Saturday morning

The scene: Mama Jamz’s bedroom. Breastpump accessories are scattered about the bed, new accessory parts are still in plastic wrappers. Mama Jamz is on the bed with the laptop and a cup of coffee, flavored with coconut coffee mate. Enter Rockinrolla, stage left.

Rockinrolla: What is all this stuff?

Mama Jamz: Breastpump stuff.  I was going to start pumping this morning, but I don’t have all of the parts.

Rockinrolla: (grimaces in horror and disgust) Grody… If I was a girl, I would NOT like that.  I mean, a breast pump???

Mama Jamz: Yeah, tell me about it.


We had a very lovely dinner last night with one of Daddy J’s friends from college, who married her then-boyfriend after we met them, like, fourteen years ago. It’s a funny thing how, in my case, you just spend an evening with people, let fourteen years pass, and then see them again, and they’re still really fun and easy to talk to.

They hadn’t known about Wardie, and it’s strange now to both introduce him and explain that he’s no longer alive in one breath. A weird summary. And it’s very hard to try to get across the whole journey that we’ve had; to try to explain how it’s been horrific, but also beautiful in ways, and that we know he’s fine, and that he’s still with us, and not just in a metaphorical sense, and that he’s doing his own thing, too, and that sometimes we do have doubts about all of that, but mostly we don’t.


Rockinrolla has a basketball game here in a little bit, which translates to the fact that I need to haul my lazy ass into the shower and become presentable. He just came in and petitioned for an omelet, and I countered with a Toast youself a bagel and have a yogurt; Mama’s cozy.

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