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.

St. Nicolas Day and Family Traditions

Tomorrow is St. Nicolas Day. Being that my husband, and therefore my children are of Dutch heritage, we have often talked about how to incorporate Dutch traditions into our Christmas celebrations. With Tee being three and a half, this seemed like a good year to start.

Although my father-in-law was actually born in Holland, most of the information we have about this holiday comes from either my non-Dutch upbringing or a David Sedaris essay. So it is with these sources that we started to put together what will hopefully become cherished traditions our children will want to share with their children as well. Except...

Tee's best friend is named Nicolette. So she was having a hard time trying to figure out why she couldn't stay up if Nicolette was coming over to our house tonight. So for this year, we had to give up on St. Nicolas coming to our house, and went back to Santa Claus (I know, I know he's based on the real St. Nick.) He's just coming for a preview tonight. And since Santa Claus is coming later in the month, we had already planned to keep St. Nicolas day true to traditional Dutch custom, and have the girls leave their shoes out to be filled with candy. Tee really liked this idea, and chose to set her new party shoes, black patent leather mary jane's outside her door. Even Sweet Potato got excited about the idea, and went and grabbed one pink mary jane from her own closet to add to the collection. Seemed like we were ready to make some memories, except...

Tee remembered that candy makes things sticky, and started to freak out a little about her new black party shoes getting sticky when she hadn't even worn them and there are so many parties this month. So we compramised that Santa Claus would as part of his preview visit leave candy next to the shoes.

So while things didn't go off as perfectly as imagined, I now have cute stories to repeat to the girls about when they were little, and that is the beginning of a beautiful family tradition.

Shifting

I am an extrovert. Look up extrovert in the dictionary, and you will find my picture. Yes, I am that stereotypically extroverted. I get energy from being around other people, I think by speaking, and I will drive across the metro area in order to have the company of another person. I also know that I will get far more done if there is someone I can chit-chat with while I work, than if I am stuck in an isolated corner. And anyone, whether they have met me or not, knows exactly how I feel from across the room. This is how I operate, I know this about myself, and I'm fine with it.

But lately, I find myself acting very differently. I am withdrawing from activities. I find myself thinking long and hard before I speak, and then sometimes not responding at all. It's like I can't get outside myself. It isn't a selfish thing, because I want to respond, I want to be there for my friends, to let them know I am thinking about them and praying for them. I want to be able to step up to the plate, and take on new projects. But the idea of doing any of that, simply exhausts me. I find myself wanting to be alone. And that is something, I have never done.

I don't really know what this has to do with parenting, either what I do as a parent or what my parents did. But I'm sure it is the effect of their recent deaths, especially my mom's, as unexpected as that was. The events of the last three years, have left me completely drained, and what I have always done to regain my energy is no longer working. I'm not sure that alone time is really working either. So what do I do now?

Christmas Stories

It's really starting to sink in-just how weird and awful the holidays are going to be this year. On one hand, I've known that since July 8th. On the other, I feel like I have to make sure it's not. After all, I have a three-year-old and a one-year-old, and small children shouldn't know anything other than an amazing magical Christmas. I know that's what my mom believed. Over the years, she made every effort to make sure Christmas was special for everyone she encountered. Not just for her own children and grandchildren, but for all kinds of people. If she knew of anyone who would be alone or under financial duress at Christmas, she would find a way, anonymously if she could, to make sure that person had something special for Christmas.

I'll admit, it doesn't take much to bring me to tears. But tonight I saw a Hallmark commercial, that started me crying the hardest I had in at least a week. (If you haven't lost a parent or a child, that may not seem like long, but around here that feels like a record.) The ad featured two little girls listening to their Grandma read the night before Christmas, only Grandma wasn't there. She had recorded her voice into the book. If you know my mother at all, you would know she would have been the first in line to buy this, and send it off to her grandchildren so she could be a part of their nightly routine from four hours away. And it wouldn't have been the first time.

Like most people, we have chosen to find out the gender of our children before they are born. And with Tee, we even told people her name. Mostly because it was the only female name my husband and I agreed on. Knowing this my mom tucked into her shower gift, a small picture of herself, in a recordable frame, in which she had recorded the words, "I love you." So strong was her desire to be a part of her first grandchild's life, that even before she was born, my mom was looking for ways to bridge the distance.

We kept the frame on Tee's dresser for the first several months of her life, pushing the button to make it talk a couple of times a day. It was just a small gray, plastic square, so when Tee started to carry it around with her I didn't think twice about it. I had to put the picture back in several times. Now, I have no idea where it even is. I would give anything to have that now. I know the sound of my mom's voice, and I can hear it when I think of things I want to tell her, and I imagine how she would respond. But her voice will fade from Tee's memory. And Sweet Potato, I don't think she has any memories of her mammah.

Of course, that commercial was meant to bring up sentimental feelings, the kind that might bring a tear to even the happiest person's eye. But for me, it brought up such a feeling of emptiness, that the tears just poured down my face. And this was for something new, something I never would have imagined sharing with my girls even this afternoon, but they won't ever have their grandma (either grandma) read stories to them at Christmas time, in person or by recording. And I just don't understand why.

I know I can tell the girls stories about her and bake cookies using their mammah's recipes. I can put up pictures of Christmases past, and try to carry on the traditions of generousity and hospitality set by my mom. And that will make their Christmas amazing. But I really wish I could give them Christmas stories read by Mammah.

The fun part of parenting

So something about my mom's death has finally made me laugh. Which is appropriate in some ways, because my mom did have a quite the sense of humor. Although I don't know how funny she would find this in particular.

A little history. Tee was not exactly the easiest child to potty train. She did fine with number one, but it took us for-ever to get her trained with number two. It didn't seem to be an issue of will, so much as an issue of chemistry.

My daughter's diet consists of two food groups. Dairy and fruit. And about every two weeks, she will eat one chicken nugget. This is not for lack of trying, she is served the same food as the rest of the family, but what she eats is almost exclusively dairy or fruit. (This post may get a little graphic for those who do not interact with small children on a daily basis.) Anyway, while one of those food groups has a lot of fiber, the other is very binding, so if the balance of her diet is off, we have complications one direction or the other.

