Gratitude #15: Having a Social Network

Glugh. That sounds so... Facebooky. But that's not what I mean by social network. I mean an actual, honest-to-God real-life group of friends and relatives. Sometimes the day-to-day of family life can feel a little... Isolating. There are lots of things that we can't spontaneously do because we have to worry about weather or not naps have been had, if baths will need to be given, if there is space (and time) to just run around when some chubby little legs get restless. It is, I imagine, what owning an electric car would be like. You can do things, but there will be some planning, insistence that the event is within a reasonable radius of your home, and confirmation that you can get what you need at your destination, should you run out of packed supplies.

Did I just compare managing children to owning a Leaf? Guess so.

ANYWAY, the whole point of this, is that we received four different invitations in the past couple of weeks. ALL FOR THE SAME DAY. Baby shower, wedding, and two graduation parties. The graduates will get short-changed because we are already obligated to go to the baby shower (my college roommate) and the wedding (Super Ninja's in the wedding party). But it's nice to feel wanted. (OK, fine, I'm willing to admit that my 18-year-old second cousins are just in it for the graduation gift, but still....)

(from Saturday)

Gratitude #14: The Return of Super Ninja

That is not a reference to some kind of J.R.R. Tolkien-meets-Mr. Miyagi mash-up flick. Once upon a time my husband asked that I refer to him as Super Ninja on this blog. Why? I have no idea. He doesn't know karate, though he is super.

Anyway, he was out of town for work for most of this week*. He left Monday morning, and got back at nearly midnight last night. Know what that means? I solo-parented for three mornings and four nights. Three kids. A six-year-old, a four-year-old, and an one-year-old who is absolutely determined to brain himself.

I am tired. And humbled. I must give all single parents way, way more slack. Not that I"m the obnoxious woman who shakes her head and makes rude commments about how that kid should not be making that much noise. Not a bit. Actually, when I travel alone and there's an open seating situation on an airplane, I deliberately sit near a baby because squalls and screeches won't actually irritate me. Why? Because it's not MY kid.

Yeah, so, it is so incredibly exhausting to look after three children and run a house on your own. And remember to take out the trash. And lock the doors. And do the laundry so that the only two pairs of shorts your six-year-old thinks are comfortable are clean. And feed all three of them at reasonable times. And take them to do things so that they go to bed at a reasonable hour. And get them to places on time. And make sure they do their homework, and that they spelled everything properly. And shower. And make sure they bathe, brush their teeth, and don't wear the same underwear every day.

I have loved Super Ninja pretty much from the minute we met. Never been any doubt about that. So while he was away, I obviously missed him, our conversation, laughing with him. But now I know how much I need him. Not in that namby-pamby "you complete me" nonsense kind of way. But in a "I couldn't do this without you" kind of way. I depend on him. And I am OK with that. For a long time, I've felt like admitting dependence was akin to admitting a flaw. Or that if I acknowledged I need help, the perhaps I was not handling my bidness properly. Maybe I'm maturing, but I don't have ANY kind of problem with that now.

So, I am grateful for a devoted (and HELPFUL) husband and father to my kids.

*My Facebook friends may be all, "Wha? Why didn't you post that as a status?" Here's the deal: even though I run a pretty tight security ship on my FB account, I think it's a good idea not to share with the world that a 5'2" woman and her three small children are home alone. YES, we have an alarm system, and YES, I live in a safe neighborhood. But I don't get it when people are all, "Wheee! I'm going to be home alone this weekend!" Or, "Can't wait 'til me and the fam head to the beach for a solid week!" I know, I have a suspicious mind.

Gratitude #13: Calm Weather

Maryland is (generally) free of all of the End-of-Times nature shenanigans that get lobbed at other regions of the nation. There's the occasional blizzard that will dump multiple feet of snow, but I will take that over tornadoes and hurricanes and wild fires ANY DAY OF THE WEEK. One involves curling up with some hot chocolate and stoking a fire. The other involves curling up in a basement over your children to try and keep the wind from pulling them from your grip.

Yeah, so, very grateful that things are merely hazy, hot, and humid in my neck of the woods. And those suffering through the aftermath of the Midwestern catastrophes, my thoughts are with you.

Gratitude #12: Proactive Kids

MY SIX-YEAR-OLD DID HIS HOMEWORK BEFORE ANYONE ASKED HIM TO. I don't think I need to explain why that would make me grateful.

