricks.
After some saltines and some o.j., I ended up in that machine. The whirling and buzzing. The clicking overhead. My body suspended in a metal tube. To be honest it was fine. Just fine.
But the emotions leading up to it were close to unbearable. The thoughts of my dad. My mom. My sister. My fate. The thoughts of people forced to endure what they haven't chosen. The thoughts of how to be brave when you don't want to be. It wasn't the damn needle that sent me searching for a way out. It wasn't the idea of a scan. It wasn't even the use of the word "breast coils" by the scheduler. It was so much more. It was loss. It was having to deal with a disease I didn't bargain for. It was scary thoughts of leaving my two unbearably sweet babies. A husband I adore.
But, finally, I found myself outside by my car - not after finding yet another trash can to hover over momentarily. I was weak and still ruffled by nausea. Extreme nausea. And I bawled the tears I should have cried a long time ago. I whimpered into the phone to V that the whole thing was over. And it would never be as bad as it was today because I knew what to expect now. Which may or may not be true.
I drove home with the windows down and my music on. I cried still. I had done it though. I had gone through with this preventative measure. I could retreat back to my life, my lovely life. One that I'm profoundly grateful to have. But I felt one emotion heavily over all the others on that drive home.
I felt victorious.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Ballerinas Don't Wear Underwear
Mia started her ballet class yesterday and everyone within shouting distance has been notified. She takes after me in that regard; she is a shoulder tapper. She'll stop just about anyone to give a quick little tidbit about her life....some insight into what makes her world spin.
We arrived early (it's a disease of mine, being chronically early that is). Mia carefully pulled out her pink leather slippers and took off her skirt. She had on her tights and leotard and was ready to show the class what she's made of.
When we checked in, they gestured toward the waiting room and said the three year old class would start soon.
Hold the door.
Tiny ears heard this and quickly corrected the receptionist.
"But I'm four. I'm not three." She turned to me, and whispered, "Is it the wrong class? I don't get to dance today?" I assured her that we would most certainly dance. Confusion set in and no one knew what class was starting. Lots of scrambling behind the desk and papers being flipped this way and that.
Mia stood by my side and waited. I assured her that we would dance. Today. "Even if this is the wrong class and we have to re-register for another class, I'll put on our ballet music at home. Dance we will."
This wasn't good enough. She held back tears and dropped her perfect slippers back into the bag. "But I want to be a REAL ballerina."
Turns out, the class WAS for four year olds and Mia clapped happily inside the room without even looking back. All of the moms hovered near the glass windows and doors and I had wanted to as well. Luca though discovered the vending machines at the other end of the building and banged to his heart content. I tried to cajole him into watching his sister through the window but he screamed bloody murder. Mia gave me the stink eye through the glass and I made a hasty exit. Back to the vending machines to bang out the rest of her lesson.
When she came out of the room surrounded by her pink clad dance mates, I asked her what she learned? What songs were played? What did the teacher have you do? Was it fun? Did you like it? Rapid fire questions from a curious mom who spent the last 45 minutes hitting Pepsi product buttons with a toddler.
"Ballerina's Don't Wear Underwear Mom. My teacher said so. She said at the recital we can't have Dora hanging out of our costumes so we should only wear tights."
So it's official. She's a REAL ballerina.
We arrived early (it's a disease of mine, being chronically early that is). Mia carefully pulled out her pink leather slippers and took off her skirt. She had on her tights and leotard and was ready to show the class what she's made of.
When we checked in, they gestured toward the waiting room and said the three year old class would start soon.
Hold the door.
Tiny ears heard this and quickly corrected the receptionist.
"But I'm four. I'm not three." She turned to me, and whispered, "Is it the wrong class? I don't get to dance today?" I assured her that we would most certainly dance. Confusion set in and no one knew what class was starting. Lots of scrambling behind the desk and papers being flipped this way and that.
Mia stood by my side and waited. I assured her that we would dance. Today. "Even if this is the wrong class and we have to re-register for another class, I'll put on our ballet music at home. Dance we will."
This wasn't good enough. She held back tears and dropped her perfect slippers back into the bag. "But I want to be a REAL ballerina."