Sometime in the middle of August, almost a year after we started potty-training, the stars aligned and finally she was completely potty trained. A diet delicately balanced between dairy and fruit, supplemented by individual packets of marshmallows as a reward gave Tee the confidence she needed. And just in time because they won't take them at Tee's preschool if they are not fully potty-trained.

All was fine in that realm until I discovered that Tee had consumed too much dairy and not enough fruit last week. I spent my weekend monitoring my daughter's facial expressions and noises, picking her up and racing her to the bathroom, and then insisting that she wear pull-ups so that she could relax. I did not want to go back into potty training mode-I figure I have at least a year hiatus.

So when, Tee let one rip loudly Sunday morning, I of course had to ask, "Did you toot?"

"Not me," she responded. She and I were the only one's in the room.

So, I had to ask who, to which Tee replied, "It was Mammah!"

I can just imagine my poor mother blushing in heaven.

Changes

Last Monday, as we were driving to the gym, Tee was chatting away to no one in particular. It was some lively imaginative game she was playing, I wasn't included so I continued to listen to the radio. Suddenly, with great stress and anguish, Tee announced, "Mommy, I can't find my parents anywhere!"

"Parents?" I asked quite confused.

"Yes, parents?"

"You can't find your parents?"

"Yes."

"Your parents?"

"Yes. My parents."

"Tee," I asked, "Do you know what parents are?"

"What, Mommy?"

Yes, I was startled that she didn't know what the word "parent!" But one thing being a parent of small children has taught me is not to assume anything. I quickly explained that mommy and daddy were her parents. Conversation over, but as I said, I've learned not to assume anything.

"Do you have parents?" Tee asked.

"Yes, everyone has parents."

"Does Daddy have parents?"

"Grandpa George and Grandma Margaret are Daddy's parents."

"No, there is a different one."

In spite of all the deaths, my children have actually had very stable lives. Neither set of grandparents, nor any of their Aunts or Uncles has been through a divorce. And with the exception of my younger brother (who is barely 25), everyone is married with children. Grandpa George, however, has recently began dating a wonderful woman. She is also widowed, and both of them talk openly about the loss of their previous spouse, which I think is wonderful. She has been amazingly kind and supportive to us through the loss of my mother. And most importantly, she makes him happy. They plan on getting married this winter. I clarified that this is who Tee meant. It was, so I began my simple explanation.

"Well, sometimes when one parent dies, the one who is still alive finds another person who is still on earth to marry." So far so good, "So Grandpa George is going to have a new wife, and she'll be Daddy's step-mommy, and your step-grandma."

"We get a new Mammah?" Tee asked with great enthusiasm. She really does like this lady. And this is about my daughter, not me, so matching her enthusiasm, I affirmed her question.

And then the tears came, "But I miss my Mammah with the black hair."

Me too, Tee. Me too.

Time

I really miss my mom today, I don't know why. Just really, really sad. The saddest I've probably been in a long time, and I can't think of why it is hitting me so hard today. This wasn't a weekend we would have done much with my mom. We spent the afternoon celebrating the fourth birthday of one set of twin nieces (daughters of my husband's middle brother) and then stayed the night at his oldest brother's house. It was just a fun, relaxing weekend that had nothing to do with my mom. I guess on the way home, I normally would have called her to check in. But it has been long enough that I don't accidentally call her anymore.

In fact, it has been just over three months since she was killed. A detail that escaped my mind until I tried to figure out why I was missing her so much today. Three months is a quarter of a year. I can't believe it has been that long, and yet so much has happened. In three short months, one of her grandchildren (my nephew) was baptised and learned to crawl; one of them had a birthday, learned to crawl down stairs and walk, and started saying actual words; and one of them finished potty training and started school. That doesn't even count all the cute little things that have been said and done by these children. Or the messes and tantrums that occurred as well.

Several times a day, I think about how I wish my mom was here to share all of these moments, the big, the small, the funny, the cute, and even the horrible. And I also realize that while these little moments and little people seem to magnify the loss of my mom, if they were not here, I think I might truly sink into despair. And maybe that is why I am missing her so much, I don't usually get hours four hours of wide, awake quiet time to think about what has happened like I did today as we drove across the state with two sleeping children. Thank God I have those children, because otherwise I don't know what I would do with all that time.

Too many tomatoes

Those who have seen my garden might be surprised to learn that I hate tomatoes. Well, uncooked tomatoes anyway. My mother never understood this about me. To her a tomato fresh from the garden was just about the most perfect example of God's creation. Our disagreement about this came to a head the summer I was nine-years-old. I was already firmly entrenched in my dislike for tomatoes, but she kept insisting that I eat them.

One day for lunch she served her favorite, tomato sandwiches. Basically, this is a slice of toast, spread with mayonnaise and thick, fresh tomatoes on top. If you like tomatoes-it is a slice of heaven, or so I'm told. But to me, she might have well have served dog vomit on bread. What happened next, is something I understand much better now that I am a mother myself.

After being told nothing else was for lunch, I finally relented and started to eat. No sooner had I started chewing on the first bite when my gag reflex kicked in, and I of course spit the chewed hunks of tomato, mayonnaise and bread on to my plate. And then my mom told me to eat it anyway. In my memory, I did finish the sandwich. My mom stood her ground, but never again was I forced to eat raw tomatoes. Although, she frequently commented that she did not understand my dislike for them.

When we planted the garden this spring, I put in three tomato plants. My thoughts were that I wouldn't have to buy them for my husband's sandwiches, that my mom would be here often enough through out the summer that she could take what she needed, and that I was not going to stand in the way of letting my girls tastes for tomatoes develop one way or the other.

Even the most novice gardner can tell you, three plants has produced more tomatoes than one family can possibly use, especially when you add an unusually long and hot summer. We have tomatoes to put on sandwiches, to add to salad, to turn into sauce, and still more tomatoes keep coming. Not sure how to use them, I've began giving them away as much as possible.

