I have a headache the size of Montana, and my youngest is practicing to be the next drummer for Led Zeppelin and/or an organist for a horror flick. I get a phone call from my husband saying that his 43-year-old co-worker who collapsed a week and a half ago and remains in a coma doesn't look likely to pull through.
And then the kids start bickering.
I pull no punches and remind them of their pettiness, especially in light of the grief Stuart's co-worker's family is dealing with at this very moment.
Can't these kids feel the utter lack of meaning in their jibes and jabs at each other?
No. They're young. They don't understand because it isn't them. They don't get it because it is surreal. Even we as adults can't grasp it -- the fragility of life -- although we know it's there.
It's a blessing and a burden.
In one sense, I feel glad to shelter them from the sadness that surrounds losing someone so precious...yet at the same time we grow complacent in our attitudes and treatment of each other. We get bored and so we poke and prod and provoke, not remembering that at some point that person may not be there to do all that to.
It's a sobering thought.
Do we want our last interactions with each other to be ones of annoyance and anger or love and kindness?
Choose what really matters.