Tonight I started writing

I've thought about writing a lot, and here's the funny thing: Thinking about writing doesn't make you a writer.

Profound, right?

Like most other things I do and enjoy, I don't consider myself an especially gifted writer. I don't dream up stories of suspense or fantasy and I can't imagine why anyone would want to read my thoughts or opinions or recollections. I share those here mostly for the benefit of my daughter, because I don't want to leave her with all the unanswered questions that my mother left me.

I spend a lot of time thinking about Mom. In May she will be gone for five years. It seems unimaginable. Even though those days feel like they have only just passed, the truth is that life has been impossibly full for my bother, sister and me. Mine alone has experienced Sara's birth, Dad's illness and death, a new job, hard lessons in marriage, and a soul-crushing home renovation that I swear I might turn into a Wagnerian opera one day. (I think I'll start wearing the Brünnhilde horns around the house for a little inspiration.)

Time was supposed to be the thing that helped me make peace with Mom's death. But here I sit, four and a half years later, reliving the night that we said goodbye to her while tucking my daughter into bed. It's just as real now as it was that evening -- and let me tell you, I wasn't all that wild about it the first time around. Death, my friends, is for the birds.

So I'm going back to an old technique that someone suggested to me several years ago, one I've tried before with a fair degree of success: I'm writing it out. I'm going to take it out of my heart and put it to the page, where it can stay forever safe but not rise up to choke me when I least expect it. Death and dying may have a grip on me, but to be honest in many ways Mom's final days were more than most people could hope for. She was surrounded by so many people that she loved and died holding the hands of her children. We were all so lucky, really.

But lucky is not how I feel when I am in the throes of remembering it all. "Feeling lucky" is actually probably way too much to ask for. Maybe I can aim for "grateful," or "at peace" or even "OK." I will happily take any one of them.

Through this process I hope not only to get the sharpness of grief out of my system but also to gather together my memories of her so I never forget that Mom was more than just her death. I don't want to forget who she really was because I want Sara to know her namesake. She has big shoes to fill, my little girl -- and I don't just mean Mom's size 10s. Our mother, though she never would have recognized it, has a story to tell and I think it's a good one. And so, I'm going to try and tell it.

Tonight I stopped thinking and started writing. For me and for Sara, and for the story Mom had to tell. I hope I can do it justice. And who knows? Maybe this will make a writer out of me yet.

Christmas flowers, lilacs, and marigolds

Rob took Sara out to Shades State Park today, just because it was Thursday and he could. They love their T-days together and the adventures that ensue.

As they were driving home they passed a cemetery. Sara said "That's where we take flowers to Grandma," remembering our occasional trips to Mom and Dad's condos over the years, clearing away the old blooms and leaving something new.

Rob corrected her, saying that yes, we take flowers to Grandma -- but not there. Some other little girls had taken flowers to their grandmothers at this cemetery. Sara thought about it for a second, then announced that she wanted to take Christmas flowers to Grandma this year.

And then, "I miss Grandma."

He called me at work, right after this conversation, to tell me what she had said. And of course I cried. (Of course I did.) Not so much because I miss Mom -- though I do, every day -- but because Sara never got a chance to know her. But even so, she loves her. She misses her. And I believe she misses Mom every bit as much as I do, as much as her tender little free-and-a-half year old heart will allow. I can't wait to pick out those Christmas flowers with her and remember Mom together, telling her how Christmas was Mom's favorite time of year, and how flowers were one of her most favorite things. Somehow in the remembering, there is a little less missing.

Sara went on to talk about all the things she wants in her garden next year, sounding very much like her namesake. "I am going to plant all the flowers I love like lilacs and marigolds, and Mama will plant veg-uh-tuh-bles, and Papa will plant fruits."

Mom would just love this girl. Love her. They would be peas and carrots, those two. I'm just so sorry they had to miss it.

Long time, no blog

I've been derelict in my blogging duties. It's true.

Why is that? Well, let's see...

Sara: She's busy. Like, crazy busy.

Halloween: Never more fun than this year. NEVER.

Work: It's been a bitch lately. Ugh.

New obsession: I might be a wee bit dreamy over my photo shoot last weekend. Too fun.

Not the flu: I don't know what it was, but Sara was down for the better part of a week.

Bejeweled Blitz: OMG. It's like Facebook crack.

The other crack: Photoshop. Dovetails nicely with my new obsession.

