It's that time of year.

It's that time of year again. My birthday time. Tomorrow actually. The problem is, not that I'm getting older, it's that I'm reminded again that it's been six years since my grandpa died. Six years ago this month I drove my two week old new baby to the farm two and a half hours away. To show my grandparents my new baby. I didn't know at the time it would be the last time I saw him. But maybe I did. Maybe that's why I got over my freaky fear of leaving the house with a new baby, piled in the car with my husband and parents and drove to the farm for a few hours. He held her, told me she was beautiful, told me he loved me. God. I miss him. Every day I miss him. Some days are worse than others - like this time of year. About a week after our visit, he went to the nursing home. We knew he wouldn't come home. Four weeks later he died. What I wouldn't give for one more day, one hour, one minute. Just to see him, to hear his booming voice. One more time, "I have the most beautiful grandchildren in the world." Every year for the last five years, I'm reminded that he's gone. Really, truly gone. I do believe he looks down on me.

I miss my grandma too, but for a different reason. She's still here, but not 'here'. She sees us, but doesn't know us. Sometimes she can't remember if my mom is her daughter or her daughter in law, not remembering that she has three sons. It saddens me that as I'm approaching the end of the cookbook, she won't recognize any of the recipes as hers - she doesn't remember cooking.

Good grief. I cried about this this morning, and I'm crying about it now. Can't reread what I wrote - I'll cry harder. Went to playgroup this morning - that helped. It's an early out for the big girl. Perhaps we'll go to the science center. See what they've got.

Until then, time to wipe my eyes...