Hi Thirsty!

It's official, not only have I become my parents, I get my parents. Well, at least some things.

A few minutes ago, my oldest declared, "I'm thirsty." And before I could stop myself, I responded, "Hi Thirsty, I'm Fred. Nice to meet you." Yes, I know I should have just used my own name, because her response was, "I am not playing Scooby Doo." (And yes, my five-year-old has watched Scooby Doo, which in some parenting circles takes me out of the running for Supreme-Mom-of-the-Universe, but that is another topic.) So I corrected myself, "Hi Thirsty, I'm Abbie." And just like that, I got a polite request for a drink.

When I was a kid, my parents employed that technique with some regularity, and the lame attempt at humor annoyed the heck out of me. It was one of those phrases I, in my pre-parent life was never going to use. This morning it slipped out by accident. Why? Because from a parental point of view, corny humor is so much nicer than, yet another, "what-do-you-say, my-ears-can't-hear-that, that-is-not-how-you-ask", or what ever other phrase is used to try to cajole some sense of respect and manners out of the little darlings. And at five, my girl thinks it's funny. I know I'll have to come up with another technique in a few years, when I will be incapable of saying anything funny, but I'll enjoy this for now.

Grandma Lists

There is a little fruit stand in our town, where I love to take the girls weekly to by our produce. I love it because of the primarily locally grown produce and specialty foods. They love it because of the candy section in the back. Our tradition has become that after we get the rest of our groceries, we go to the back of the store to pick out a special treat for the week (assuming everyone was on good behavior.) Today, Miss Sweet Potato, chose candy raspberries and blackberries. I was particularly excited because that candy always reminds me of my Grandma Carol, my mom's mom who passed away when I was six.

That got me thinking about what else I remember about her, which made me think of (and call) my Grandma Margie, who is still alive and kicking. And it made me things that always make me think of her.

So here are the random things that make me think of my grandmothers:

Grandma Carol-candy raspberries and blackberries, candy carrots and peas, cups with animals in them, the smell of Coty lipstick (although that memory could just be from my mom saying that-does Coty still exist?), cigarettes, air-conditioning, old cook books

Grandma Margie-mice figurines, tuna noodle casserole, miracle whip, rainbow cake, The Enchanted Forest, the smell of Design perfume, diet coke, shops at the coast, mice figurines (I know I said it twice, if you know her you understand)

But what makes me particularly happy about this is that at least one of my daughters will be reminded of at least one of her grandmas by random everyday things. I can't wait to find out what they are.

Happy Easter

Today is Easter Sunday. It is the first major holiday since the death of my mother that we are celebrating without trying to recreate what she would have done. It is also a really hard one, because as devout Christians, Easter was a really big deal at our house. My memories of preparing for Easter are just as intense as my memories of preparing for Christmas. But with that extra sense of urgency, because for those of us who are Christians, this is the day that commemorates the great miracle. This is the day that Christ broke the bonds of sin and death, and set free all who will believe Him. With this miracle He gave us everlasting life. After the events of the last year, I find myself reflecting on that wonderful gift in a whole new way.

Over the last forty days, as I journeyed through Lent, I had a really hard time getting into discipline of the season. Usually, I love this practice. It's a call to refocus and rededicate my life to Christ. But this year, I had a hard time even going through the motions. This morning after church, I realized that I have been living my life in a Lenten like state for nearly ten months. Even during the initial shock of hearing about my mom's death, I didn't doubt my God, and my faith remained unshaken, but I did wonder why. What part of God's plan could this possibly be? Even news that should make me happy, seemed to barely bring a smile. In recent days, I've started to wonder if I was just becoming bitter. I've had to make myself numb, because I just don't want any more pain. And then I wonder, how will that effect my ability to be the mother my children need?

But then little things started to happen-an encouraging note from a stranger, the lady in front of us at the Starbuck's drive-thru paying for our whole family, because we were kind enough to let her go in front of us, and an encounter with my little girl where I realized (probably because of all she's been through) she has a level of compassion and empathy far beyond her almost four years. These three events coincided with Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter morning. Each reminding me of the precious love that comes from my Savior. Each slowly reawakening in me the joy that comes from knowing that God loves me so much, that He sent his Son to die a horrible death in my place. That Christ has broken the bonds of sin, and that I, an imperfect human being, will share in the everlasting life. And this year I have extra joy, because of my parents' faith in Jesus Christ, I know that they are rejoicing and celebrating with him now. And when I do finally leave this life behind, I will celebrate with them, and all who believe, for eternity.

