The Writing Mamas Daily Blog

Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.

If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.

And for that, you are a goddess.

Sunday, April 06, 2008



My husband, our eleven-year old son, Nick, and I sit in straight-backed chairs, around a rectangular table. The funeral director sits at the head, explaining the decisions we need to make to take care of the remains of my husband’s father.

My son’s beloved Grandpa.

Nick sits across from me. His eyes downcast. His hands are on the table, moving from closed fists to open palms, over and over again. His hands pop into five- point stars and then ball up. I’ve never seen him do this before. A kind of restless meditation.

I want to hug Nick. I want to walk around the table and put my arms around him. I restrain myself from lifting my arms up and offering them to my son. I wait for him to raise his eyes, to look to me for comfort.

He does not.

Nick sobbed last night when his father told him of his grandfather’s death. He tried to do homework, but his tears would not stop flowing. He clung to me at bedtime.

Today, he’s reentered the stoic world of the boy code. I know he’ll need me. I push my chair back a few feet, making sure I have room for him to sit on my lap.

My boy is only two inches shorter than me and weighs nearly 100 pounds. I wait for him to cuddle on my lap. I want to motion to him, but wait. Finally, he looks at me. I point to my lap, touching my thigh twice, nodding my head, signaling to him that it’s OK to do this. He shakes his head, returning his eyes to the table.

We are together, and we are separate in our grief.

By Marianne Lonsdale


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Maybe he won't show you he needs this exact moment, but it will come. He will need you to listen, and perhaps to hold him. elaine
This made me cry. thanks for sharing in earlier blogs as well as this the journey your family has taken through grandpa's aging and now his passing. Beautifully told. Laura-Lynne Powell
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