I’m going to post this tonight, just in the off chance that I’m not able to do so tomorrow.
Two years ago, I joined this thing called the 2,996 project. 2,996 people took a name and wrote about a person on their blog. Some of you may remember it, some of you might have been a part of it (Jennster, Becky, Alissa, Kristin?) and some of you might have no clue what I’m talking about.
We wrote about someone we’d never met. A man or woman, any race, age or religion; we didn’t know until we were given the name. The name was of a person who died on September 11th. Seven years have gone by since that day, but I’ll never forget. (It is weird to think that I could possibly have this baby tomorrow.) Two years have gone by, but I’ve never forgotten the man whose name I was given to write about. I will always remember him and wonder about his family. I will always hope that his boys grow up to be good strong men; men their dad would be proud of.
Agree with the war, don’t agree with the war. Obama or McCain; Biden or Palin. None of it matters in remembering the people who died on that day. This day is a day to remember the men, women and children who lost their lives and to remember the ones left behind.
This man, he got into my heart. I’d never met him and I’m sure I’ll never meet his family, but they touched me forever. We did it too remember and I know I always will.
Thomas J. Kennedy
When I signed up for the 2,996 project, I had no idea which name would be sent to me. I didn’t know if I’d get a man, woman or child. I didn’t know if that person would be young or old. From America or from another country. It didn’t really matter to me. I just wanted to be able to remember someone who was no longer here. I also wanted to be a part of something wonderful. I feel that this tribute is wonderful. When we talk about people who are no longer with us, it keeps their memory alive. At least that’s what my mother always told me and I have no reason to doubt this.
What I didn’t know in accepting a name was that the person would get into my world. The name I though I was getting, became a person. A man, with a life and people who loved him. A man, not to much different from my husband, brothers or dads. And he got in. I let him in. As I searched the web for him, I found more and more. Just small things here and there, but the pieces came together like a puzzle. As I found more pieces, I grew more attached. How funny to grow emotionally attached to a man you’ve never met. But I did anyway. That’s when I started getting worried about this post. Could I do it right? Could I make you feel the way I do about this man? To care about him, even thought you’d never heard his name? Well, I’ll have to give it a try.
Thomas J. Kennedy (Tom) was born on January 24, 1965 at 12:45pm. He was born in the car right in front of the hospital. His parents, Eileen and Bill had trouble getting there in time because of a bad snowstorm. He had two older brothers, Brian and Bob. He had blond hair and “the bluest eyes in the world” according to his mom. She also has said on his memorial site that he was funny, always cracking jokes and a gentle patient man who everyone loved. His father, Bill said that he loved all babies and kids and they tended to gravitate towards him, because he spoke to them like they were adults. (I found his mom’s email address, but choose not to bother her.) He also loved to ski and be on boats.
Tom was married to a woman named Allison and had two baby boys, Michael and James, who were two and 10 months when their father died. I couldn’t find Michael’s birthday, but by guessing, I’d say he is 7 years old today. James will be five on November 17th. He was a hands on dad who loved to spend time with his boys, bathing them and reading them Goodnight Moon every night. This is the same book, we’ve read to Morgan and Bailey their entire lives. I read somewhere that he wanted to have five kids, but two was all he was around long enough to have. His eyes lit up every time he told someone about his boys. His aunt said she’d never seen him happier than on the days his sons were born. He loved being a husband and father.
Tom was at the World Trade Center that day because he was a firefighter with the Ladder Company 101 in Brooklyn. His company was one of the first on the scene because their firehouse was just across the east river from downtown Manhattan. There were seven guys “brothers” who went in together. None of them made it out. They all died heroes, having saved many lives that day. Tom when in to try and save more people, when the towers fell. He died doing what he loved, what he lived for. Even before she knew what had happened to her husband, Allison knew that he wasn’t afraid to go into the fire. She said “they were all excited to go into the fire. That’s what they live for.” “They didn’t have fear, that we as civilians would have. They didn’t ever think they wouldn’t come out of a fire, ever.” He had no way of knowing that September 11th, 2001 would be the last day of his life. That it would be the last day he’d ever seen his wife and sons. That he’d die a hero. And I can’t say it for certain, but even knowing it, he may have gone in anyway. It is what firefighters do. He was a firefighter, it is their job to protect people. They all know the risk. Everyday when they go to work, they are putting themselves at risk. For us. For people who they don’t know.