Falltime: My favorite season never fails to disappoint.

Not a very long list, now that I look at it. Ah, well. Perhaps a few photos to make it up?

Romans 8:26

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness.

We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself

intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.

Tonight,

rather than dwell on all the things I want (but don't need),

or recount all the things that I have (but don't deserve),

I am setting aside my mind's idle chatter

and praying for a family that has shouldered more grief than I can imagine.

I don't have adequate words for them. Thankfully, I don't have to.

Cancer sucks, and that's why you should help

One of the upsides (and believe me, I look for them) of my job is that I get notifications about all sorts of interesting medical research. Every now and then one really catches my eye -- and this is one of them.

The American Cancer Society is doing their third Cancer Prevention Study (CPS) and wants you to participate. If you're between the ages of 30 - 65 and have no personal history of cancer go over and check this list for the 2009 locations, then call your local office to make an appointment or see if you qualify to enroll (I'm looking at you, Indiana!).

If you don't meet the requirements you're not off the hook, because it's your job to let someone who does qualify know about this opportunity to help. Right now over 70,000 people are enrolled in the project but they're hoping to eventually have 500,000 thousand people from across the country participate. Previous CPS studies have demonstrated the link between cancer and smoking, obsity, nutrition, and lifestyle. This time around the ACS hopes to learn even more about the factors that may lead to - or prevent - cancer.

You can go to their website here to find more information about this project, or go here to get the number of your local ACS office.

This matters, people. You all know someone whose life has been rocked by this disease, so make the call.

I will... how about you?

It's all about the fabric, friends!

How about a little giveaway?

OK! Head on over to Lila Tueller's site for a chance to get your hands on some very cute fabric she's got coming out for next spring. It's lovely!

Bottle it up

There are lots of things about being Sara at the age of three that I'd like to bottle up and save for another day because I know they would come in handy:

• Her boundless energy. (BOUNDLESS.)
• Her uncluttered honesty.
• Her insatiable thirst to know everything. (EVERYTHING.)
• Her frequently issued hugs and kisses.
• Her drive for fun and adventure.
• Her soft, smooth, clear, creamy skin. (I SO WISH.)
• Her innocence.
• Her optimism.
• Her propensity to make up words that are just right.
• Her abs of steel. (OR MAYBE TITANIUM.)
• Her infectious sense of humor.
• Her sweet heart.
• Her simple problems.
• Her ability to forgive.
• Her fearlessness. (SOMETIMES OFTEN TIMES TOO FEARLESS.)
• Her honest, undeserved, pure, unfiltered, endless love for her family and friends. (AND KITTIES AND NEIGHBORHOOD DOGS.)

I'd also like to bottle up her fashion sense. Because the girl likes what she likes, and she isn't afraid to work it.

I guess we can consider that bottled.

Totally wish...

...I could go to this.

TOTALLY.

It's true

The squeaky wheel DOES get the grease.

Maybe I need to squeak more often.

cjane readjane lovejane (who's really courtney)

Here is a blogger I thoroughly enjoy. She puts words to work in a way I appreciate: Funny or melancholy or smug or humbled, each one is precise, heavy with meaning.

Even if she's talking about dirty diapers.

It's a gift I tell you.

Putting a pin in it

In an ill-advised plot to simultaneously accomplish a pain in the neck errand and wear out the child, I decided to take a stab at a mid-week, post-dinner, end-of-the-day run to the library with Sara tonight.

Yes, the Central Library. Downtown. The rather large one. That I haven't completely got a handle on just yet. Right right -- that's the one.

And I guess now is just as good a time to mention that I woke up with a headache this morning which I never did shake. (Is it possible to shake a headache that you wake up with? I don't think so.)

Anyway, Sara and I traipsed off to the beautiful new library, her library tote in tow, with just a few things to gather up. Because she is three she made attempts to run through the stacks and hooted like an owl in the old, high-ceilinged reading room, and because I am Mama I threatened her with No Books For You or Going Home Right Now if she didn't knock it off. We reached a middle ground and made it out relatively unscathed, if not quickly or quietly.

But oddly enough, this isn't a story about the library. This is a story about the moments after we left the library, when I pulled out on to Pennsylvania and then made the west-bound turn on to St. Clair to make our way back home up Meridian Street. To our left was the American Legion Mall, with all of its memorials and monuments and homeless people, and to our right was the grand sweeping staircase into the old original library, the same entrance that I walked through myself for so many years though it's now outfitted with a unique work of modern art. As I made the turn and navigated the car around jaywalkers and parallel parkers I heard a loud, hoarse gasp from the back seat.

