Grandpa died last night. He was a tractor mechanic who met my grandmother at the restaurant where she was waiting tables. She was a divorced mother of four, whose first marriage had burned through most of her patience. She rejected Grandpa’s offers to take her out, until as a last resort he offered her a simple ride home. Grandma never learned to drive, and after that day she never had to.

She was beautiful, he told me at her funeral. And she was.

Grandpa was beautiful too, even as an old man. He had a full head of silver hair, and the build of a man who has spent a lifetime lifting heavy things. When he came in from repair work out back, he would shower, clean his nails, and comb his hair. In a fresh undershirt, he smelled like soap and pomade. He was quiet, interested in electronics, and didn’t like to talk about the war.

Grandpa was stubborn, and loving, and a good husband to Grandma. He was a good papa to my aunts and uncle, and a good grandpa to us kids. We love him, and he deserved it.

This is my little boy napping in our hotel room closet, and man I wish I were him right now.

It’s been a surreal few months — with Blogalicious, planning and throwing Camp Mighty, tons of business transition for Go Mighty, and an epic trip to Australia — the kind of period where you know life is about to hit full force, so you just keep your head above water while the current takes you.

Now Hank and I are here at Disneyland where he’s napping in the closet in preparation for his future at Hogwarts, and for a 10 p.m. wakeup call to see the Disney World of Color show. (So much for the steady bedtime I’m supposed to be enforcing like a drill sergeant, huh? But he’s only six once, and two weeks away from him in Australia has made me soft.)

I know I’ve been a little quiet on the surface lately, but my feet have been paddling like mad under the water, and so much good stuff is happening as a result. So thanks for checking back in with me and for being patient when you sometimes don’t find me where you expect.

When I get home, I plan to stay very still with a pot of tea, and a notebook, and a Pilot Precise V5 Rollerball. I will embroider things in bed under a coverlet. I will watch questionable reality TV my bathrobe, while I shop for things I won’t buy on the Internet.

You should come over. I miss you.

Go Mighty is partnering with Next Generation and the Clinton Foundation to sponsor this post as part of the Too Small to Fail campaign, which is all about making smarter babies. I am pro smarter babies. Babies of all sorts, if you must know. And what’s more, I like soft things in general.

A few weeks ago, Hank’s dad emailed saying he’d read some articles about how regular bedtimes make it easier for kids to do well in school. So we made sure we were putting Hank to bed at the same time in our respective households, and committed to making it a strict deadline during the school year, in contrast to the summer of all-hours chocolate binges with the Ooompa Loompas.

Oddly, it hadn’t occurred to me that fudging bedtime by 20-30 minutes could affect Hank’s behavior and abilities in school. And though “sleep = good” isn’t rocket science, life sometimes gets in the way of a steady bedtime, for me as much as him. Still, I never connected those slips to extra stress over a spelling test or whatnot.

The message was reinforced last week at Camp Mighty, as Go Mighty launched a partnership with Next Generation and the Clinton Foundation on their Too Small to Fail campaign. Too Small to Fail is aimed at educating communities about how to give tiny kids, particularly age zero to five, a leg up before they enter school. (Too Small to Fail? You are killing me with that name. Oof.)

Anyway, one of the simple things the program advocates is a regular bedtime for kids. Which I did not have growing up, did you? Or have you adopted the habit for yourself or your kids?

A bunch of bloggers, including me, have added goals on Go Mighty around spending more time with the kids in our lives, you can see them unfold here. You can also join in by adding #gomighty4kids in the tag field of your kid-related goals. But only if you’re into reduced crime rates and a larger tax base.

I scheduled a massage because I’d been having back pain. At the end the masseuse said:

“You need to stretch the muscles at the front of your neck. You aren’t looking up enough.”

Stupid symbolism.

Amy DuBois Barnett, editor of Ebony magazine gave a great speech at Blogalicious, and made a point about independence that rocked me back in my chair.

She was going through a rough patch in her early twenties when her mother died, and she had a revelation that no one was coming to save her.

“Whether we admit it or not, so many of us are waiting for someone to come along and fix our problems. No one can climb in your skin and live your life for you. My happiness and success are up to me alone. I own my life.”

Barnett said she had a psychological 180, that she stopped doubting herself and worrying about what others thought of her life.

“Create a life for yourself and then love and protect it as your most valuable asset. Don’t let anyone come in and change it, especially under the guise of taking care of you.”

Whoa. I did some hard thinking.

Letting go of the notion that someone will come along to shoulder your burdens is a big part of maturing. Do you think you’re there yet? And if so, how did you get there? Or, alternately, do you think it’s okay to hope for support in that way?

Photo from Black Enterprise.