Everything I read about Tom was a glowing blurb of his life. People he’d saved through the years. People who thought they were going to die, but instead he came to their rescue. Some called him a hero, others an angel. There were stories from family and friends. Stories about fishing with nephews, playing hide and seek with his nieces, skiing with friends, being there for his family. Everyone said how wonderful his boys are, that his wife is doing a wonderful job with them. There are wonderful stories about her too. People say that their son Michael looks like her, but James is the spitting image of him. People tell stories about the boys too, how big they are, smart and sweet and caring and how they are each others best friends. I’m sure Tom would love to know that. In fact, he probably does.
Tom never saw his youngest son walk. Never walked his boys into pre-school or kindergarten. Never taught his boys to ride bikes, read, catch fish. He’ll never get to teach them to drive or how to be nice to girls. He won’t be there when they get married and have babies of their own. He would be 41 years old today. Thomas J. Kennedy was a father, husband, son, grandson, uncle, nephew, friend, firefighter and a hero.
Tom did indeed die a hero, but he was a hero in life too.
You want to know why? Because she is here to cook for me for the next TWO weeks.
That sentence alone could be the whole post for me. Like, hi my MIL cooks, the end.
I adore food, but um…I’m not a cook. I burn even the simplest things. In LA it wasn’t a problem at all, because you can order in (oh LA Bite how I miss you) every night. Not just pizza and Chinese, but from some of the best restaurants in LA. Delivered to your door in 40ish minutes. It’s one of the things I miss most.
I never had to cook. My kids used to think mommy cooking means, mommy makes cookies at Christmas. I am a phenomenal baker. I can make any kind of dessert; brownies, cookies, cakes. From scratch even. But I can’t cook. I make a mean cereal and Taqitos from the box. Truly, without fruit and veggies you can steam in a bag, my kids might never eat a balanced meal these days.
My mother in law is a chef. Like for a living. Can you hear me sqeee over the computer? She teaches classes (specializing in Italian food) at some of the best culinary schools in Los Angeles. But none of that matters. What matters is she is here to cook for me…ok and her son and grand babies. Homemade food.
When she arrived last night (by car, she is afraid to fly; well really she has to be drugged to fly.) I had to resist the urge to ask her to cook for us. We went out. She looked at me, looked at Logan and said, okay so tomorrow I cook…but thanks for not making me do it tonight. Logan was like, oh mom, you know Issa wanted you too. Luckily she knows her son well. When we went to college we (the collective we, which was about 6-8 people) used to go “home” about three nights a week. Which is kinda sad when you think about it. Most college kids won’t get a home cooked meal until Thanksgiving, but we all had one a few nights a week.
At the end of two weeks here, we will all be begging her to stay. Not just because we’ll be eating homemade Gnocchi, chicken Parmigiana and….oh wait where was I? Ok, so we adore her food, but we adore her too. I am so thankful that she’s here right now. I cried when she got here, I was so thrilled to have one of my moms here for me right now.
So yeah, the end. My MIL is here to cook for me!!!!!!!!!!!
I’m going to ignore the elephant in the room today. Maybe, hopefully, god willing that will make said elephant show up. I am a bit of a wreck today; I just want to stay in bed and cry. Not for any real reason, just because. So, instead of that I’m going to talk about random things that swim in my head at 2am.