Happy Anniversary

Today marks my parents' thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. It would also be my mother-in-law's sixty-eighth birthday, at the time of her death, she and my father-in-law had been married forty-five years. It seems somewhat amazing, in this day and age, that both my husband and I have parents who were married to each other until death parted them. And while there were differences in how my parents and my in-laws approached various aspects of marriage (say division of labor, conflict resolution, and child-rearing) both sets of parents set an incredible example of the essentials. Without any doubt, they showed my husband and I how to be committed to each other, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, as long as we both shall live.

Pahlee tan I doh falimming?

Last week, Tee's preschool teacher pulled me aside to ask me if I had ever considered having Tee screened for speech therapy. To be honest, the answer is yes. Tee is hard for even me to understand. It's not that she doesn't communicate, in fact she's a very clear communicator, but her diction and annunciation are not. Her nickname Tee, comes from what she used to call herself, but even now when she says her name, it starts with a "T," it actually starts with a "K."

The word "please" is a two syllable word when she says it, and that isn't even when she's being dramatic. She doesn't lisp, she just doesn't use the "s" sound at all. Most people ask me to translate. (For instance, the title of this piece is exactly how she would say, "Please can I go swimming?") Sometimes this has worked to my advantage, especially since after the death of my mom I began swearing a lot when I felt stressed, but that is another parenting issue.

Since this wasn't a surprise, I immediately called our district office to find out the process for getting young children tested. I figure a few months of therapy will redirect what is essentially a cluster of bad habits, and this won't even be a problem by the time she starts elementary school. Her screening appointment isn't for three weeks, and even though I know it isn't that big of a deal, I keep processing this new challenge over and over in my mind. I'm lucky that between my sister and a really good friend, I have been able to talk through my feelings and strategize what to do next. (Believe it or not, had it not been for some inside pointers from that friend, I would most likely still be sifting through layers of bureacracy at the district office.) But even with that support, I am really missing my mom's council.

My mom would shine in this type of situation. Not just for her children and grandchildren, but she was the kind of friend who got the first call whenever someone had an some kind of issue with a child. She was known for giving advice in an empathetic way. But more than that, I miss being able to talk to someone who can give words to what you are struggling to say. Someone who can do that because after thirty years of knowing your ups and your downs, how you react under stress, and when and how you are headed for a break down, knows what to say and do to keep you focused on the current challenge.

The good news is that, although I miss hearing the words come out of her mouth, I have all that she instilled in me to keep me pointed in the right direction. Because of her example, even without her step by step guidance, I know what I need to do to for my children.

Standing on my own

Last week on the radio, I heard a caller call a radio psychologist because she was being harassed by friends and a family for talking to her son who was an eighteen-year-old freshman in college too frequently. Either she or her husband spoke to their son for a few minutes every evening, just to check in. Often it was the son who initiated the calls. But many people they knew, were telling them they were keeping their son from spreading his wings and becoming his own man. The doctor, Ray Guarendi, encouraged the mother to maintain the relationship with her son, and to ignore critics who probably had their own motivations. Now since this was the week between Christmas and New Year's the show was a rebroadcast from earlier in the fall, just a few weeks into the school year, otherwise I might have called in to offer support to this mother, and take his point a little bit further.

You see from the time I moved out of my parents house when I was eighteen, I probably went no more than forty-eight hours without talking to my mom on the phone. Sure there were exceptions, like vacations that took us out of the country. But other than that we chatted pretty much everyday. Like I said, the last time I really lived in my parents house I was eighteen. By the time I was twenty-one, I wasn't even relying on them for any financial support. I was paying my own rent, my car and insurance payments. At twenty-three, I became a home owner. I have cooked and hosted nearly every major holiday meal at least once, including Thanksgiving for 22. I have been laid-off, owned a business, and quit working all together so I could stay home and raise my children. I have been married to a wonderful man for nearly ten years, and the two of us have been through hell and back together. We've moved half-way across the country and back. And all without any monetary support from the parents who I talked to nearly everyday.

