Did you notice how I neglected to post yesterday? I blew Nablow.
We're busy over here cracking shelled almonds.
I let Max eat his first one yesterday. Paranoid kook that I am, though, I only allowed him a nibble. Then he had to wait ten minutes before he could gobble up the rest of it. Half hour later, when I was pretty confident nothing terrible would happen, he popped the second one in his mouth.
Today he ate another two or three.
I think all is well and that, truly, he is no longer allergic to almonds.
Which is strange. Strangely good.
He keeps saying, "I can't believe I'm eating nuts!"
This morning he, Claire and I were hanging out in the living room, me on the floor while Claire shoved a million sparkly barrettes and clips into my hair, and Max lying across the couch.
He was thinking about death. Or, getting deaded, as he still calls it. "I don't want to die," he said.
"I don't want you to. I don't want to either."
We do not, around here, have the comfort of saying But then you'll go to heaven. And we'll all meet up there. Because that's not something we believe. I wish it were. Believe me. I fucking wish it were.
As my therapist used to say, death is the big one. The enormous issue with which we all grapple.
When I was in third grade, Max's age, our school system decided we should be taught classroom lessons in death. Not necessarily how to deal with it, or better yet, how to avoid it. Just...that people die.
My teacher showed us a movie. It was about a dying girl named Mary Ann. She had an unspecified illness and spent all her time in bed. Her mom spoon fed her ice cream. Then Mary Ann died. And she was shown, in blurry filmstrip haze, skipping through heavenly meadows of wildflowers.
That stupid movie shook me to my eight-year-old core. It had something to do with the matter-of-fact way the death was dealt with. The brilliant summer weather during which a girl my age had died. The awful distorted sounds of the seventies filmstrip.
We then, as a class, read a book about a boy who was picking blackberries with friends when he was stung by a bee and killed.
Good elementary school times.
Anyway, probably not as a direct result of my third-grade teachings, but I'm someone who thinks about death and dying a lot. More than the average person, I suspect.
Of course, I wonder if Max is heading down that road too, or if he is just at the age where he's realizing it all has to end at some point.
"I mean," he said, "how can the world not have ME in it?"
Just don't think about it is the best advice I know. Find your passion and your pleasures and focus on those.
We're all just processing.