Gratitude #11: Awesome Playgrounds

Ten years ago, playgrounds would have hovered somewhere around 99 out of my top 100 favorite things. And most of that would have been because of fond memories of illicit and/or trespassy situations during my teenage years. But now? Holy jeez, a playground with shade and stations designed for multiple age groups is a godsend. And I have access to several of those, visits to which are rotated throughout the week.

Now, if I could just keep the little guy from eating sand...

(from Tuesday)

Gratitude Interlude: Fellas, Let Me Explain Something about Offering Solutions to your Girlfriend/Wife/Mother/Sister/Other Woman in Your Life

This topic has come up in many different areas of my life lately, and is causing consternation among my man friends. I am omnibenevolent, so lemme explain a really basic fact about women and problem-solving.

If you want to get a pen and a notepad, I'll wait.

Ready? Great. Here we go.

If a woman in your life complains about something, vents, or otherwise orates about a difficulty, she is not actually asking you for help in solving it. I know, I know, seems crazy right? WHY would she spend all of this time -- all of YOUR time -- talking about this thing if she could figure it out on her own? Wouldn't she just sit quietly and think it through, perhaps will fixing a carburetor?

Nope.

That's how (many) men operate. You ponder. You brood. You excogitate. And in only the direst of circumstances will you actually approach a buddy and lay it all out there.

But women?

Most women (not ALL, so Dear (Female) Reader, don't get huffy) need to unravel their problems out loud to decide on the best course of action. So if she's talking to you about it, she is actually in the process of problem-solving. When you start to offer solutions, it is perceived as follows:

1) You don't think she's capable of finding the solution;
2) You think she's an idiot, because OBVIOUSLY she's already thought of the first three things you said;
3) You are trying to hurry her up so you can get back to whatever dumb thing you want to do, like fix that carburator.

This may seem nutty. You may say, "Well, jeez, THAT's not what I meant at all! Why would she think that way? I'm just trying to be helpful."

So, lemme help you out: when a woman wants you to provide a solution to a problem, SHE WILL TELL YOU. She will turn to you and say, "Darling dear, I just don't know what I should do here. What do you think?"

If you do not get that very clear verbal direction, STEER CLEAR OF PROVIDING SOLUTIONS. Offer clucks of support, a tsk, a shake of the head while she describes her latest burden. But do not ask her if she has done X, Y, or Z, or when exactly she thinks she will resolve the issue at hand.

Hard to understand? Well, I won't argue that. Chacun à son goût. But I'm not asking for your comprehension. I'm just sayin' that if you don't want a conversation about your ladyfriend's problem to devolve into an argument about how you don't clean the bathroom properly*, then just take my advice. The first few times you try it, you may have to ask her, "Honey, do you want my help with this? Or do you want me just to listen?"

That kind of ham-handedeness is actually okay (at first). She may still be annoyed that you don't know already, but it helps establish the pattern.

Good luck!

*Actually happened to a friend of mine. Who is now separated from his wife. SEE? Do you see how this goes?

Gratitude #10: Flexible Work Environment

My office is incredibly family-friendly, something that I don't think gets enough praise. My schedule had to shift a little bit this week, and nobody has said boo about it. That's more the norm than not when you have kids. Someone gets sick, someone has a field trip, someone needs a dance leotard and you have to run out in the middle of the day to get one... I could go on, but that's not very interesting, now is it? Anyway, I appreciate not being made to feel like an outrageous burden because I have to work two hours of my day at home this week.

Gratitude #9: Sunday Dinners with Family

Sunday evening is reserved for hosting (or being hosted by) family. For those of you who do not live near to your dear ones, this arrangement may either horrify you or make you wistful. Me? I'm a fan. Much of my fandom is based on my family's attitudes toward these get-togethers. See, we don't do any fancy-schmancy candlelit, formally attired events. Nah, it's all shorts and flip-flops and french fries and beer. How could that be anything but a good time?

Mostly, for me, it's about making memories. Like how my toddler danced vigorously to my Dad's big band music. Definitely something I'll remember long past his babyhood.

