One week later

It almost feels cruel.  Losing such a good friend exactly one week - to the hour - after my grandmother.  But maybe Grammy was lonely and Pippi knew she was needed.  Maybe Grammy was with Pippi so she wouldn't be scared.  Maybe Pippi waited as long as she could, hoping to give us a little peace.  It's almost harder, losing a dog, than it was Grammy.  Grammy's had a hard year, an even harder summer.  We had some time, with Grammy, to know and prepare and say goodbye.  We didn't have that with Pippi, and it hurts a lot.

I am so thankful we had two months with Pippi in our home.  A chance for Laura, her biggest fan, to soak up all those puppy kisses (and a few nips).  We'll all miss her so much.  Take care of Grammy, Pip.

At the end of the day

Nate uses the phrase "at the end of the day" all.the.time.  Maybe every other sentence.  I make fun of it to him, to others, as often as possible.  But, at the end of the day, it's a phrase that comes in handy.

At the end of the day, my Grammy was surrounded by family.  My younger siblings had seen her a week or two before.  My older brother was able to introduce his newest daughter - the youngest of the four great-grandchildren.  My great-aunts sat by her bed and held her hand.  Nate, Laura, Gavin and I flew up in time for one last visit mere hours before the end.

At the end of the day, Grammy had an incredibly well-attended wake and funeral.  The funeral was just amazing.  The number of people there, and the beautiful things my brothers, cousin, father, great-aunt and great-uncle said.  Over half of my Grammy's 28 nieces and nephews were there.  Great-nieces and -nephews, and some great-greats, too.  Friends, friends of friends.  And, in an incredibly touching gesture, a bagpiper piping music up over the sand dunes in the place she loved best.

At the end of the day...

Refresh

Pink is one of my favorite colors... but I was getting a little tired of all the PINK on the blog.  So I've played around with things and have a slightly edited look.  A calmer (I hope) background color, a little less stuff going on.  And, most importantly, an updated photo.  Because I have two kids - soon to be three - and the photo I've had up there for a while only showed the one.  She's cute and all, but there's more to my little family than just Laura!  Gavin deserved a spot (albeit a similarly outdated photo, as he now has hair).  Hope you like it!

Nice

Being nice.  It should be easy, an unconscious reaction to people and places.  I don't mean being polite - I mean being a nice person, a good, look-for-the-best member of society.

I'm not nice.

I'm friendly, quick to put myself on the line to make new friends.  I can small talk and chat and smile along with conversation.  But I'm also the first to jump at mean-spirited gossip.  I'm the first to gibe, and barb and tease.  The first to be snotty and catty.  And the first to cry when someone is mean to me back.

My niceness has been called into question quite a lot lately.  By those who are closest to me.  And it really hurts.  The truth hurts.  I'm not a very nice person.

My hometown has been rocked the past few years by the ravages of bullying.  Several suicides - three in my sister's class in one year alone - completely needless loss of life, young adults who couldn't believe in themselves any longer, who listened too closely to the mean, not-nice voices all around them.  Most recently, a girl at the school has been so tormented by others around her, she developed a pulmonary embolism.  A blood clot.  In her leg.  From bullying.

Bullying.  And not the physical kind we see on TV, with smaller boys shoved in corners (though I know for a fact that happens in my hometown as well).  I mean the voices and words and whispers and gossip - the kind of bullying of which I am definitely a perpetrator.  Because I am quick to be a friend, but I am also quick to gossip and snark and take a conversation about another person that step too far.

But never to that person's face.  Because I'm a coward and I'm not nice.  Saying that I'm "non confrontational" really just means I'm passive-aggressive and mean and unkind.  My meanness is the darkest place in my soul.  It consumes me.  And even as I try to be a nicer person, I know the darkness is there.  And I find myself succumbing to meanness all over again.