Yesterday, I picked two large bowls full for a friend who needs them for a big event. Tee, who seems to have my taste in tomatoes, was quite eager to help pick. She took a bite of one of the cherry tomatoes earlier in the season, and has no interest in eating one again. But she still loves any excuse to help in the garden. Meanwhile, as we were picking, Sweet Potato tottled over, and pulled a red cherry tomato off the vine and popped it in her mouth. Then another, then another, and then another. Eventually, much to her dismay, I had to pull her away, so that I could go back inside. I really wanted to call my mom and tell her. She would be thrilled to know how much her little granddaughter loves tomatoes.

Unmet Expectations

I just settled my mom's Macy's account. Really, it wasn't much of an ordeal, except that when I called to have the late fees reversed (the only reason she would have paid a bill late was death), they said that the bill had to go through an estate process, which would take about thirty days. So thirty days later, I am paying her final bill minus the late charges. Of all the paperwork, I've had to do for her estate, this was really among the least cumbersome, until as I wrote the check, and thought about the items being paid for, and it reminded me just how unexpected a loss this truly was.

The only items listed on the bill were a pair of capri pants and some sandals, purchased on July 7. I don't know if she was wearing them the next morning when she was in the accident or if they were in her suitcase. As strange as it is to think about these items that may never have been worn, what really struck me was what was represented by the balance carried forward. The bulk of that was the outfit she had worn to my cousins wedding not a month before.

Although my mom always loved and invested in quality. She was very modest in her style of dress. I'm sure part of that came from being a bit overweight, but I think a lot of it was just her preferences. She never wore a v-neck or anything above mid-calf. She also preferred boxy shapes. A cardigan and long skirt was pretty much her uniform. Since she was willing to invest in quality and tailoring, she was able to look very nice. After the death of my dad, she started to talk about needing to update her look.

This wasn't because she was free of some strict expectations of my dad. My dad loved my mom, and was constantly buying beautiful clothes for her. She would keep those that met the standards of her uniform, and return those that were a little too daring--and I'm really stretching the meaning of the word daring. I think in the stress of dealing with my dad's illness, it was just easier for her to stick with what was comfortable.

In the two years that followed, she traded in some of her cardigan sweaters for slightly more fitted jackets. She started wearing pants much more frequently, even jeans. She was experimenting with growing her hair out and wearing bangs. Although losing my dad was horrible, she embraced her new life. She was traveling, going to plays and other events with friends, and looking forward to all the things she could do in the next thirty or forty years.

The dress she chose for my cousin's wedding seemed to represent the woman she was becoming. I was with her when she chose it, the girls and I had driven down to for an impromptu visit a few days before the wedding. She mentioned that she still wasn't sure what to wear, so we went shopping. While we were there she pointed out a dress that she thought was beautiful, but wasn't sure if it was her. I encouraged her to try it on, and while it broke many of her self imposed rules, it also made her look so stylish and pretty. It was a combination between a wrap dress and a shirtwaist. It had a v-neck, no sleeves, and may have even been slightly shorter than mid-calf. In the dress, my mom looked instantly smaller. I was so proud of my mom for choosing that slightly more daring dress. As insignificant as the purchase of a dress might seem, to me it showed just how far my mom had come.

For as long as I can remember my mom always put others ahead of herself. She wasn't a martyr, or passive-aggressive-she honestly just thought about what everyone else needed first. And finally, maybe it was because she had the time, she was considering what she wanted. She was taking care of herself. It wasn't stopping her from being the compassionate person that she'd always been, but it was opening up new dimensions in her personality. Even before her sudden death, I had noticed this new joie de vivre. Which is one more reason that her death is so hard to believe. How can someone who had so much passion, charisma, and potential be taken so unexpectedly? It just feels like she was taken away before her work on earth was finished, like too much has been left undone.

Yet Another Milestone

Today was Tee's first day of pre-school. My girl was so ready. She picked out her outfit right down to her magenta mary-janes. She went to bed with out a fuss or a fight, and woke up energetic and early. She sat still while I fixed her hair-no small miracle. In fact, her overly compliant behavior is my only sign that she might have had any anxiety over this new adventure. We were at the school before the teachers' even opened the door to her class, and when they did, she walked right in with out looking back.

I know she had a great time. For the first few hours afterward she kept talking and singing. Although the more she talked the less I understood about what she did during the two hours she was in school. She painted a sunflower with yellow paint. She brought home a library book. She told me there are dress-up clothes and a sandbox. But when I asked her if she played dress-up she said no.

It's not like I've never left Tee before. She has been in the nursery at church and stayed with baby-sitters for few hours. Heck, she even stayed overnight with my mom for a week. But I've always been able to rely on the adult for an update or a report. Other than "she was great," I have no idea what my child did for two hours. This is strange territory for me. I know it is necessary, and I'm thrilled my child is one who walked right through the door to the next phase of her life. But I also realize that this is where I begin to ever so slightly let go, to let her grow up and away from me.

And as I open my hand to give Tee a little more freedom, how I wish I could grab the hand of my own mother. As I drove away, I wanted to call her and report that I'd just dropped Tee off, and how brave she was. I wanted to hear my mom's half-giggle-half-sigh that popped out for any one or thing that was adorable. And to be able to go on and on about how cute my girl looked, because I know that she loves Tee almost as much as I do. And mostly, I missed that I wouldn't have had to say anything in particular, because after thirty-one years of being my mother she would have known what I was feeling, and she'd be able, with out a word, to assure me that everything was alright.

More Milestones

Today is a big day at our house. Two dates of record coincide. One marking the happy occasion of my baby's first birthday, and the second marking two months since my mom's death. Two months seems like it should only be acknowledged by a comment in passing, "can you believe it has been two months already?" but the juxtaposition of these two dates is magnifying the loss.

Both my parents loved to celebrate and entertain. And both of them loved traditions. My dad, a deeply religious man, had ideas on when to break out which types of Christmas music, secular verses sacred, so as to emphasize the message and celebration of Jesus's birth. My mom was all about finding little ways to make ordinary days special and special days extraordinary. Today also, marks the first day for students at the middle school where she worked, and she would have brought homemade cinnamon rolls for the office staff to enjoy on this hectic morning.

