Hi Thirsty!

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

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

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

Grandma Lists

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Easter

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

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

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

Happy Anniversary

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

Pahlee tan I doh falimming?

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

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

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

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

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

Standing on my own

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Music

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.