Party Pooper

Tomorrow is my grandfather's 80th birthday celebration. He is a spry, young rooster. If my honey and I are half as fit and active at his age, I will be very blessed indeed. We named the Shalebug after Grampa. After swearing not to name any of our kids after any relatives, on my third, I knew it had to be done. I wanted my grandparents to know how much they have meant to me, and will always mean to me. Boo agreed and we used his grandfather's name for Bug's middle name.

We weren't kind. We had the best of intentions. But two scandanavian names that no one could pronounce, led to years of frustration on many different fronts. But the names were given in love. Tomorrow, I am going to celebrate that love. But I am worried I will be the one in the corner, with silent tears streaming down my face, unable to think of anything but my lost child. Inevitably, there will be one person, maybe more, who don't understand. One person who will be annoyed by my sadness. My inability to stem the tide of grief, even for one day, one moment.

And I don't want to be the party pooper.