Dad died 23 days before Tee turned one. Knowing that his death was approaching, he had spent much of that year purchasing books and toys for her. Some she is still a little too young to appreciate. Mom brought her those books, plus a bookcase for her first birthday. It was a great way to remember my dad that day, without being to sad. My mom made all three of her birthday cakes. It was a task she cherished. In fact, we had already discussed Sweet Potato's cake, banana to match the monkey theme, and her birthday was over two months away. So much of how we are celebrating Sweet Potato's birthday is based on that conversation the weekend before she died. But Mom won't be here.

She isn't going to call at the exact moment Sweet Potato was born. She isn't going to arrive with some ridiculous present that we have no idea where to put. She isn't going to bake and decorate the perfect cake. Or sing extra birthday songs. I know that I can take charge of most of these things (except for the cake, thankfully I have a good friend with those talents), but I want my mom to be here to do them. I had made peace with the fact that my dad would not be physically present to mark any milestones with my girls, but I never planned that my mom would not be here.

A moment to savor

Tee is the only on in our house dressed so far this morning. I am wearing a pair of fleece yoga pants and a purple t-shirt that has been washed too many times to be worn in public. Sweet Potato is still in her jammies, and my wonderful husband is still in bed. Tee, however, could not wait to get dressed into her favorite dress, a cotton knit sundress covered with large hibiscus flowers in orange, pink, and red. Due to frequent washings, it's just a little too short to be worn in public, at least with out leggings. And it's also a little to chilly for sleeveless attire this morning. But like almost every other morning for the past month, Tee has decided to wear that dress.

Only this morning she encountered a problem. The dress was on the hanger "brackards," or backwards for those who don't speak three-year-old. Actually, it had been hung up inside-out. Never mind, that it had been Tee who hung up the dress, she was quite confused about what had happened to her dress, and whether or not it could be fixed. But of course, thanks to some mommy magic, or just having more life experience than a three-year-old, the problem was immediately solved. And for my trick, I was rewarded with those precious words, "you are so cool."

I am so savoring those words. Granted at this time in our life, I am still her hero. She still thinks I'm beautiful, and wants to be just like me and do everything I do, at least most of the time. I know the days are coming however, and (from what my friends with older daughters say) sooner than I think, when she will not think any of those things. And if she tells me I'm cool, it will most likely be laced with sarcasm. It will be during those times that I will probably have to do something that does take a little mommy magic (or just more life experience) to solve more serious problems that could save her grades, or reputation, or at least her social standing. And my reward in those times will be remembering when I was cool for knowing how to turn a dress right-side out, and knowing that one day, she will appreciate or at least understand why I do all the things I do for her.

Pre-school Orientation

Today, more than ever, I felt like I needed my mom. Today, I took Tee to her pre-school orientation. What a crazy rush of emotions and nerves. For me. The three-year-old did fine. She is so ready for this experience. She is ready to take those steps toward independence, to make friends that are not my friends children, to explore and learn away from my supervision. Honestly, I'm not worried about her. But as I take this next step in letting go, just ever so slightly, I really wish I could turn to my mom for support and advice on how to do this with grace.

I'm sure I've said it before, but my mom was the quintessential stay-at-home mom. She served as PTA president and room mother and volunteer coordinator. She drove us to and from lessons of all types, and sports practices. She was there everyday after school, when we got home, with a snack to talk to us about our day, but since she spent so much time getting to know teachers, coaches, and other people in and around our lives, she probably already knew. (Although, that is more of an adult observation, she never acted like she'd already heard whatever we had to share.) So as I enter this next phase of motherhood, I can't help but wonder who I'm supposed to ask these random questions that pop up? And who am I supposed to share these silly fears with? And the small victories? And who is going to tell me when these thoughts are normal?

For example, not only was I concerned with what Tee was going to wear today, but I was panicked over what I should wear as well. This was first impression time. I needed to make sure that I was sending the right message to the teachers, as well as the other parents in the classroom, right? Or is this one of those times where I'm way off base? I wanted to make sure I appeared fun and casual, yet pulled together. Although, the fact that I'm even blogging about this, probably negates the fun and casual part. But I wanted them to know that I would be someone who can pitch in and help, who can be counted on to come through where ever and when ever help is needed.

And speaking of help, when they were passing around the volunteer sign-up sheet, I so wanted the counsel of my mother. Do I sign up for everything? There were only four slots under each request (these teachers by the way, very organized), what if they were all filled up by the time it got to me? I'm setting the life long patterns for communication with my childrens' educators. I need to have those opportunities to get to know them. And what better way to get to know them, than by working on a project/ event together.

But that fear, was quickly replaced by, "only four slots?!" I need to make sure that I give the other moms (who must be having these same fears, right?!) the chance to volunteer. These are the mother's of my daughter's future friends, and possibly my future friends as well. What's the right number? How do you establish yourself as an essential part of the parent team, without coming across as the mommy diva? Hey, I've heard some stories. I noticed that some of the other moms had signed up for two events, so I followed that pattern. Thank God I wasn't first, I would have held up the whole room by my mental angst.

For thirty-one years, I've been able to turn to my mom with these questions that are so insignificant, and yet the most significant at the same time. Now who do I turn to? Because this stuff can drive a girl crazy?

Oh, and in case you're wondering, Tee was just fine. When they took the kids out of the main room, and into their classroom, my girl was first in line. When I went downstair to pick her up, the teacher told me, Tee was definitely ready to start school (and yes, I know they tell that to every parent whose kid isn't crying in the corner or brutally attacking other children). Clearly, one of us will be fine. But one of us still has our mommy.

Looking back, looking forward

Yesterday marked nine years of marriage for my husband and me. In the week leading up to our anniversary, we kept coming back to the same question, "nine years ago, would you have predicted that this would be how our life would turn out?" And it's not the usual discussion that follows, you know the kind where you measure the success that you've had as a couple- is this the right career path? are you happy? should we have another baby? Instead, both of us are floored by what has occurred with our parents. If you would have asked us nine years ago who will live the longest, well it wouldn't have worked like this.

