I am still awake.

The Last Moments

 

My sister and I playing my Uncle's banjos at the Shiva.

At this moment, Hurricane Sandy is pummeling the East Coast. I can't stand watching the bad news pour in on my Facebook feed anymore. So I'm back here for a long overdue post. It's already been almost 3 weeks since Geoff died. It seems like yesterday and at the same time, it feels like it never happened. 

 

I still diligently turn on his music when Shnook and Fuzz ask for it (uh...every time we get in the car).  I still sing his songs, and hear his voice clearly in my head:

"Big or little, short or shaggy, all dogs suffer with fleas."

"Quarter to 7. Breakfast will be served in the Marble Arch Room." (said in his warped version of an English accent)

If I think too hard, I start to sob while I'm belting out The Ruler of the Queen's Navee.

I never did get around to posting about his death, that occurred only an hour or so after my last post. There was much about it that was surreal, and yet so real. 

My mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table. She was listening to some of her old favorites on her iTunes. We rocked out to the Time Warp a little, then she played some Jacques Brel, and then some Elvis, which was when I noticed that Uncle G was moaning slightly.

Dying. The Old Way.

 

Uncle G, about 3 weeks ago with his friends Neckmore (left) and Squasho

I remember when both my babies were born how miraculous it was that their bodies instinctively knew what to do. They knew how find their food source, and latch on. They knew how to grip their fingers around ours and to sleep when they needed to, even if only for ten minutes. I also recall all their other idiosyncrasies which would cause us to panic and wonder if they were normal:

 

-those internal smiles that everyone says are gas

-the constant hiccups

-the moro reflex that made them look like they were cheering, but were actually causing them to feel like they were falling

and a whole host of others.

As it turns out, when people die, there are similar physical traits.

Eating Italian Words

Do Italian words taste better when you have to eat them?

I hope so.

Reggio Emilia Parmesano.

Montessori Carbonara.

After all my love and awe  and praise of the Reggio Emilia Philosophy,  I've come to the conclusion that it's not the best fit for my (now) 4 year old.