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.