If you had asked us on our wedding day how our parents lives would play out, we would have predicted that both of our mothers would have lived well into their eighties, possibly their nineties. My dad would probably have died kind of young, maybe in his sixties, because of a pre-existing heart condition. My husband's dad would probably die first because he was a non-compliant diabetic who had already had a stroke and survived prostate cancer. But that's the thing about our inability to know the future.

My mom died this year at 53 due to a car wreck. My husband's mom died last year at 67 after a twenty month battle with brain cancer. And the year before that my dad died at 55 after a six year struggle with cancer. My father-in-law, he's alive and kickin' and the healthiest he's been in years. And I pray to God, he stays that way for at least another nine, and possibly nine more.

Purple Cow Pajamas

Because this is the first weekend that we are both at home and not sick since my mom's accident, we have been tackling a lot of projects. Probably more than anyone should take on in a weekend, but every time one gets completed...o-kay, half completed...o-kay, started, it triggers yet another project that must be tackled. And it must be tackled this weekend. O-kay, probably not. But the combination of having six weekends sucked out of your summer, a manic personality, and school being just around the corner means there is a lot of work to do at our house.

One of the many tasks, I've worked on is going through the girls clothes, boxing up what doesn't fit, donating items that my girls are done with, and getting down the clothes that were previously too big. Most of these items are things that Tee has outgrown, and I've saved for Sweet Potato. It wasn't always like this though, my mom often bought things at the end of a season to save for Tee to wear the next year. But when I started going through that basket, I realized we were down to only one thing, a pair of size 5 purple, flannel pajamas, covered with pictures of cows and milk cartons. Cute and a little ridiculous, but that pair of pajamas brought me to tears. Not just because it's the last thing my girls will wear that their Mammah picked out, but because those pajamas are a stark reminder of how my life is turning out so different from what I imagined.

My mom purchased those pajamas for Tee when she was barely three weeks old. We were on our first trip with Tee back to my home town. A college friend was being ordained near-by, and my mom was on a mission to find the perfect little puffy-sleeved, smocked newborn dress for the occasion. Oddly enough in the Spring of 2006, there was a shortage of that style. As we scoured the racks at the local Nordstrom, my mom came across those silly cow pajamas, on clearance. She insisted on buying them for her granddaughter, even though she wouldn't be able to wear them for at least four years. But she was sure that Tee would need them when she was a little older, and could spend a weekend on the farm with her other grand parents.

My husband grew up on a dairy farm. My mother-in-law was a former dairy princess way back in the fifties, and as an adult had served as president of the state dairy pageant board. My mom just knew that Tee's other grandma would get a kick out of seeing her granddaughter in dairy themed pajamas. And she would have. So I went along with my mom's plan. Little did we know that neither one of them would be around to see their granddaughter in the purple cow pajamas.

Mini-Celebration

Please celebrate with me. I have spent the afternoon successfully getting all late fees on my mom's bills reversed. Both my parents were always very careful with credit and paying things on time. I don't know if maybe once upon a time, when they were young and foolish they got in over their heads, or if they were just the type to take their credit score very seriously, but long before I was old enough to establish credit, I was being drilled with the importance of paying things on time. And since the late fees were all because she was dead and no one had access to her accounts (yet), it is really not surprising that the companies I spoke to were willing to reverse fees.

Never the less, and just the same, after spending most of my pre-motherhood career in private banking and wealth management, I was dreading this task. Which is odd, because that also means I knew exactly what information I would need to provide and, when necessary what documentation to provide. I think it was because I knew this task could be time consuming, and I had memories of the couple of times where some customer service was having a nasty day or there was a surprise in the estate documents. (By the way, best thing you can do for your loved one, have your estate planning done, regardless of your income level.) Add to that the sheer exhaustion from grief, and I was almost paralyzed at what to do next. But I did it. And now, I can relax. Until tomorrow.

I realized that if I tackle one major task a day, I don't get so overwhelmed. Which means I can get this done. And that is worth celebrating.

Blowin' in the wind

So a strange thing has happened this week. I've actually thought about moving back to my home town. I probably won't. My husband works in the kind of high-tech field found only in major metropolitan areas. And the town I grew up in, while not small, is certainly not a major metropolitan area. But for the first time since, well, ever, I found myself thinking how nice it would be to buy a house and raise our family here.

A few years ago, when my dad told me he possibly had two years left to live, my husband and I talked about moving closer. But closer meant a big city, only an hour away. After his death we continued to talk about this possibility, especially because my mom would be so much closer the the girls. But never once did I consider moving back.

It could be trying to cling to my roots-my history. Once we sell mom's house, will there be any sign that we lived in this town? It could be the reconnecting with friends from high school and younger. There are a fair amount that still live here, and reconnecting (and yes, a lot of it has been done through Facebook) has reminded me how many great people live down here. But what really pushed me over the edge was the wind.

Every evening, but especially in the summer, a strong wind comes up off the river and blows through the town. My parents house is at least two miles inland, and the breeze still gust strongly across the back deck. Like clockwork, the wind signals that the day is over bringing both the cool and dark of night.

As I was taking out the trash the other night, that wind caught me, blowing my hair behind me, and suddenly I felt sixteen again. Not that I would never go back to being sixteen again. But for a moment, I remembered that hopeful optimism. That feeling of always being ready for what was going to happen next, and the dreams for when I finally got out of this place. And then I thought about how my life has turned out, different and better than what the sixteen-year-old me could ever have dreamed. Would the sixteen-year-old me be surprised at how much my priorities and values have changed in as many years? And if she knew what I know now, would she have been so anxious to escape. Because as it turns out, this is a really great place after all.

Teeter-totter or Tightrope

I think I've definately turned some type of corner in this grieving process, but I'm not exactly sure what it is. There are three feelings that seem to create my existance.

