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.