Gratittude #8: Sleeping In

My husband and I have a sleep-in arrangement on the weekend. Saturday's my day to sleep in, Sunday is his. Having his free and full permission to stay abed 'til my internal clock wakes me, and not, say, a squalling child or a screechy alarm is one of the kindest acts bestowed upon me. And it recurs weekly. I often don't stay tucked under my covers past 9 a.m., but the thing about it being my CHOICE to get up rather than what life demands of me is immeasurably satisfying.

(Delayed from Saturday)

Gratitude #7: Blow-outs

Got my hair trimmed up today (I was starting to look a bit like Cousin It). I don't think the stylist finished asking me if I wanted a blowout before I said, "Yes, please!" I accept this offer EVERY TIME. Why, you ask? Why is it such a treat? Because I can't do it myself. Seriously, at one point, there were FOUR brushes in my hair. Four. And the stylist only has two hands, one of which is holding the hair dryer. I don't know if she consumed some kind of Peter Parker cocktail to tackle the feat that is my hair, but I came out of there looking shiny and bouncy.

Gratitude #6: New (Work) Laptop

I love it when the office upgrades electronics because I get to bask in the techie glow of a new gadget without having to shell out a thousand smackers.

Gratitude #5: Potluck-ish Dinners

I have a friend whom has been my best for twenty-five years. Holy moly, that's shocking. Most of the time I feel like I have the maturity level of a fifteen-year-old, so it's nutty that I have a decades-long relationship outside of family bonds.

Anyway, she comes over for dinner once a week. Often, we will shoot each other e-mails ahead of time, listing out whatever ingredients we have that are right on the edge of expiration, and make a dinner plan based on that. Last night's accomplishment? Chana masala and chicken tandoori. That's right. We went all ethnic AND it was delicious.

Best part? She cooked it for me. In my own house, 'cause she got there first. How awesome is that?

Gratitude #4: One-Cup Coffee Makers

For someone who loves caffeine-induced spikes of energy AND does not have a spouse who drinks coffee, one-cup coffee makers are the BEST. A fresh, awesome cup of coffee, and no mess. Okay, sure, it's easier for me to tally up the number of cups of coffee I've had at the end of a day, and be slightly frightened by that number. But the convenience supersedes all else.

Gratitude #3: Commuting

I am grateful for visiting family members who are willing to wait with my six-year-old at the bus stop so that I can get a twenty-minute jump on my morning commute, which translates to a twenty-minute jump on my punch-out time.

Gratitude #2: Babies

My sixteen-month-old reliably -- and easily -- naps. Sure, he might talk to himself for about ten minutes, but he eventually climbs into the arms of Morpheus* without histrionics. Who wouldn't be grateful for that?

*Not The Matrix character depicted by Laurence Fishburne, you goon. The god of dreams from Greek mythology. I'd be thoroughly creeped out if my toddler scurried into the lap of a futuristic man in a leather duster. And definitely not grateful for it. I mean, how would I explain that to the in-laws?

Two Months of Gratitude

I've gone four months between posts. FOUR MONTHS. Perhaps it is my fallow period? Anyway, in the wake of all the grief and worry that's overwhelmed me this past year, I'm going to try to go the other way and express gratitude. Hopefully in a way that doesn't make you gag.

Here's why: lately, loads of my pals on social networks have, almost exclusively, been venting about all things wrong with their lives, in ways big and small. 'That exam SUCKED,' or 'My kids are driving me up a wall!,' or, 'Hey, telemarketer, you're not scamming ME.' I'm not saying that these things shouldn't be expressed, because if I didn't have chance to decompress, I would probably explode. Because, seriously, that guy who cut me off on 695? TOTALLY in the wrong.

But the truth is, sustained venting actually makes you feel worse. Sure, you feel better if you turn to your spouse and say, "Christ alive, if my co-worker sends ONE more e-mail of cute and fuzzy animal pictures, I am going to lose it at the office." It's a mini-problem, you get some sympathy, and you move on.

It's the the stuff you complain about ad nauseum that makes you feel worse. Here's why: ultimately, you understand you're devoting a ton of talky time to a problem because you can't actually DO anything about the problem. Sadness follows because powerlessness sucks a nut.

SO! I have noticed the complainy trend in my own conversation topics of late, and to combat that, I have resolved to post my gratitude each day 'til my 36th birthday. This, I think, will help balance some of the wah-wah that's out there in the universe. I mean, I FEEL the gratitude, so why not share that instead of the annoying stuff?