You don't hear a three year old gasp like that everyday.

If it had been an adult I would have slammed on the breaks and braced for impact, but as it came from a preschooler my instincts were tempered with curiosity and a little amusement. As soon as I realized that we weren't about to hit anyone or anything, I heard Sara say "Look at THAT one. What's that called, Mama? What is it? Wait -- a sunset? A sunset. Yeah, a sunset. That is one of the GOOD ones. That is a good sunset."

And it was.

But I never would have noticed it if not for the fresh eyes of my sweet girl. And I think this is why God sometimes gives us ill-advised plots for Tuesday night trips to the library with a three year old.

A letter for Sara

Baby girl,

I have called you this for three years – “free and a HALF” years, as you would say. And you are, and you always will be, despite your protest that you are not a baby. Or a little girl, or even small. You are big.

(As much as I hate to admit it, you are big, too.)

But here’s the truth, and I don’t expect you to understand it now. It took your Mama 35 years to learn this and sometimes I still find it hard to believe: Forever and ever you will be my baby girl. Not the infant who unknowingly depended on me to eat and stay warm and dry, who needed us to teach her to talk and walk and play. Not the toddler who demanded her independence while always making sure I was within her line of sight. Not the preschooler who dazzles me with her sense of humor and insight.


No, you will always be my baby, who I think of first thing in the morning and remember last at night. The one whose face I could never imagine until I met you, but who I had known for a lifetime once you arrived. You are an extension of me and still entirely yourself – a phenomenon that I can’t ponder for too long because it always makes me dizzy. You are every great possibility waiting to happen. You are the one that I have always loved without any fear or doubt or reservation.

None of these things will ever change.

And that’s the tricky part: It will never, ever change. Even when you leave for kindergarten or high school or college, even when you leave to start your own family, you will still be my baby. You won’t like this – I didn’t like it – for a long, long time. If you are like me it will take the birth of your own child to teach you this lesson and make it stick, and still you’ll struggle with the notion that I could have ever loved you as much as you love your own little one.

But I did. And I do. And I always, always will. Even when I’m gone.

Because that’s how Mamas forever feel about their babies.

Mama/Sara Adventure Day!

The poor kid. Her father has set up an entirely different expectation when it comes to "adventure," one that typically includes appropriate footwear and outdoor gear.

Then there's me. My adventure days require dressing up, hair decorations (or pretties, or crowns, or whatever she's calling them on a given day), a restaurant, and all manner of girly things. (Translation: shopping is usually involved.)

So today we donned our best twirly skirts, had pancakes at LePeep, and then went raspberry picking at Spencer's Berry Farm. We followed that up with a trip to the Red Circle Store (aka Target) and then came home to build a fort and take a nap.

(Rob took over for one of those last two activites. I'll let you guess which one.)

All in all, a great Mama/Sara day. Can't wait for the next one!

Puzzling

After dinner Sara and I sat down to do a puzzle or two (or three).

And you must know: doing puzzles with Sara is a painful experience. Painful. I think because she is so smart I expect too much from her sometimes; typical three-year-old tantrums baffle me because she speaks with the vocabulary and complexity of someone closer to five or six -- a big emotional and intellectual leap, all things considered. But these puzzles... man, oh man. I really think she should have a better grasp on them than she does. Just 12 pieces, filled with edges and corners to guide the way. What I realized as those painful 30 minutes unfolded was that this is just an area of relative weakness for her, this business of seeing the Big Picture.

In watching her tonight I remembered again how much alike we are, my girl & me. Losing sight of the Big Picture is a constant struggle for me, too, and that flaw reveals itself in a seemingly random but nevertheless consistent manner. Countless half-completed projects, dreams abandoned, lifelong struggles with weight, stubborn attempts to engineer the future -- they're all the result of missing the Big Picture.

Sara sat tonight quickly pulling at random pieces and forcing them together, happily oblivious to the pictures she was trying to create. Rather than envisioning Eric Carle's train cars full of hippos and lions and giraffes Sara saw purple lines or yellow blobs or "big teeth!" She had the bottom at the top and the top on the side and tried with all her might to meet the middle pieces with edges and the corners with the middles. As she did it she filled the room with self-talk, alternating between murmurs of "this is hard for me" and singing "I! CAN! DO! THIS!" Blissfully, peacefully, doggedly working the pieces and more often than not failing but never pausing to wallow in that failure. Never kicking herself, never giving up. And when the pieces did fit? Celebration and pride the likes of which you only see in a three-year-old.