I'm not saying this to brag on my accomplishments, because I think they are very ordinary. My point is my relationship with my parents, allowed me to spread my wings and be my own person. I knew that both my mother (and my father) would always be there as a sounding board for any idea or situation that arose. We didn't always agree, I didn't always follow their advice. Sometimes that worked out, sometimes it didn't. But I always knew I could rely on them for honesty, for humor, for love.

Today marks six months since the last conversation I had with my mom. It was either that the next time she had my daughter for a week, I wanted her to adhere more closely to a normal bedtime schedule or to tell her a cute comment Tee had made about her Mary statue. I talked to her twice that day that I can remember, and I've spent a lot of time trying to remember. The next morning she was killed just after 5:00 am.

Although I no longer accidentally dial her number, there are so many things I want to tell her about. So many times, I wish I could ask her opinion. Or just hear her voice. And I know that the strong relationship I had with my mother, not only helped me to become the strong, independent woman I am, it has also, for the last six months, been the foundation that has kept me from completely falling apart.

Christmas Music

I've been avoiding Christmas music this year. And while I know people who avoid this genre every year, normally I love it. It wasn't a conscious decision. In fact, just last week it dawned on me that I was listening to an incredible amount of news and traffic reports to avoid music while driving. I broke out a couple of CD's: John Denver and the Muppets (it was my favorite when I was three, and I knew Tee would love it-she did.) and the CD of my college choir. I listened to them each once, and put them away.

I love Christmas, even the crazy commercialism. I love the decorating, and the baking, and the shopping. I love that for almost a whole month people focus on friends and family. And I love celebrating the birth of Christ. It's not Christmas I'm avoiding-that would be impossible with two little girls. But I have definitely been avoiding music, which for me is unusual.

Both my parents were very thoughtful and thorough in their preparations for Christmas. They participated fully in prayerfully preparing for the the birth of the Savior. In fact to them there was no separation between the sacred and secular celebrations of Christmas. We only had one because of the other, even if not everyone knew it. In fact my dad would even use the so-called secular parts of the Holiday to punctuate the sacred. The most obvious example was through music.

Anyone who knew my dad knew of his prolific music collection. It spanned all genres, from jazz to country, from classical to rock. He top forty music and obscure recordings by obscure artists. Even into the last month of his life, he was looking for something new, or old to add to his listening collection. And he did not scrimp on his Christmas collection. But he did have rules for listening. From the day after Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve, only secular Christmas music-about Santa, snow and such was played at our house. It built the festive feeling, putting everyone in the holiday spirit. But then Christmas morning, when we came downstairs, and it was still dark outside, there would be the tree, sparkling with white lights, and beautiful choral Christmas carols filling the air. He would continue listening to this music through the twelfth day of Christmas, and then it would be put away until next Christmas.

As an adult, I've never been quite as strict on the lines. In fact some of my best Christmas memories independent of my family, come from the Christmas Candlelight Concerts my choir sang in college. Those concerts, of all sacred music, had to be done before finals week, usually the second week of December. And so for me, I usually listen to all of it, all month. But something has been stopping me this year.

Finally Friday, as I was driving back from getting one last gift, I switched on the local Christian music station known for playing only Christmas music in December. As I drove up the hill towards my house, tears began to roll down my cheeks as what I'd really been avoiding all month finally hit me. By the third song, I was crying so hard I could hardly see. Thirty-one years of memories washed over me with each song. Twenty-nine of them, amazing. Two of them, the last two, a little bizarre, but hopeful. And in addition to the memories, all the dreams that are forever altered. All those visions of my girls baking cookies with their grandma, or their grandpa reading them the Christmas story are never going to happen. The collection of ornaments from their Grandma, that I thought they'd have when they turned eighteen will never be.

And I'm not mourning some ideal family that can never be. I had that family. I had two amazing parents. They were strict, but loving towards us when we were small. They knew when to let go, and give us our independence as adults. And they knew when we still needed them to be the parent. Losing one of them was hard enough, I really don't understand why they both had to die.