Here's the framework: these are not going to be big picture things, like "I am grateful that I can breathe clean air," "I am grateful that I am employed," or "I am grateful that my husband loves me and is devoted to our children." All true, but doesn't that just make you want to vomit? The tide of bitterness that I'd like to combat is more about the little picture stuff. People should still seek comfort from others about the big stuff. It is 100% okay in my book for someone to express sadness that she has to put her deceased parent's estate up for auction, because. God damn, that person deserves to reap some sympathy.

Here we go:

#1: Fresh-baked rolls from the grocery store + thin sliced roast beef + horseradish sauce, AND fresh Utz potato chips. This is heaven on a lunch plate. It is astounding how a good sandwich can brighten my day.

There, see? Gratitude. And I will be serving up more tomorrow. (I was going to write, 'Unless I get hit by a car.' But then I realize that would put a damper on the gratitude. Did I tell you it is cripplingly difficult for me to express a true emotion without making a joke out of it? Yeah, I'm working on that.)

A Thousand Little Quiet Devastations

NOTE: I'm continuing to release these old posts, the ones that I wrote right after my mother's death. I'd thought about refining them, editing them, but I won't. It'd be false. I'd be gilding them with a perspective gained in these last three months, and that wouldn't be true to the feeling behind them. Don't misunderstand: the feelings that motivated the writing are still here, a little reduced by time, like a sauce that's been simmering. But those feelings still overflow this inadequate vessel unexpectedly and often. Anyway I leave the old posts incomplete, because that's how I feel these days: incomplete.

Life is a series of befores and afters. Watershed moments, some call them. In the before, you reside in ignorance or anticipation, and in the afters, oh those afters.... The afters run the gamut between joyous and devastating, and right now, my feet are firmly planted in devastated terrain.

My mother passed away on New Year's Eve, 2010, the before-iest day of the year. The after will last the rest of my life. And in this after, I'm finding that the little devastations pierce my heart most thoroughly. Maybe it's because the big ones are too much right now, and I can wrap my head around the little ones more easily. Who knows? And maybe it's because the little ones seem like they will be unending, some daily, innocent reminder of my loss. I'm compelled to document them, though, because I don't want to forget, these things that blindside me with sadness.

Chancing on a photo of a smiling her that rests on my digital camera from my daughter's birthday in November...

Finding her voter registration card from 30 years ago in her wallet, a token of our former residence, the home that served as a backdrop to all of our childhoods...

Putting together the digital slide show of her life for the funeral services, her life flashing before my eyes. And in those photos, seeing unending delight in her eyes... How had I not seen that before? What a happy woman she was? What a contented woman she was? And beautiful. How did I not realize how beautiful she was?

Realizing that my last real conversation with her, when I knew that she knew she wasn't confusing me with someone else, was about gifts she wanted to get my children for Christmas.

Watching my older sister give her permission to die, telling her that we'd be okay, and that we'd miss her, but that she didn't need to put herself through this anymore.

Shopping in the infant aisle at the pharmacy, desperate to find any tools that might help us feed her better, and settling on baby spoons and eyedroppers.

Spoon feeding her water when she could no longer sip from straws. Then moving to sponging water into her mouth when she could no longer sip from a spoon.

Hearing my father tell the hospice chaplain that she'd already received Extreme Unction.

Holding her hand when she died.

Realizing that none of the dresses from the weddings of her children would really fit properly because she'd lost so much weight in the past couple of weeks.

Seeing the blanket that I'd purchased for her for Christmas, that covered her all during her stay in hospice, draped over her recliner at my parents' home.

Going through her jewelry and not knowing if the detritus mingled among the gold -- a Lite Brite peg, a barrette, a Lego -- were casual reminders of our childhoods, or evidence that she never cleaned out that jewelry box.

My daughter, hugging the photo album of her Baptism to her chest as she slept, the night before my mother died. There were several pictures of the two of them together in that little album.

Seeing that my father has started using Mom's side of the bed as a way station for paperwork, which I interpret as his needing to fill that space with something, anything.

My daughter, hearing me sniffle, say that I shouldn't be sad because Grandmom wasn't in pain anymore and is in Heaven, something I certainly hadn't said to her (but her daycare provider had, showing me that my daughter required some comfort that I hadn't provided).