How many times have I grabbed at random pieces of my life and tried to force them together in ways that seemed so logical, so right, but in the end could not have been more wrong? How many times have I tried to start at the end with no thought of the beginning? How many times have I missed the clues that help you fit the pieces together the right way, refusing to slow down and take the time to really work the puzzle out?

(Countless times, I am sad to say.)

We've got a lot to learn, she and I, about remembering the Big Picture. But tonight as I sat and watched my daughter chip away at those 12 piece puzzles bit by bit by topsy-turvy bit it's she who taught me something about approaching this work with perseverance, joy, and celebration.

The girl never ceases to amaze. She's only three. How much more is she going to teach me in the years ahead? I only pray I'm a good and worthy student.

Raising the bar

So, I know there are a lot of mommy bloggers out there.

I never really thought of myself as one, but since most of what I write is for the (eventual and ultimate) benefit of my daughter then I guess I ought to cop to it.

But when I run across blogs like this one, I can't help but wonder...

When did mommy blogging become so gosh darn slick?

Don't get me wrong: Hers is a lovely blog, with a terrific layout, up-to-date graphics, high-end design and amazing photography. I mean, come on -- Photoshop or no, my snaps would never turn out like those. (Those beets? Holy cats those beets! They make me swoon - and they're beets.) And then there are the recipes. There's no bottled peanut sauce or fajita seasoning packets to be found. I guess I just marvel at having the time to pull all of that together. Raising three kids, plus mad cooking skills, not to mention taking the time to shoot & shop it all and then write about it? It's like she decided to live what Martha Stewart is selling.

And is actually pulling it off.

I am impressed. And she doesn't even appear to be one of those moms with a not-so-hidden marketing agenda. Sort of makes me think twice about what the heck I'm doing here. Cause slick I ain't.

Jealous much? (Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes.)


Addendum: The response I'm getting to this on Facebook is unexpected. Maybe I didn't write what I thought I was writing, as my point was meant to be more about the explosion of "glossy" mommy blogs rather than a fish for moral support and/or praise. Will have to re-read future posts with multiple perspectives in mind to avoid what might appear to be manipulative pleas for attention.

That said, thanks for the moral support and reminders that being "Sara's supermommy" is really what it's all about.

Nesting

My mother always said that rain brings good luck.

We have had a remarkably mild summer this year, but for the past few days August has tried to make up for this by offering up a particularly uncomfortable run of hot, humid days interspersed with rain showers and thunderstorms. Personally, I love storms and the energy that they bring -- but the muggy, hot days I can do without.

Similarly, day-to-day life over the past week has been particularly uncomfortable as well: Running in too many different directions for too long, trying to meet the needs of most everyone but myself. Yesterday I finally hit the wall. I was done. I slept for more hours than I can remember sleeping in a long, long time.

And then today I woke up better rested, and the weather finally broke too. The rain is still here but has brought with it cooler breezes and more of these pleasant but unusually mild days. So, before Sara woke from her nap this afternoon I decided to take advantage of the time and the weather by sitting outside and swinging under my sister's tree. There was a heavy grey cloud blowing our way and I knew another shower was coming but I didn't care; in fact, I thought it was perfect.

Just after I sat down I noticed an abandoned nest at my feet, blown out of the tree during one of the storms earlier this week. It was a sweet little robin's nest, still perfectly intact despite the elements. I thought about how much work that bird must have put into building it's small home, and what a good job it did for it to look so perfect even after it's unceremonious eviction from that tree.

And then it started to rain.

It was hard to ignore the parallels to our own nest, the one we've spent so long working on but that will be beautiful and well-built when it's finally done. I took it as a sign that we would find our home there soon -- maybe not as soon as we might like, but soon nonetheless.

I'm going to keep that nest, and fill it up with wishes for all the things I hope to find in our own: peace, good health, happiness, love. And it will be a reminder of the time, effort, and patience it took for us to get there, and of the storms we had to weather to finally, finally, come home.

The rain blessed me today. Good luck, indeed.

Soft spot

As Sara gets older I find myself struggling more and more with the one thing that I just can't seem to deny her.

