grandmom

Alright, I'm starting to feel guilty.

My mom keeps blogging away about our visit there last week and I'm talking about gophers and urine-soaked carpet.

She kept asking me if we should “get together” on what we were going to blog about regarding our experiences. Ain't she cute? Thinking our ideas might overlap.

My mom writes about days and lives and lifetimes. I write about moments. It's the same thing, really. And not.

I can't believe she didn't post this picture of laughing Isaac from the trip; it's my favorite.

We see our families so rarely it's difficult. It's difficult not to have them. It's difficult figuring out how to see them. It's difficult to leave. I've written about past encounters with grandmothers and the like when Isaac was an infant. The real reward of this trip was that Iz is finally at the age when he can start remembering all these far away people who love him.

We have our photos running as a screen saver on our computer. All I have to say about the matter is, if it's been once it's been a thousand times this week that Isaac has called to me frantically “Mama, come! Come, Mama!” Thinking the cat must be on fire, I race into the living room where my son is leading over the arm of the couch grinning like he's waiting for the parade to pass by. He points to the computer screen where inevitably some picture ancient or recent of my mom is fading onto or off of the screen. “Look, Mama!” he squeals, “It's Grandmom!”