Play-doh'ing

The other day we were Play-doh’ing (Lovie-ism) when Taye dropped a small ball of yellow Play-doh that rolled just under the stove.

“Ohhhh,” I taunted. “You’re fired!”

“Quick, mom,” Lovie chimed in. “Get the hose.”

 

Three is… intense. It’s awesome and amazing, but it’s also so very trying and draining at times.

But I’m beginning to truly grasp that it’s primarily the good times that will be remembered. I mean, yes, I’m pretty sure I’ll remember Lovie pissing her naked bottom while sitting in her chair because she was too darn mesmerized by the TV to sit on the stupid froggy potty chair placed right beside her, but more than that, I think I’ll remember Play-doh’ing and the urgent request to get the hose after telling her daddy he was fired because he dropped the Play-doh.

 

The good outweighs the bad with most memories. It must. It just must.

My grandfather’s been gone now for seven years. And what I remember most about him is his firm handshakes and hugs. His big rough hands. His bald, shiny head that sometimes sported a bandage or bruise from bumping it. His warm smile. His glasses. The fact that he had two pieces of white bread toasted every morning, slathered in butter and honey. The way he’d slam his hand down onto the table to get a point across. The time he told me to use only one square of toilet paper to avoid getting the toilet backed up. The stories he told every single time we saw him. His stubbornness.

Mostly I remember his adoration for his beloved wife—my Oma.

He was a strict man who believed what he believed and couldn’t really understand how others believed differently. But he was amazing. And strong. Yet gentle and warm. Especially with my grandmother.

Oma’s eyes were flooded following Ota’s passing. All of our eyes and hearts were. He passed away after waving to Oma on his way to bed when he tripped, fell to the floor, and hit his head against the corner of the wood bed frame. Just like that he was gone. There was no warning other than him telling my mom one week prior to his death that he was happy she moved in so that Oma wouldn’t be alone. One minute he was Ota, strong and sturdy and opinionated. The next minute, he was just gone.

Oma, on the other hand, is slowly dying.

I try to visit once a week now and every time I do, it gets harder and harder to watch. She’s pretty much starving and drowning to death thanks to Congestive Heart Failure, no appetite, and wanting to die. She’ll be 89 in May and she’s lived a long life, she’ll tell you. But she’s tired.

Right now all I can think about is her current state of life when I think of her. And it hurts so much to think this way. She’s so much more than skin and bones and oxygen tubes running from her person across the room to a big pumping tank of air. She’s so much more than a shaky old lady on her last leg.

She’s art, she’s beauty, she’s woman, she’s amazing and good.

I pray that once she finally passes and finds peace, my memories will be full of the wonderful times I’ve had with her. The hot chocolate she’d make us kids when we visited after allowing us to choose which Disney cup we wanted to drink from. The honey butter toast she’d serve us on mornings after we slept over. The schnitzel. The sparkle in her eye. The most adorable smile which will live through in my Lovie.

I know I’ll remember the good because she was just SO good, but right now it’s just incredibly difficult.

But that’s Life sometimes.

 

Maybe I should bring some Play-doh with me during my next visit…

Linking up with the fine folks at Yeah Write.