Sweethearts

So Pat stood in line for an hour last night to get into the funeral home for the wake of a guy he went to high school with and played hockey with. 31 years old. Married. Two small kids. An electrician. Apparently, a work-related accident that could have had a very different result if he would have taken the time to put on all of the safety gear that he was supposed to. These kids will barely remember their daddy. Talk about a wake up call. Every single action we take, or fail to take now, as parents, affects so many people.

That's one thing about all this death crap. (I know. I'm just a frickin' grim reaper, lately, aren't I?) The constant reminder that we have to "get our affairs in order." It's been on our ever-expanding to-do list since Josie was born. We're relatively intelligent human beings and we know full well that we need to do it. It's just the actual DOING IT part that gets us every time.

Grandma Ashton's funeral isn't until tomorrow. She died last Wednesday, and The Family (I extend them the courtesy of capitals because there are A Lot of Them. 11 kids. 26 grandkids. 33 great-grandkids.) wanted to have everything on Saturday. But she's being buried at Fort Snelling, and they don't do burial services on Saturdays. And today is Veteran's Day observed. So that leaves us with tomorrow. It's going to be a relief when it's all over. It's horrible to be preparing yourself for so long for what you know is going to be a grueling experience. Grandpa Ashton, desperately in love with this woman for 66 years, picked out 2 songs that he wants played at the funeral home before we leave for the church. "You Are My Sunshine," and "Let Me Call You Sweetheart." AND, during the funeral, one of their daughters is going to read a love letter that Grandpa wrote to Grandma years ago.

Note to self: stock up on Kleenex tonight. And where is my waterproof mascara?

Speaking of mascara. Josie likes to play with my makeup. Not that I have a lot. Which is partially why I can't afford to let her play with it. But the other morning she was in the bathroom with me, and I made the mistake of turning my attention to my own reflection in the mirror for like all of 30 seconds, and she managed to get the brush off my mascara and rub it all over her forehead.

Speaking of foreheads. Eve is sporting yet another lovely bruise on hers. This time she flung herself between my legs, directly on her head, on the transition piece between our kitchen and the living room. If you'll remember this is exactly the same move she pulled when she had to go to the ER earlier this fall - except she did it at daycare instead of at home. At least she didn't cut herself this time. I swear. Child protective services is going to come a-knockin' any day now.