- My grandparents are dying. I’ve done this before, with my dad’s parents, but it doesn’t make it any easier. My grandmother is pretty much on her death bed (that asshat cancer) and I know she’s extremely close to passing. My mom thought she was dying on Saturday and sat with her for hours and then she woke up. I’ve seen her numerous times in the last year and honestly I don’t want to see her the way she is anymore. I want my memories of her to be ones where she was conscious and up trying to force feed people, not sleeping in a chair with the morphine drool. I’ve said everything I could possibly say to her and I continue to call and talk to her and say it all again. I’ve made my peace with her leaving. She’s in pain and I don’t want her to live this way anymore. What kills me, is I’m possibly going to miss her funeral. I want to be there, I want to pay my last respects to a woman I adore. Unless this baby is born soon, like in the next few days, I’m likely going to miss it and then I still might. The living come first, this I know. However if there’s anyway possible for me to go, I will.
- I’m going to say this and I know someone will think, oh what an asshole Issa is. But here it is; my mom is going to miss the birth and I don’t want her too. As much as I wish I could be at the funeral of my Grandma, I also wish she’d pass so my mom could be here, with me instead. I know this is horrible, I do, but it’s how I feel. Third kid, we can totally handle it, no problem; but I still want her to be here. It makes me so fucking sad that she may not see him until he’s weeks old.
- My mother-in-law is on her way here right now. She’s awesome and I can’t wait for her to get here. She’ll stay for two weeks, just to help out. I always hear people talk about how horrendous their MIL’s are and I’m so glad mine isn’t.
- I’ve made a new bloggy friend, iMommy. Do me a favor will you? Any of you who have more than one kid, please go and give her some advice or just tell her that’s it’s going to be okay. She’s pregnant with her second and she’s got that worry, you know the one. The worry that we all had, that we weren’t ready or enough something for two kids, that we weren’t sure we could ever love that second kid or connect with that second baby like the first one. Just to remind her that she’s not alone. That it will be okay; that a second kid somehow makes their place in your family and heart. Please for me, even just go and say hi. Thanks.
- I get my cast off tomorrow, which is so awesome. My freaking hand feels like sandpaper. I can only hope a whole layer of skin doesn’t fall off. Like a hand snake or something. Wouldn’t that be gross?
- I’m so ready for new TV. Why do they have to wait so dang long to show us new stuff. Why do actors need four months off anyway? None of us get four months off a year. My DVR is sad, she (yes, mine is a she, what’s yours?) has nothing to keep her company. She doesn’t know what to do with herself when she has less than thirty hours to keep her happy.
I guess that’s it right now. Everything else in my head is about this tiny baby…well and miscellaneous song lyrics. I may come back and add more later. I told you all I was kinda bitchy.
I’m now at the point of a pregnancy that everyone despises. There are many reasons for this, I’ll give you a few.
1. Your brain is now mush, as you spend all your time, praying that you’ll go into labor. Yesterday we were about to leave the house and Logan says, Babe, you gonna switch your shirt before we leave? Turns out my shirt had been backwards for three hours. He’d have left me alone about it all day, if we weren’t going out in public. I have a smart husband.
The kids are always having to look for things for me, or go back into the house to retrieve things that I’ve forgotten.
2. People calling every day asking if you’ve had the baby yet. Honestly now, when I do, you shall be the last to know.
3. People asking, haven’t you had him yet? Yes, I did, I just didn’t lose any fucking weight. Duh, people. Come on now, don’t be that retarded. Unless you see a baby in my arms, I have had no baby yet.
4. You keep expecting the baby to just fall out, because he’s so dam low: Every time I bend over to pick something up, I think the baby is going to just go plop on the floor. Then I think, well that would be lovely and dang easy. Which if you think about it, is dam fucked up. But mostly it’s because he’s so dam low that the pressure is just insane when I bend over.
5. Random strangers always have something to say. This woman said to me, oh a boy, oh they are always late. Another said, I predict the end of the month. My own step-mother said, well labor with boys is extremely long and hard, no matter if you’ve already had kids. Really, all the time? I don’t think so.
6. I’m tired and uncomfortable and in pain and a dam big grouch. I’ve never been this pregnant. Technically, Bailey was born on a Sunday night and she was due the following Monday, so I’m only about 10 hours more pregnant than I was with her…but it feels like more. The boy is bigger than she was, or I’m bigger. Whatever. The end.