The first is a very practical and matter of fact, the is the part of me that sees the projects in front of me, and is ready to get to work. And there is so much work to be done. My parents have/ had a big, beautiful home that we have to get ready to sell. Any home, no matter how well it was kept, can quickly fall into disarray if regular maintenance isn't kept up. And that doesn't even account for the life time accumulation of two peoples things, that now has to be sorted, some to be kept, some to be sold or donated, and some will be thrown away. Bills still have to be paid. And this is all on my parents home, none of it accounts for the responsibilities in my own life. I can usually get two or three things done on this list, until one of the other two emotions takes over.

The second is anger. For the first three weeks after her death, no matter how angry I wanted to be, I couldn't get there. Oh, sure there was an occasional angry outburst, mostly brought on by feeling helpless. (Helpless is an emotion I don't do well. ) I think the shock was still too great. It covered everything, and kept me relatively numb. But last week, the shock started to lift, and I began to be very angry. Not all the time, but often. Basically, I have no patience. I am swearing a lot. And I'm not very careful about who is around. I'm pretty sure I've offended a few strangers, and I know I will pay for it when I need to explain just because mommy said something doesn't make it o-kay. Thankfully, these spells seem to be short-lived, and I in my more rational moments, I am praying for patience and compassion, because I do not want to be come bitter. And although it would be the worst tribute to my parents, I can see how easy that would be.

Especially since the rest of my time, I am in a state of sheer exhaustion. Never in my life have I been this tired. Not when my babies were waking up every two hours, not with the deaths of my dad or my mother-in-law, and not even right after the accident occured. In a clear moment, I know that this is probably partly because it is the third death in such a short time frame. And (my siblings and I) have a lot more work this time. And I do have two small children, one of them who is no longer sleeping through the night. Oh, and I myself am not sleeping through the night. The exhaustion probably contributes to the anger as well.

I want so much to be able to stay in the practical, productive place, but now I think I need a nap.

Thank Heaven for Air-conditioning

I finally caved. For three days, I've had the urge to put a certain phrase for my Facebook status-its silly, completely innocuous, and most of all true, but every time I thought about typing it, something stopped me. What stopped me is that no one is left who would possibly understand why the phrase was anything more than just a utterance on an extremely hot day.

The story goes that when I was a very little girl, like younger than Tee even, my grandma taught me to say, "Thank heaven for air-conditioning," whenever we came out of the desert sun and into the nice, air-conditioned home. Not even much of a story, as far as stories go, but it must of struck my mom as really cute to see her toddler saying that, because whenever she would enter an air-conditioned home or building, she would say, "Thank heaven for air-conditioning." and tell whoever would listen that story. In fact, the weekend before she died, she mused that maybe she should teach Tee to say that phrase when entering a nice, air-conditioned room. I rolled my eyes.

Who knew that this week, I would be saying that over and over, not in any reference to my mom, but because we have had record heat in our corner of the country. And while the utterance is still true, I'm just shocked at how little meaning it has to anyone around me. Why would it? But it suddenly struck me how many phrases that lace my speech have so much wrapped up in the story of my history and my family. They may not sound important to anyone else, but there was someone else who knew when I said that, it didn't just mean, "boy, it feels good to be out of the heat," but there were layers of history and love in one phrase.

I finally put it in my status up-date. My friends will think, "yeah, it has been hot" or "she's got AC. Lucky!" (We probably live in the one region of the country where it's not standard.) But, it also means so much more.

Sleepless Nights

One of the questions people frequently ask when your going through a crisis is, "How are you sleeping?" Although most are asking it out of genuine concern, the question is so common, it almost feels like a formality-like, "how are you?" And as with most formalities, the answer is quick, vague, and maybe not entirely honest.

First of all, I don't know what the answer is supposed to be. When my dad died, we were expecting it. We sat up several nights leading up to his death, falling asleep finally, only to wake up a very short time later, because this might be it. Most of the sleeplessness occurred, at least for me, before his actual death.

The night my mom died, I remember just laying awake for several hours watching my girls sleep. At some point, I must have fallen asleep, because I recall waking up. But it was early, very early. That pattern continued for several nights until sheer exhaustion caught up, and I just fell asleep. And so that was the answer that I was able to give people.

But now, I'm back to not sleeping. And it is those long moments between putting my head on the pillow and falling asleep where I start to really think about what happened. I don't want to think about what happened because none of it makes any sense. My mom was the most cautious driver in the world. She never sped. And she didn't apply make-up or answer her cell phone while her car was moving. So, I have a hard time processing how she was in a fatal accident.

And then I start to think about other things, like what she saw and what she felt. Was her death really instantaneous? Or did she suffer? Did she see it coming?

I don't think about these things during the day. Sure I miss her. I'm sad. I struggle to explain what happened to my daughter. I feel nauseous whenever I have to deal with estate business. But somehow, I can cope with these things. They are the things we have to do to move on. But at night, when I can't sleep, how do I cope with that?

Stomach Flu

The stomach flu has swept through our house in the last 48 hours, infecting three out of the four people in our family. I suppose today the last person could get it, but that would be my husband, and he never gets sick. O-kay, in the ten years we have been together, he has been sick, maybe, twice. A strong immune system is one benefit of growing up on a farm.

Anyway, the last time I was sick like this was five years ago. Before kids. And while my older daughter has thrown-up before, this was the first time for this nasty little virus. And Baby Sweet Potato, she's not even a year, so clearly this was another first.

As odd as it sounds, being sick turned out to be a great distraction. When you feel that sick, and are surrounded by people who are equally sick (only have no idea or desire to try to make it to a bowl or bucket), you have very little time to think about anything else. It wasn't until last night, that it occurred to me how weird it was that my mom hadn't checked in on me and the girls several times. Not that she would have driven the four hours to take care of us. But she would have called multiple times, and I could have called her when I was trying to figure out what to do about a puking infant. And she would have just felt generally sorry for me in the way that only a mom can.

So I had a good cry, but afterwords, I realized that this was just one of many things I am going to navigate by myself now. And I did a pretty good job, everyone seems to be on the mend, and the house is actually pretty clean (although, I might owe that piece to my husband). But, my mom had set an example over and over of picking herself up in less than perfect circumstances, of dealing with adversity and moving on.

