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.