PS. Posting might be light around here until this baby is born. I’m sure none of you want to keep hearing, I’m not in labor and I’m a (huge) grouch, on a daily basis. If/when I go into labor, I’ll send a Tweet. Those of you who do not use Twitter, you can see the Tweets on my sidebar. I also think you can click the link that says, follow me on Twitter and it will take you to my page. You don’t have to sign up at all to see what I’ve said. Eventually Logan will post something, but he’s Internet challenged, so I just can’t promise anything.
PPS. If one of you would be willing, I can give you my login info and I can text you when he’s born and you can post it here if you want. Let me know and we’ll set it up.
My first look: Two bikers, one woman and one man leaving the Costco parking lot at the same time as me. Awesome bikes, leather jackets, boots; the whole get-up. Looking freaking bad ass.
Second glance: A container of Twizzlers strapped on the back of the mans bike. Box of CornNuts strapped to the back of hers.
Half way up the street I see him take something out of her hand and set it in his lap. It’s a box of the homemade Christmas cards that I’d just walked by.
The whole thing made my day. Classic. Seriously.
29 years ago toady a baby was born. A big (seriously 9.7 pounds) chubby adorable bald baby with one piece of black hair on the top of his head. I have been told he looked like a mini Homer Simpson, just cuter. When I met this boy he was a gangly but still dam cute fourteen year old brat. He walked into my freshmen English class and I fell instantly in love. Lucky for me, the teacher sat him right next to me. We proceeded to flirt for an entire 55 minutes, then I promptly asked him if he wanted to ditch with me and my friends and go to the beach. Yes, of course, he said. The rest is history. By the end of the week, this boy and I were dating. Later, we’d marry and then we’d live happily ever after.
hahahha…I always wanted to write that last line. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.
I’ve loved this man, for as far back as I can remember. I don’t remember when it hit me that I loved him, but it wasn’t too long after we met. I’ve loved him through good times and bad, through heartaches and joy. I’ve never fallen out of love with him, but every once in a while, I fall more in love with him. When I watch him cuddle on the couch with our girls, or pick one of them up and carry them into someplace just so he can hold them, even though they can walk; I love him more. Last night when my brother called in a panic because he was $300 short on his rent, and my husband said, wire him the money, but wire him a cushion too, I fell more in love with him. When he talks to our unborn son and gets all teary eyed when he says he can’t wait to hold him, I fall more in love. I look at him and I can picture him walking our girls down the isle one day, teaching our son to drive, sitting with me on the front porch when we’re old, talking about the good ole days. It’s something I have been thinking about lately, how much I adore my husband. Something about having a baby, a son, has made me realize how grateful I am. I hope our son is just like him, I pray our son is just like him. Nothing would make me happier.
On this day, every year, for as long as we’ve been together, I send my mother in law a gift. I call her and thank her for giving me the greatest gift in the world, for giving me her son. Because she raised one of the best men I know and she deserves to be told what an amazing job she did.
We’ve had a hard year and a half, but it’s starting to get back to normal. There are great things happening right now and also some sad things, but I know we’ll be okay. He took care of me when I needed him….he took care of us all and I can never thank him enough for the way he did it. All I can do is pray I never fall apart like that again. But I know he’d hold the pieces together anyway. I know I’d do the same for him.
Yesterday or the day before Logan said something about us saving the baby stuff this time, saving it for the next baby. The next baby, I said? You’re crazy man, you keep that thing away from me, is what I said to him. But really, there will probably be one more. Because honestly, I adore making and having babies with the man.
Anyhow….to my love, my heart, the father of my children: Happy birthday. Dude, you’re older than me for the next 8 months. I win….haha.
I am tired, grouchy and in desperate need of a Venti coffee.
In other news: I am three centimeters dilated.