Having the stomach flu might not seem like much adversity, but dealing with the death of both parents certainly is. So many people have told me they can't believe how strong I have been, that it is o-kay if I fall apart. There are days that it feels like a good option, but by her own example I know that is not the path my mom would take, and therefore it can't be an option for me. It may seem small, but after this weekend I know that I'll be able to hold it together, exactly the way she would.

Theology and Three-Year-Olds

This week our church is having its annual Vacation Bible School. It's the first year that Tee is old enough to attend, and in an effort to have summer be as normal as possible, I sent her. The three-year-old program seems simple enough: some stories, some games, a little arts and crafts, and some music. All centered around the theme (at least from what I can gather) that God is always with us. And He loves us.

The church's staff and volunteers have done an amazing job putting together an appealing and exciting curriculum to introduce these simple truths at an age-appropriate level. But due to recent events, my three-year-old is asking questions that theologians spend a life time discussing.

I consider myself pretty adept in this field. After all, this was my major in college. I was starting the grad school application process when I became pregnant with my first daughter. And I cherish the time I get to spend in prayer and Scripture study, both individually and with others. What I'm saying is I can discuss spiritual matters, even with those who don't share my faith. But my three year old is stumping me. How do you respond to an exchange like this?

Tee: Mommy, God loves us right?

Me: Yes.

Tee: Is God happy?

Me: Yes, God is happy.

Tee: Are there two gods?

Me: No, there is only one God.

Tee: No, there is a happy god, and a mean god who took Mammah away.

How do I explain to a three-year-old that God in His mercy and love took her Mammah home to heaven? I don't understand His purpose or His timing, but a life time of walking with the Lord has shown me that all things work according to His purposes. I have seen examples of that time and time again. And I know one day, probably after I get to heaven, I'll understand this too. But how can I explain this to my daughter? Especially, when she's pretty sure she doesn't want to go to heaven.

Milestones

Last night, when my husband came home from work, Sweet Potato got very excited, more excited than usual at the prospect of seeing her daddy. She was squirmin' and squealin' and couldn't get to him fast enough. And when she finally did, she stretched her little arms up and exclaimed, "Daddy!"

Yes, it was daddy. Not Dah. Or Da-Dah. Or duh-duh-duh-duh-duh. But the actual word, daddy. And obviously, to the correct person. G and I looked at eachother, and we had one of those momentary family celebrations.

Firsts are always something to be celebrated. And both my girls are in a series of firsts, especially Sweet Potato who is approaching her first birthday. Soon I imagine we'll be seeing her first steps. And Tee, this fall will be her first day of pre-school, and with that the first back-to-school shopping trip.

My mom was so good at celebrating all the little milestones in life. Which makes this time, bittersweet. I know she'd have so many ideas. We'd already discussed Sweet Potato's birthday cake, banana cupcakes decorated like monkeys. And mom had mentioned several times a shopping excursion for Tee's school clothes. Part of me wants to avoid these events because my mom's absence will be so obvious. But part of being a mommy and a grown-up means doing the things you don't always feel like doing. And I do want to make sure that my girls have memories, with or without Mammah, of a childhood filled with love. I just always thought my mom would be part of that childhood.

Who do I call?

Yesterday was a very quiet day for our house. The only place we went was to get the dog. And then she petty much just slept when she got here. The girls played with quiet toys inside the house. Tee didn't even ask to go outside, which would have been fine. Instead we read stories and watched shows. Oddly enough it was the shows that provided the defining moment of my day.

Since my only goal for yesterday was to rest, I didn't object (or even think about it) when Tee asked to watch a show. As I read aloud what TIVO had to offer the pre-school set that day, she originally went for the favorite, Go! Diego Go! But a few seconds into the theme song, she began to protest, requesting instead the usually ignored Max & Ruby. As I scrambled to back to the remote to adjust the programming (I was in no shape to deal with a melt down), Tee offered and explanation for her change of heart. "Diego," she explained, "is a loud show, but Max & Ruby is quiet."

Now, I know I'm her mother, but I was impressed with her three-year-old reasoning. While, the volume could be adjusted on either show, the former choice is faster paced, with upbeat music, and detailed animation. The latter is much simpler in all three categories. After the week we've had, Tee chose the option that would help her nerves, her brain, and her soul stay quiet. I know many adults who can't make such a wise choice. I wanted to call my mom to share with her the choices and reasoning of her granddaughter. But, if I could call my mom, then none of us would be in this precarious emotional state.

New Normal

I've been wanting to write about the actual funeral and wake for the last few days, but so far all attempts seem to fall short. I'll keep working on it, and hopefully, something worthy will emerge. The one thing I can say is I was blown away by the people who came to celebrate the life of my mom.

In the mean time, we have returned home for a bit. And I am so relieved to be here. I want life to return to normal. And, while I honestly would like to go back to the normal that existed on July 7. I know that I need to start establishing a new normal for myself and my girls.

The first part of that seems to be catching up on sleep. My baby slept in until 9:00 this morning, and went down for what turned out to be four hour nap at 11:00. The older one took a three hour nap (as did her mother). And all signs are ago for normal bedtimes tonight.

The next part is presenting more of a challenge. I know for the sanity of my children, my husband, and my self, I need to establish some type of routine. Some parts will be easy, like going back to the gym. I'm serious. My body is screaming for the exercise, and I have come to far to go back. Plus, I have a standing appointment with a good friend-makes it a little harder to skip.

But what about chores? Or finding time to work on the barrage of estate stuff that is already starting to come my way? Or making sure that the girls are getting enough stimulating activities? Or swim lessons? And how am I supposed to do this while going back and forth between two homes for the next several months?

I am the type of girl who loves schedules, and am at a loss. Any suggestions are truly welcome.

More thoughts from a grieving three-year-old

Tonight we attended a vigil for my mother held by the students, parents, and staff at the middle school where she worked. Many people got up and shared how much they loved my mother. And while I knew many of the people she worked with, I had no idea the degree to which they loved her.