Turns out, the class WAS for four year olds and Mia clapped happily inside the room without even looking back. All of the moms hovered near the glass windows and doors and I had wanted to as well. Luca though discovered the vending machines at the other end of the building and banged to his heart content. I tried to cajole him into watching his sister through the window but he screamed bloody murder. Mia gave me the stink eye through the glass and I made a hasty exit. Back to the vending machines to bang out the rest of her lesson.
When she came out of the room surrounded by her pink clad dance mates, I asked her what she learned? What songs were played? What did the teacher have you do? Was it fun? Did you like it? Rapid fire questions from a curious mom who spent the last 45 minutes hitting Pepsi product buttons with a toddler.
"Ballerina's Don't Wear Underwear Mom. My teacher said so. She said at the recital we can't have Dora hanging out of our costumes so we should only wear tights."
So it's official. She's a REAL ballerina.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
I'm sorry but I love you
I was at a cafe the other day meeting a friend and I had the kids with me. The line of people awaiting their java fix was spilling out on the sidewalk of this favorite neighborhood haunt. I liked being there with Mia and Luca (I'm a cafe girl, what can I say?). I liked having them spin around me legs and gaze up at the walls covered in art and neighborhood notices. It just made that bridge between ME and MOM feel so sturdy. We have an agreement - the kids and I. I will willingly and lovingly enter their worlds of play dates and dance classes so long as they walk with me through my world too. Cafes and bookstores. Cemeteries and wine shops. So far, the arrangement is working out well.
A European man was in front of me. Older. Attractive. Luca twirled innocently out in front of him and Mia followed. I pictured calamity. The cute Euro suddenly angry. Hot coffee everywhere. A line of loyal patrons frustrated.
"Sorry!" I called out. I huddled Mia and Luca close to me. "So sorry Sir!"
But, alas, nothing happened. Only some smiles from the sleepy line of Sunday coffee seekers. Only two kids sweetly and gently spinning in circles as they listened to their mother engage strangers about life.
The Euro smiled and said, "You Americans apologize too much. No need to be sorry. Sweet kids."
I was embarrassed for apologizing for them. He was right. No apology was necessary.
He then turned and called over his shoulder, "You Americans say I love you too much too."
I laughed, withholding the urge to call out, "Sorry. I know. We do. So sorry."
I thought about it all day. This need we Americans have to expose our feelings all of the time. This need to squeeze every last ounce of emotion from ourselves before we collapse into heaps at the end of the day. With only enough energy to push out one more "I love you."
I wholeheartedly agree that we utter apologies too frequently. We are too eager to absolve ourselves of the horrible sin of being....ourselves. But do we express love too frequently? Does it lose it's meaning when we call out through the kitchen window, I love you!, knowing that we'll probably say it 5 more times before the sun sets?
Maybe. Just maybe.
I withheld from doling out my usual cheek pinches and head rubs accompanied by my sing songy, "I love you" for the rest of the day. I just didn't say it. I showed it. I made hot food. I held hands. I wiped away tears and applied butt balm. I braided hair and colored pictures. I gave a few compliments, to V I think. But I didn't say it.
I didn't say, "I love you."
Until the end of the day when the house was quiet. I was pulling the covers up over Mia's shoulders and it just tumbled out. A quick one. A quiet one. And, always, a heartfelt one.
And it dawned on me that while I say it a lot, too much for some people's taste, it feels good. Each and every time.
So that's something for which I won't apologize. I know it's American (which can be so terribly uncool). I know it's trite. I know it's overused and undervalued.
But it's the three words I want my family to intimately feel when they think of me. Those three words mean something. They mean everything.
When I'm gone, I'd love for those to be the last words my family hears. I still hear my dad's voice ringing in my ears....
"Love you Meggie"
And that never gets old.
A European man was in front of me. Older. Attractive. Luca twirled innocently out in front of him and Mia followed. I pictured calamity. The cute Euro suddenly angry. Hot coffee everywhere. A line of loyal patrons frustrated.
"Sorry!" I called out. I huddled Mia and Luca close to me. "So sorry Sir!"
But, alas, nothing happened. Only some smiles from the sleepy line of Sunday coffee seekers. Only two kids sweetly and gently spinning in circles as they listened to their mother engage strangers about life.