I was asking the doc if she thought I’d make it to my due date and she said honestly I have no idea. While truthful, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that I’d have this baby by Friday. Because I am so ready to be done with this. I hurt everywhere, I’m short of breath all the time, I can’t get comfortable and I’m just so dang tired. Also, I need some brain cells back, he’s sucking them all up right now.
The doc goes, well I guess you try the old stand-bys. Walking and spicy food I asked? She looked at Logan, looked at me and says, well that and sex. Logank was like, all right, yea me….but I just laughed and said, isn’t that how we got here in the first place? This my friends will be the last resort, because the thought of it, makes me kinda want to cry. (As an aside, do you think that jumping on the trampoline would work or that I’d just injure myself more than I already am?) I do get my splint-cast deal off next Wednesday, but I can use my fingers again to type and I can feel that it’s getting better.
Soooo…yep, that’s all I’ve got for now. Send good thoughts for labor okay?
One more kiss mama, she says as we walk into the playground of her school. I lean down and kiss her and she wraps her little arms around me. Mama, remember when I stayed home with you all the time, before I ever went to school? Yes, I do. Me too, she says. Some days I miss that. Some days I miss you mama. I miss you too love.
Dude this kid is going to be the death of me. Seriously, I watched her walk away, hitching up the waist of her skinny jeans and I just wanted to bawl. My baby girl is going to be seven years old in a few months. Seven. Do you understand how big that is? She’s so helpful lately and trying so hard to be good; to not get in trouble for her attitude or for being rude or mean to her sister. Last night she told me she can’t wait for me to have the baby; sat and told him that it was now time to be born, that she was done waiting. Patience is not a virtue she posses.
She talks about the next thing all the time. What will we do next weekend? Next summer? When I’m eight? When will I be old enough to wear makeup, old enough to drive, to date? When I answer, I can see her mentally write it in her head, like she’s saving it on a calendar.
I want her to stay this age for a while longer. Six has been my favorite age of hers. I want her to be little enough to play in the bathtub with her sister, taking turns making mohawks on each other. To be little enough to be read too, even though she reads to herself perfectly well. Little enough to want to kiss and hug me as I drop her off at school.
I want her to stay my little Morgan bean sprout for a bit longer. To know that just because I’m having another baby, she is still my baby too. She doesn’t need to grow up so quickly, because I’m okay with having three babies. Because no matter how old she gets, she will always be my first baby.
This weekend we were in the mountains for a wedding. It was a beautiful wedding, but dam I’m so over weddings. This is the forth one this summer, the third of which the girls were in. I mean really, don’t these people know any other little girls?
About half way through Sunday, I started having those fake contractions. The Braxton Hicks things. I never had them with either of the girls, so I had no freaking idea. I thought I was going into labor and I freaked the fuck out. One of the groomsmen was nice enough to choose that moment to tell me about the woman who, just the previous weekend, had been in the mountains for a wedding and upon leaving stopped in McDonalds….and gave freaking birth in the bathroom. Seriously, he wasn’t even lying. A friend of mine works in the hospital that they brought her down to. While it was an interesting story, it was not what I needed to hear when I was having contractions, four hours away from home. Nope, not helpful.
Turns out, they were fake contractions. Somehow I’m thinking this baby is going to be different. See, with Morgan I went into labor and she was born six hours later. With Bailey….well she was born two hours after my water broke, I hadn’t had a single contraction before that. I went from nothing to continuous contractions with her. Now this boy, well I guess he’ll do what he’s going to do. But the fake contractions, I could have done without that. Cause really, ouch. He’s dropped, I keep thinking he’s so low, that he could just stick a hand out and wave at me. I go in tomorrow, so we’ll see if I’m dilated at all.
So yeah, that’s what’s going on with me. The nursery is ready, the suitcase is packed, the boy has a name; he can make his grand appearance whenever he wants. We’re ready and looking forward to squishing him. I just can’t wait to hold him and smell his tiny head…well hopefully his tiny head.
I have about nine zillion posts to read and a mountain of stuff to do here…plus Morgan is off of school today. I promise to visit you all at some point today or tomorrow. How was your long weekend?
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