Hello, there from Vancouver; as I write this, we're about two weeks away from the 2010 Olympic games. As I said before, Anthony isn't the biggest sports fan in the world so this doesn't mean as much to him but, well, it takes all kinds to make a world. At least some of the broken glass feeling from a few months ago has gone away; his heart has caught up to his mind about the question I raised about whether our family is large enough. I just hope it isn't too much longer before some other crisis appears; the last few years of our lives have been (to put the best face on it) interesting. Of course I have no way of controlling what other people do but I would like a little quiet while we raise our children. I don't mean the bad sort of quiet Mom and Dad had, though; I mean the quiet that's earned and not the quiet of denial.
Speaking of denial, Connie Poirier is still ranting about how they've 'railroaded' Mom; according to her, Dad, Phil and Doctor Walby are running an old-time Soviet gulag and more or less put an innocent, harmless woman in psychiatric care to cover their own asses. God, what a tiresome woman she can be; one of my earliest memories is of her complaining about how Uncle Phil treated her like a disposable razor: he used her five times then got rid of her. When I think back on the wreckage I left behind when I thought I knew what love was and was not, I can take some small comfort in knowing that at least my tales of self-induced woe aren't multiple choice. Y'see, she has two versions of her meeting with Phil and the girl he was seeing at the time; in one, she had only known him for about a month before her fumbled attempt at turning a one-night stand with a man younger than she was into a marriage and in the other, they'd corresponded for a year. In both versions, though, she distinctly remembers that she didn't want to be guilted into coming home without getting herself a husband )and, by some happy coincidence, getting Lawrence a dad) just because he'd hurt himself. If only they didn't have a wildcat strike of emergency room personnel that week; Lawrence would been in much better spirits had he not had to rely on the dubious care available at Casa Foob. He still would have cried out in sorrow when he talked to Connie but at least he'd have done so from a hospital bed. To get back on track, her take on that little mess is a lot like her view of what's going on with Mom; she really doesn't want to feel like admitting that the reason she never learned from her mistakes was that she avoided that at all costs any more than she wants to admit how bad off Mom is. In both cases, she'd end up having to admit that she didn't know what she was talking about.
To continue with the other problem area, Mike and Deanna are still putting things back together after their recent bad news. I can, as I said, relate to that given what's happened to most of the people I grew up with and the letter I recently got from Great-Aunt Phyllis in England. I see similarities in the things I say and do with the way Mom does and, well, it's my turn to get broken glass in my heart. I'm wondering if I should hold off on forwarding the gist of it to Claire until after she's better; losing her mother just as she was about to tell her how lucky she was to have her hurt worse than any of the piddly crap we've gone through.
Well, enough about the bad stuff for a bit; I'm happy to report that Meredith and Robin are bearing up as well as they can under the pressure and that Françoise is doing well in pre-school; we hope to get her into a French immersion program like Deanna got into when she was younger. I have no real idea what the future holds for her any more than I do for anyone else but it would be good if she weren't to end up not being able to understand French at all like Mom; I remember her noticing that 'fraise' and the Spanish word 'fresa' both meant 'strawberry' and wondered why a woman could live that long without knowing what the Romance languages are. Then again, I sometimes wonder why Mike ended up marrying a woman who could almost be my twin if she weren't five or so years older than I am. There's something odd about our habit of ending up with people that look like us.
And, well, to conclude with another oddity, Dad says that he's not sure but they're starting to see signs that Mom is coming back to herself. It might, of course, be nothing but one of her conversations are mentioning things that happened when I was about twelve or so; first off, she'd talked about how Dad had built a snow-fort for Mike and Lawrence a bit before he broke his leg only to find them watching TV. The thing is that she'd compared it to when he'd done the same for me and Dawn. Since she's just now starting to talk about people that appeared in the middle eighties, it might be that she can remember her whole past again. Who knows? She might even actually learn something from it!
Anyway, here's hoping their optimism is well founded and she'll be sane and horrible again soon; until we meet again, I hope you have a gold-medal month.