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Can a woman forget her sucking child,
that she should not have compassion
on the son of her womb?
yea, they may forget,
yet will I not forget thee.
Friday night I had the most awful thing happen. Doing a quick search on my blog suggests this revelation of my failure will not surprise any of you, but, for all intents and purposes, I had forgotten that the Big O is a twin.Twin #2 came to me that night, and asked me, "Why do you always call me [Biggo]?"
"Surely, I don't! I call you by your own name! I'm sure of it!"
But as I said this, I wracked my brains, trying to remember this crying child, who looked just like my bonny boy, trying to remember his name, and failing.
Finally, I resorted to finding his birth certificate. Bruce Robin. 'Bruce Robin'? No wonder I couldn't remember it.
"Do you mind if I call you Robin?"
I could tell he didn't care. He just didn't want to be called Biggo anymore.
I woke up, convinced I had a forgotten son, Robin, and panicked, wondering how I could ever make things up to him, help him feel loved again, redeem myself as a father, and return this child to feelings of love and security.
Thank God. Thank him that he never forgets us.
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A friend loveth at all times
Circumstances prevented us from visiting with Foxy J this weekend while she was in Davis, so we were delighted and amazed when the fates tossed another dear, dear friend right into our laps.
The Chemist and his wife shared a basement-split-in-two with us back when we were all newlyweds. We shared that dump for two years. Then four years later we were together again in Berkeley. Then off they went to Boston.
Then today, here he was. In town for business.
We won the Have-The-Chemist-Over-For-Lunch contest and reveled in his company until he had to leave for Monterey.
But, as he told us once, with us four--no matter how long its been between visits--we can always pick up where we left off.
Ever since I made the discovery almost a decade ago that God made us social creatures, I've never stopped riffing on the subject. Because it's true. We were built to need each other.
And I'm so happy to have good friends.
Thank you, friends.
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Whoa. I'm pretty sure The Chemist is in my parents' ward in Boston. This is not the first time today I've heard him mentioned.
ReplyDelete.
ReplyDeleteCould be. Is it also Mitt's ward? Because he's in Mitt's ward.
That's the one.
ReplyDeleteam i allowed to respond to svithes with "word" instead of "amen?" it seems more fitting. (insert rock horns here)
ReplyDeleteOh, I sooo miss the Chemist and his wife. I hope they are coming back in June for The Wedding.
ReplyDelete"Bruce Robin" sounds more like a name that Master FOB would give his son, you know? (That or "Wayne Grayson.")
ReplyDelete.
ReplyDeleteI thought the same thing, even in my dream. I thought it was a pretty horrible name, but how do you say that to a sad four-year-old?
(word)
So--your dreams have words in them, then? I find that, in the vast majority of my dreams that have books or papers or signs or whatnot, I can't read them because words don't exist in dreams--at least, not in my dreams.
ReplyDelete.
ReplyDeleteYeah. Interestingly enough, there was an episode of Batman the Animated Series that hinged on this. Scarecrow had convinced Bruce Wayne that being Batman was a figment of his imagination and that his parents still lived. Just as Bruce finally came to accept this, he tried to read a book or newspaper or something and there were no words, just scribbles. And thus he knew that he'd been snookered.
But me? I read in my dreams. Maybe not every night, but I most certainly dream in words, both printed and spoken. Absolutely.
Yes. Totally. Thank All That Is Holy for friends!
ReplyDelete