My brother's voice quavering as he read Ecclesiastes 3:2 during her funeral service.

Seeing the mausoleum space, the "filing cabinet," as Mom called it, swallow up her casket as the three burly graveyard workers pushed it to the back.

Finding the dress that Mom had requested she be buried in, after the fact, tucked away in a drawer far away from the hanging rack, where she'd told me it rested back in the Fall.

There's more. There will always be more. I pan my day-to-day life for the sad elements, surprising myself when I don't uncover them, annoyed with myself that I can't just eat Butterscotch Krimpets without analyzing if they make me upset because Mom liked them too.

This year, her absence will render all sorts of firsts and milestones bittersweet. I'm okay, all things considered. It all happened in a year. ONE YEAR. Her first brush with a health problem, one that required being seen by a doctor, was last April. She had a chest cold, was exhausted beyond anything else she experienced, and was diagnosed with pneumonia. She couldn't go to my nephew's first birthday party the first weekend in May because of it, but was recovered enough by mid-month to go to my son's Baptism. Then July, the diagnosis came, the ensuing flurry of treatments and tests and meetings, the supposed all-clear in November, and then her rapid decline and death in December.

I'm still reeling. I think I'm okay, then something stupid will punch me in the gut, like last night when I made chicken parmigiana, one of the meals in her rotation of Sunday dinner menus.

I think I'm where I'm supposed to be. My mother died. It's awful. I'm allowed to be sad, and I don't paint on a smile to fake it 'til I make it or anything like that. But the sadness hasn't trumped all else. It's not who I am. Who I am is my mother's daughter, with an outrageous work ethic, and a ferocious need to make sure things are stable for the family. Doing those things makes me feel better. I feel the grief when it surfaces, I push off feeling it 'til it's more convenient. I function. I find joy in life,I laugh with my kids, I delight in my husband and family, I cook dinner, help with homework, fold laundry, scrub bathrooms, take walks, go on dates, laugh at movies, take bubble baths, lose myself in a good novel, put photo albums together, help my sister look for houses when she moves back, go to work. I don't ask what the point of everything is, I haven't suddenly gone all churchy or gotten angry with higher powers.

But this... This has been awful. There's no way around that. One of my friends, someone who's been through this, which is really the only way I think you can understand it, wrote me the best note. She said, "Your mother deserved more time. You deserved more time with her."

So very, very true.

Pandora's Box

So, here's the thing: my mother passed away on December 31, 2010 after an awful, terrible pummeling from brain cancer, spinal cancer, and small cell lung cancer. Since then I have been stopped up like a three-year-old who eats nothing but steak. I did write a few posts in the couple of weeks after her passing, which I'll share here when I feel OK about it. These are not shiny samples sunshine and optimism. Sorry. Here's one of 'em.

When I was eight years old, I became enamored of my older sister's English text book. She was a sophomore in high school, and they were studying Greek myths. (Tangent: Hellz yeah, I was reading high school literature when I was in third grade.)

Back then, I thought it was kinda friendly of the gods to bundle Hope in with the demons, disease, and pestilence showered upon humankind when Pandora opened that box. A little ray of sunshine mixed in with the thundersnow. It was nice to think that no matter what happened, no matter how bad things got, people could always find some comfort in their hope for something better to come along.

Now?

Now I realize that Hope is kind of a tricky little bitch. Because while you are hopeful, you can indulge in denial. Once you settle up with reality, though, you can raze the earth, rebuild, move forward.

Eulogy

I wish I were a poet, because the words that I have to memorialize my mother seem lumpy, awkward, and ham-handed. Insufficient, really.

My lack of articulation is ironic, because during Mom’s illness, I learned to swim in a new vocabulary. Most of those words were unappealing, though a few of them were hopeful. All of the words, good and bad, were sprinkled throughout the updates that went out to most of you, the collection of family and friends who worried for her. So it only seemed right to offer this final missive, or “Mom Update,” to all of you.

We’ve always known Mom to have a lot of spirit, a mischievous glint in her eye, and to season her stories with more than a few embellishments. You know, just to make it more interesting. Oh, and she was loud. Let’s not forget loud. I think anyone who was able to call all of her children home at night without the aid of cell phones or bullhorns can be called loud.