The best words of the evening, however, came from my daughter. We had told her that we were going to Mammah's work (a place that she has been many times) to remember Mammah with some of Mammah's good friends. As we got out of the car, and she recognized that this middle school was indeed the place she had often visited Mammah, she exclaimed, "Is this heaven?" It may be the first and the last time that anyone has confused a middle school with heaven.

What does your heart say?

Recently, my three year old has begun using a new phrase, "What does your heart say?" I don't know where she came up with it, because it's not an expression that either my husband or I use. Not only does she use it, but she seems to know exactly the right context in which to use it as well. For example, one day last week (before the accident) she was trying to negotiate her way out of taking a nap. When the answer to each of her proposals, was "no, it is time to nap now." She took my hand, looked deep in my eyes, and said, "but what does your heart say?"



One of the biggest challenges of the week has been trying to figure out what and how much my daughter understands. Clearly, she knows something isn't right. We have been at Mammah's house for almost a week, and Mammah hasn't shown up even once. All the grown-ups are crying. And naps, bedtimes, mealtimes, pull-ups or panties, videos-well, they've all become matters of what the heart says.



About once a day the subject of Mammah has come up. We aren't trying to push it, or avoid it, just let her take the lead. And we try to confirm what is true. So far, Tee has established, that Mammah moved to heaven. She lives in a Castle with Jesus and Grandpa. She is an angel. And we can't see her anymore. Tee, has also made comments that she doesn't want Mammah to be an angel. And that her Mammah can't help her anymore. Usually, this reduces the grown-up to a pile of tears, meanwhile Tee has noticed a cup of M&M's or licorice and is ready to move on to figuring out how to get candy. So the moments of discussion are fleeting.



Last night, when she still hadn't fallen asleep at 10:00, I lay down with her. After a lot of cuddling, and I love you's. Tee asked me, "What does your heart say?" I answered, "That I am blessed to have such wonderful children." So then I asked Tee, the same question, and she gave me the exact same answer.
She then asked the question again, "Mommy, what does your heart say?" So since it seemed we might be playing a game of copy cat, I went with, "My heart says Jesus loves me. What does your heart say?" And Tee answered, "My heart says that Mammah loves me." Yes, yes she does.

What Really Makes Me Mad

My mom's mom died when I was six years old. I am the oldest grandchild on that side of the family, and probably the only one with any real memories of her. My sister was four at the time, so she may have a few, but my oldest cousins were three, my brother was five months old, and several (cousins) were not even born. My oldest daughter is three.



In the middle of all this chaos, this is the first and most consistant fact that makes me angry. My children have been robbed of the relationship with their grandmother. And up until she was killed it was pretty, darn amazing.



When I was a kid, I always envied how other kids got to spend the night at grandma's or how their grandparents could show up for the afternoon program in elementary school. Between one grandma being dead and the other one living half way across the country, that wasn't really an option for me. Both my mom and I felt very strongly that with her grandkids, it was going to be different.



Although she lived four hours away, my daughters have never gone more than three weeks without seeing Mammah. The older one, we'll call her Tee-because that's what she calls herself, talked to Mammah daily by phone. She was the first person we called when Tee (finally) pooped in the potty-even before we called Daddy. Often by listening to those conversations I would learn things that Tee hadn't even bothered to tell me. And I was fine with that, loved it even. I was so excited that my daughters were going to have the quintessential grandma/ granddaughter relationhip.



Mammah was constantly making plans of things she wanted to do with her grandkids, mostly Tee, but eventually with Sweet Potato (what she called my younger daughter) and Bug (my sister's baby). She had plans for art projects, and day trips, and overnight trips. She thought nothing of driving the four hours so she could watch Tee's gymnastics show. Little treats and books and puzzles frequently arrived in the mail. The week before she died, she'd driven to our house to get Tee and took her home for a whole week. I don't think I was missed at all. They ended the week by taking the train back to our house. As excited as Tee was, Mammah was so thrilled at what was supposed to become their tradition. And this is what makes me so mad!



In just three short years, my mom and my daughter had developed such a fiercely strong, loving relationship. They had so many adventures and traditions and inside jokes. And she won't remember any of it!

It's Not Fair

Two days ago, at the age of thirty-one, I became an orphan. I suppose that is better than being orphaned at thirteen or three-after all, I'm an adult: I have my degree, I pay taxes, and a mortgage, heck, I even have two kids of my own. But somehow, that doesn't make me any less confused. Or lost. In fact, in spite of having been a fully functioning adult for several years, I've had this sobering realization that now I am completely grown-up. I'm not anyones kid anymore. And that's just not fair.

I spent most of the first hour, after I found out, walking in circles around my house, muttering those words. Two years ago, I lost my dad to cancer. We knew it was coming, we were prepared, and we were able to be with him, even as he took his last breath. As awful as it was, I still count that as one of the most beautiful and profound experiences of my life.

As my dad was in his last few months of life, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Fourteen months after the death of my dad, my husband's mother passed away. Once again, we knew it was coming, we were prepared, and we were able to be with her as she took her last breaths. Although it was different than my father's death, it was still such a peaceful experience.

Her death, also brought with it a sense of relief. (If you have never been around a terminally ill person, that may sound so callous, but dying take all so much energy, not just for the person doing it, but for everyone around.) After two full years consumed with death, we could finally move on. I firmly believed that we had been through so much, that we were safe for at least a few years. God couldn't possibly bring more tragedy to our family. So, imagine how shocked I was to receive a phone call from my sister, just thirteen months later, to hear that my mom had been killed in a car accident. How could this possibly be happening again?

It's not fair! The phrase continues to echo in my head. But even as it echoes, so does my mom's standard reply, "You're right life is not fair, and YOU don't want it to be." I used to hate it when she'd say that, but she was so right. In fact, I heard myself saying it to my three-year-old just last week. I don't want life to be fair (and neither does anyone else, if they're honest). And until this happened, I don't think I've whined about the innate unfairness of life since I was in elementary school. I'm still very confused, I'm very sad, and I'm (finally) starting to get a little angry. But I have been blessed. I am so thankful for the years God gave me with such wise, compassionate amazing parents. And to some people, that's not fair, but even if I could, I wouldn't trade.