Me.

Because every time I hear that desperate need in her voice, the panicked harmonic that tells me she's afraid I'm not going to be there, I lose my resolve. I can't let her live with that fear for even a second because I know how it feels. I experience it every day and - for the record? It feels pretty awful. Yes, yes, even at my ripe old age. I'm pretty sure you never stop needing your Mama.

I just won't let my little girl carry that crappy feeling around yet. And so bedtime might be a nightmare for awhile, and I might spend more hours than I care to remember calming her irrational fears. It just doesn't matter. She's got me, and I'm not going anywhere. That's all she needs to know.

I can't do it all ~OR~ My to-do list is actually quite short

Here is what I do:

• Get up with Sara every morning
• Feed her (or at least keep her from eating candy for breakfast)
• Shower
• Get dressed
• Make coffee -- sometimes, drink it
• Look for breakfast to eat in the car -- sometimes, find it
• Think about finding something to take for lunch -- sometimes, make it
• Work: that's another post entirely
• Get home & assume Sara responsibility
• Clean house -- no, pick up crap; no time for cleaning
• Ask Rob to do laundry (a few times a week)
• Sometimes fold it
• Worry about the house
• Worry about money
• Worry about Sara/my health/the future
• Go to the grocery
• Cook
• Wash dishes
• Keep Sara from killing herself
• Give her a bath
• Argue with her
• Bargain with her
• Discipline her
• Put her to bed
• Several times each night
• Collapse
• Sleep
• Get up and do it again
• Wonder why

Here's what I don't do:

• Make a healthy breakfast for Sara & myself
• Get to work on time
• Enjoy my job/consistently make a difference
• Spend time playing with Sara
• Plan menus to have healthy dinners & lunches prepared
• Exercise
• Enjoy 15 minutes of quiet, just for me (maybe drinking coffee)
• Get enough sleep
• Spend enough time with Rob
• Spend enough time with my friends
• Read (daily)
• Write (daily)
• Create (daily)
• Behave nicely (all the time)
• Do the things I really enjoy doing, every single day
• Live happily with less
• Simplify (everything)

All I need to do:

• Switch titles on the lists above.

10 things -- but really, only one

Among the various tasks I have to do at work is triaging new orders that come in for outpatient evaluations and then deciding which of our speech pathologists should see each patient.  Every chart I get has a patient history form that has been completed by mom, dad, caregiver, foster parent -- whoever cares for the child.

Most are run-of-the-mill.  Some are hilarious.  Some, worthless.  One was even insulting. 

And, of course, some are sad.  One mom, who obviously had very basic reading and writing skills, had clearly spent a long time working on her son's history: she had been exceptionally thorough, proof-read it (changing correct grammar & spellings into errors on several occasions), and written a lengthly note sharing her guilt that her child's delays were her own fault.  

But the ones that always get to me come from the parents whose children are unable to speak at all.  Usually these parents are some of the strongest we meet:  their children are so medically involved, fragile in so many ways -- unable to walk, talk, eat, dress themselves, clean themselves -- that by the time we are working with them on communication they have developed a pretty tough exterior.  While I'm sure they have private moments where they grieve for their kids, wonder why, feel guilty, and indulge in the anger they rightly hold, these parents can't dwell on those emotions every day.  They wouldn't survive.  They have therapies, and medications, and tube feedings, and real patient care duties to attend to every single day.  

The history we gather on these kids is a little different.  We try to figure out who's in there, what gestures, expressions, even grunts they might already be using to reach out to the people around them.  It's amazing to me how resilient these kids are and how intimately their families know them that they can understand what, to an outsider, is just a meaningless noise or an almost imperceptible glance.  We try to figure out what kinds of motor, social, and cognitive skills they have.  We ask what kinds of communication approaches have been tried before, what has worked, and what didn't.  

The last thing we ask is for parents to list ten things they would like their child to be able to say.  And I'm sure you already know their first response -- it would be yours and mine as well.  All of them, every last one, answers the same.

"I love you."

Can you imagine?  (I can't.)

And this is one reason, among oh so many, that I tell my daughter a hundred times a day that I love her - and why I truly do know how blessed I am to hear her tell me the same.

Rebooting

Many things on my mind these days.  Deciding which to wrestle with first.  Will post when a winner is determined.

I know it'll be hard, but do try to sleep between now & then, OK?  OK.