My daughter and I were trying to lull ourselves to sleep last night with a British tv mystery. The wifi connection in the bedroom was terrible, so we closed the laptop and lay in the dark. Then my son started musing about the router from his mattress on the floor.

See, my husband died this spring, but you’d hardly know it if you ran into my kids. They are active. They keep up with their sports and activities. They have friends over. They go the family therapist and raid her mint bowl with glee. You’d only know about their grief in the little ways, like the way that they have pretty much slept with me every night for the last few months. It’s like Attachment Parenting–Ten Years Later: Where Are They Now? [Answer: Back in my bed.] At some point we admitted to ourselves that this was really happening, and we dragged in my daughter’s mattress, which my son sleeps on, on the floor. The dog bed is in another corner.

So he’s lying there, musing about the router, and the bad cable, and says that if I can just get him to Radio Shack, he thinks he can fix it. I drove them out there today. He talked to the nice salesperson, chose some product, and I pulled out my card. My daughter walked in with her little CD boom box and a purse of birthday money and bought a new power cord for herself. When we got home, my son pulled out the step ladder and hooked up the router to the modem and got the Wii set up, too.

Now I’m here in my room alone, waiting for them to drift in here, enjoying an excellent wifi connection. So I started this blog.


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