The Euro smiled and said, "You Americans apologize too much. No need to be sorry. Sweet kids."
I was embarrassed for apologizing for them. He was right. No apology was necessary.
He then turned and called over his shoulder, "You Americans say I love you too much too."
I laughed, withholding the urge to call out, "Sorry. I know. We do. So sorry."
I thought about it all day. This need we Americans have to expose our feelings all of the time. This need to squeeze every last ounce of emotion from ourselves before we collapse into heaps at the end of the day. With only enough energy to push out one more "I love you."
I wholeheartedly agree that we utter apologies too frequently. We are too eager to absolve ourselves of the horrible sin of being....ourselves. But do we express love too frequently? Does it lose it's meaning when we call out through the kitchen window, I love you!, knowing that we'll probably say it 5 more times before the sun sets?
Maybe. Just maybe.
I withheld from doling out my usual cheek pinches and head rubs accompanied by my sing songy, "I love you" for the rest of the day. I just didn't say it. I showed it. I made hot food. I held hands. I wiped away tears and applied butt balm. I braided hair and colored pictures. I gave a few compliments, to V I think. But I didn't say it.
I didn't say, "I love you."
Until the end of the day when the house was quiet. I was pulling the covers up over Mia's shoulders and it just tumbled out. A quick one. A quiet one. And, always, a heartfelt one.
And it dawned on me that while I say it a lot, too much for some people's taste, it feels good. Each and every time.
So that's something for which I won't apologize. I know it's American (which can be so terribly uncool). I know it's trite. I know it's overused and undervalued.
But it's the three words I want my family to intimately feel when they think of me. Those three words mean something. They mean everything.
When I'm gone, I'd love for those to be the last words my family hears. I still hear my dad's voice ringing in my ears....
"Love you Meggie"
And that never gets old.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Finding Your Calling
V missed his calling.
I'm gone at work for about 4 hours every morning. It's my time to broaden the little minds at school. To introduce new concepts. To challenge. To push.
While I'm away, V is doing the same for the kiddos here in the household.
He takes Mia shopping every Friday morning. They hit the Dollar Store and Mia is allowed to count out her change and buy something that her small heart desires. He says that Mia walks in with confidence, clutching her small wallet filled with jingly change. She peruses the aisles like a pro he tells me. She puts her items on the counter and says things like, "Hmmm....let me see here....I need to see if I have enough today." She asked me if I had seen her wallet the other day. "I sure hope I didn't lose it. Everything I've earned is in it."
She knows a lot of states. This is because her daddy bought state and world maps for place mats and each morning they review all the places in the world that we know people. She aims her spoonful of Cheerios carefully to her mouth and studies the great girth of this country. She'll gesture toward the middle of the map, the bountiful bread basket, and say, "This area is hard for me. I get confused with all of these." She told me just the other day over snack, "You know, Minnesota got a ton of snow recently." Her finger trailed over the map landing on the purple state. She tapped it and then said, "Bob Dylan's from there too."
V makes breakfast with them and lets Mia crack the eggs. He's that kind of Daddy. He doesn't really care if it takes a few (dozen) broken ones to end up with a proficient chef. She's the fastest egg cracker in the West now too.
It isn't just Mia reaping the benefits of such a creative and warm dad. The other day Luca waved to him as he left for work, "Bye Dada" he called out. V stepped back in the house, beaming. "He just said two words together. We've been working so much on that."
V's a natural teacher. He provides authentic opportunities for the kids to learn and grow. He's not into text books and route memorization, rather experiences that leave lasting impressions the kids simply can't forget. I may complain that the laundry isn't done or that the kitchen isn't clean when I get home. But the gift he's given to the kids, to me, is priceless.
Actually, V hasn't missed any calling.
On the contrary, he's found it.
I'm gone at work for about 4 hours every morning. It's my time to broaden the little minds at school. To introduce new concepts. To challenge. To push.
While I'm away, V is doing the same for the kiddos here in the household.
