Alicia, over at rosylittlethings wrote the sweetest, saddest post today about grieving for her dog Audrey who died a few weeks ago. It moved me for so many reasons. Sometimes grief just slaps you in the face, and sometimes you're so grateful for the sting. I spent a few minutes thinking about what I wanted to say to Alicia about the death of her sweet pup and the new pup that's coming to them soon, and then I figured I may as well just say it all here instead.

It's raining today, finally after so many dry summer days. Callum's home sick with an unspecificed fever. I bought him a Playmobil boat when I got a new thermometer (ours was reading my temp at 96 degrees and his at 98 when he was clearly burning up last night), and he's distracted for now. He let me put it together and I'm so grateful. That's just about one of my favorite things to do.

We had to scramble a little bit last night and this morning when we realized that this might be a sick day. Unless I have a slew of meetings or face to face stuff that I have to do, I don't mind them really. Of course all you mama bears out there, I don't want the boy to be sick, but eight is a big kid. He snuggles so rarely. The way he needs me is so different now. He used to need me so intensely, and the closest we come to that is on days like these.

I really thought that I'd pop in here this afternoon with a quick post about smoothies and new thermometers and a funny bit about how Lucy kept "scalloping" Callum's police officers on the Playmobil Policeboat. (Instead of "scalping" them, that is.) And then I took a break from the work I was doing to check in over at rosylittlethings and saw Alicia's apology. An apology to some random guy who got caught up in her rawness. Her grief. Wrong place. Wrong time. And there I sat. Flubbered. Flustered. Feeling my own waves of tears and grief for a dog who died seven months ago and a whole host of other losses besides. Sweet Phoebe who was my our first born, who I still miss so much, like an ache. Who I still see sleeping on the rug in the living room when I come downstairs each morning. Who was, we keep telling Lucy, a good dog. And man, I did not want to love Lucy. She was fine to have around, especially for Neel and Callum who clearly needed another dog, but my heart belonged to Phoebe and I pretty much wanted it to stay that way. Thankfully Lucy (who sits under my chair as I write this) would have none of it. She follows me from room. She sits beside me when I pee and tangles herself up between my ankles as I walk...only without the fluidity of a cat, so I'm tripping over her all day every day.

Oh Alicia, if I were a better writer, I could say it somehow, sweeter, righter, nicer, and still lift you up about how I know what you must be feeling right now. How you want your heart to open with love for that new little pup, but how, if it does, you fear it might, even now, still break into a million pieces. And how somehow all the writing you are doing is connected to all of this, to opening you up and making you even more raw. It did that for me, even right here. Everything was muddled up, even these two quotes running around in my head, one from Margaret Widdemer ("Pain has been and grief enough and bitterness and crying...") and then "Western Wind, when wilt thou blow,/ The small rain down can rain?" which was written anonymously. All jumbled together like one poem until I started writing this here, and it cleared up, "No, two different poems." Both, ironically, from the reading I did during my raw and anguished teenaged years. But the end result is that apparently I'm sad today. Okay. Now I get it.

So sad. Let's take a look at this, shall we? Always still a lingering sadness about Miss Pheebes, and the art teacher at school who promised to make her an urn doesn't work there any more so her ashes still sit on the dresser in my bedroom. And I'm bypassing the Level One and Level Two books in the Chinaberry catalog now. Oh how I wish I could put a brick on that boy's head. And my parents are getting divorced. And everything is changing. It reminds me of an e-mail I got from my dad this morning. He's re-watching past seasons of The West Wing (apparently he likes works-in-progress as well), and I totally agree when he says that he disapproves of character development in television shows and that Sam never should have left The West Wing to run for Congress and Bartlett never should have been impeached. Mom, even if we know going in that the goddamned king dies, it still hurts to find out. You sometimes have to wonder if your kid's fevers aren't timed so you don't burst into tears in the middle of a meeting.

Callum just asked, "What's the blog post about?"

"About being sad."

"I thought it was going to be about me and the fever." He's indignant.

"It is, a little bit."

"Oh. Sad about me having a fever." He's relieved.

When I said earlier that sometimes you're grateful for the sting of grief, I meant it. It reminds me of how much I loved her. And of all the love around me now. So Alicia, if you really do come and read my "comment" to your post, remember this: It's funny about writing. You don't know where it's going to take you. I certainly didn't know today. And the same is true, I think, with healing and grief. You've been doing your fair share of both lately. Over the past several years, I've done my fair share of both as well. Let them take you where they will. You can feel all that pain and rawness and sadness and still not suffer from it. Let it feed your soul and grow you. Let it grow your writing. I feel better now for letting it lead me where I clearly needed to go and I hope you do to. And when you're done, go make some soup. That's what we're going to do.