All of that is to say that she was full of vitality. Or as she might have said, “Vim and vigor.” The snapshots that decorate every inch of every wall in my parents’ home are infused with evidence of this. And if pictures are worth a thousand words, then Dad has provided at least a million words about Mom. Nearly every one of those photos show her holding at least one child, laughing, making food, hugging someone, comforting someone, or picking crabs. In short, she enjoyed life.

Contrasting that woman – the one who could pull together a dinner for twenty-five in an hour without having to go shopping or asking for help – with the woman suffering the effects of cancer and the related treatments… Well, it’s night and day.

I think that we can all agree that watching Mom’s decline over the past six months has been heartbreaking. But Mom never stopped being, well, Mom. During her initial hospitalization in July, Mom made it clear that she didn’t want to be in the hospital. She didn’t want to be in a bed, being fussed over, or considered sick. She tried to make a break for it nearly every day. I think there may have been bribes.

While she was still in the hospital, though, she was worried about the rest of us. For example, even though her brain was swollen and peppered with tumors, she wanted to make sure we were eating. So she gave me a detailed order for what to pick up for everyone. Another time, she handed over her grandmother’s ring to Dad to have the stones set for her two most recent grandbabies. She’d realized she hadn’t included them yet and didn’t want them to be left out.

This continued to be true after she returned home and regained her clearheadedness. The last real conversation I had with Mom was at the tail end of a Sunday visit. It was December 12th, just before she went to the hospital this last time. My husband had packed up the car and the kids, and I was on my way out the door. Mom stopped me and said, “I need to know what to get all the kids for Christmas.” We spoke about it briefly, and I offered to do the shopping for her. We now know that the cancer had bloomed again, and despite that, she was focused on her grand kids.

This past half-year shouldn’t eclipse Mom’s previous sixty-seven years. She wouldn’t want us to remember her with a walker, or breathing heavily, or without hair. She’d prefer us to think of her singing the ‘Foot Foot Song’ or playing catch in the backyard. But I share the stories from her illness with you because, ultimately, I think who we are when the chips are down is probably who we are at our core. And with Mom, despite the pain, the bone-crushing fatigue, and the body not working the way she wanted it to, she stayed true to the caring, gracious, devoted, funny woman that she was.

I am grateful for the woman that she was, and am honored and privileged to have been her daughter. My brothers and sisters and I have been commended on how dutiful we’ve been during all of this. But none of what we’ve done was performed out of a sense of duty. It was out of love for both of our parents. Returning the love and the help that they have given us. Back in May of this year, before all of this began, I’d asked Mom to make a ham for my youngest son’s Baptism. Who does that? A side dish or a dessert, sure, but who asks someone to bring the main course? But Mom agreed without skipping a beat. I thanked her, perhaps too effusively. She laid her hand on my arm and said, with a smile, “It’s my pleasure.”

So, I wanted to say in return, it was our pleasure, Mom. Our pleasure.

Beaver Falls Can Suck It

Most of the time I love "It's a Wonderful Life." I do. It's an uplifting tale of the human spirit, n'est-ce pas? Humankind can always do with a little uplift. Well, unless you're Falcon Heene. However, in my darker, more skeptical moments, I question the way it goes about delivering its core message.

Frankly, I want the residents of Beaver Falls to say to George Bailey, "You know what, buddy? We all ask so much of you. You've sacrificed so much for us -- your hearing in one ear, the opportunity to see the world, follow your bliss, do big things. You deserve a little break. We'll watch the kids and manage the Building & Loan while you and your wife skedaddle to Europe to do a little site-seeing, eat a good meal or two. Oh, and we absolutely won't lose $8,000 when we are distracted for 42 seconds. Have a good time."

But NO. Instead, they're all, "Hey, George, I need you to rescue me. AGAIN. 'Cause man, I would just poke my own eyes out by accident if you weren't on the scene. Oh, by the way? There's a line out the door of other people who need your help too. It'll cost you some personal comfort, time, money, and sanity. The consolation, though, is that you're engendering all sorts of good will that won't actually manifest in anyone helping YOU until you try to commit suicide. So, are we cool with that plan?"

Sheesh. What kind of town does he live in, anyway?

Tangent: something I I find troubling about the movie in my dark AND light moments: in the alternate universe, poor, poor Mary is left to a gruesome fate without her soul mate: she is a spinster librarian. WHO WEARS GLASSES. The HORROR!