He takes Mia shopping every Friday morning. They hit the Dollar Store and Mia is allowed to count out her change and buy something that her small heart desires. He says that Mia walks in with confidence, clutching her small wallet filled with jingly change. She peruses the aisles like a pro he tells me. She puts her items on the counter and says things like, "Hmmm....let me see here....I need to see if I have enough today." She asked me if I had seen her wallet the other day. "I sure hope I didn't lose it. Everything I've earned is in it."
She knows a lot of states. This is because her daddy bought state and world maps for place mats and each morning they review all the places in the world that we know people. She aims her spoonful of Cheerios carefully to her mouth and studies the great girth of this country. She'll gesture toward the middle of the map, the bountiful bread basket, and say, "This area is hard for me. I get confused with all of these." She told me just the other day over snack, "You know, Minnesota got a ton of snow recently." Her finger trailed over the map landing on the purple state. She tapped it and then said, "Bob Dylan's from there too."
V makes breakfast with them and lets Mia crack the eggs. He's that kind of Daddy. He doesn't really care if it takes a few (dozen) broken ones to end up with a proficient chef. She's the fastest egg cracker in the West now too.
It isn't just Mia reaping the benefits of such a creative and warm dad. The other day Luca waved to him as he left for work, "Bye Dada" he called out. V stepped back in the house, beaming. "He just said two words together. We've been working so much on that."
V's a natural teacher. He provides authentic opportunities for the kids to learn and grow. He's not into text books and route memorization, rather experiences that leave lasting impressions the kids simply can't forget. I may complain that the laundry isn't done or that the kitchen isn't clean when I get home. But the gift he's given to the kids, to me, is priceless.
Actually, V hasn't missed any calling.
On the contrary, he's found it.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Amplifying Happiness
We're already talking about another Pellegrino reunion next Christmas because this one was such a success. But, instead of convening in VA., we're getting smarter and thinking the desert might be a bit warmer. So, Tucson it may be.
I already have my sights on a museum in Phoenix I've been wanting to check out. They call it the MIM. The Musical Instrument Museum. It houses musical instruments from throughout the world. When you enter, you put on a wireless headset and when you approach an exhibit, your headset begins to play the sounds of the instrument played in it's authentic environment.
That alone had me at hello.
And the museum also has the Steinway Lennon composed "Imagine" on.
That only sealed the deal.
Then I heard someone describe the museum as "a collection of inspiring instruments that have been used universally to amplify human emotion."
Amplify human emotion?
I'm about to call and book my tickets now because that phrase is just so.....fantastic. Isn't it?
I had never thought of explaining music in that way. I've written before about the power it has over me and the way it can milk out feelings I didn't even know I had. And that's it.....that's exactly what it's doing....it's amplifying what I feel. What we all feel.
Every human culture has used music to celebrate. To grieve. To contemplate. To bid farewell to warriors and to welcome them home. Every group of people across the globe finds comfort and solace in sound. Now a museum dedicated to that?
How very cool.
I already have my sights on a museum in Phoenix I've been wanting to check out. They call it the MIM. The Musical Instrument Museum. It houses musical instruments from throughout the world. When you enter, you put on a wireless headset and when you approach an exhibit, your headset begins to play the sounds of the instrument played in it's authentic environment.
That alone had me at hello.
And the museum also has the Steinway Lennon composed "Imagine" on.
That only sealed the deal.
Then I heard someone describe the museum as "a collection of inspiring instruments that have been used universally to amplify human emotion."
Amplify human emotion?
I'm about to call and book my tickets now because that phrase is just so.....fantastic. Isn't it?
I had never thought of explaining music in that way. I've written before about the power it has over me and the way it can milk out feelings I didn't even know I had. And that's it.....that's exactly what it's doing....it's amplifying what I feel. What we all feel.
Every human culture has used music to celebrate. To grieve. To contemplate. To bid farewell to warriors and to welcome them home. Every group of people across the globe finds comfort and solace in sound. Now a museum dedicated to that?
How very cool.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Comparison...
I don't like to compare, and I try not to. Because, really, at the end of the day, who cares what someone else did or does or will do. My own kids fall into my "don't compare" rule too. But, for fun, I pulled out a photo of Mia at 19 months and compared it to one of Luca's.
Pretty similar, no?
Pretty similar, no?
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