A Slow Leak

Yesterday, I made my first meal in the crockpot that belonged to my grandfather. It felt innocuous enough at first, but I quickly found myself wiping away quiet tears as I added each quartered potato into the pot. Grace ran up behind me, grasping on to my leg and asking for a glass of water so I pulled my face together and turned to answer her with a bright smile, swallowing the sadness that I was so obviously feeling.

This is what grief has been like for me.

I sat by my dying grandfather's bedside for days. I held his hand, I grimaced when he called out or reached for me in quick moments of clarity. I made increasingly frantic and angst-ridden calls to my parents in Mexico, trying to soften the sourest of information.  People would gently remark to me that they didn’t know how I was doing it, how I was holding it together. This statement, while it was meant to be complimentary, prickled at me.  Was I cheapening the anguish that I felt by continuing to move forward? They couldn’t know that I was making private deals with myself. Make it through one more hour. Make it until lunch. Swallow the food that’s placed in front of you, even if it feels like sandpaper, grating against the roof of your mouth, so the people around you won't worry. Make it until you can go home to shower, and then you can fall apart.

Except I never truly did. It took him four days to die. On that Monday morning, I went home and waited. I waited to feel. I waited for the hurt to spread across my body, to engulf me. I had time now. I could give myself over to the sadness I’d been stifling. It was over.

Except it wasn’t. It’s been exactly one month now and I feel like my grief is trickling out of me, deflating like a balloon with a small pinprick hole.

I forget that he’s not here anymore. I reach for my phone to call him when I’m driving home and the pain rushes in, momentarily crippling me until my brain can negotiate with my heart and catapult me back into the present.  Moments like this interrupt me daily, setting off something inside of me that is totally involuntary. I try to remind myself that this is an undeniable testimony to the presence of love. That it was a gift to have cared about someone so much that their absence is felt as keenly as a presence.

Grace and I stopped at the bank for some checks earlier this week. We happened to go to a different branch location than we normally do. As we walked into the lobby, Grace cheerfully announced that this was “Papa’s bank” as she had been there with him many times.  Last night I cooked dinner in “Papa’s crockpot”. I am working to get to a place where I am unashamed to temporarily define my life in this way. Part of me thinks I should be “over it”. That I should no longer feel myself bowled over by flashes of sadness. That there shouldn’t be mornings when getting out of bed feels like a task too giant to handle, when hiding away from the world seems preferable.

I sometimes forget briefly what happened, how it happened. I just recognize that I’ve never felt quite so alone. I remember him randomly and find myself so angry at time, because there is never enough of it. Angry at myself that I wished days away for selfish reasons. We forget while we wish for time to pass that it progresses not only in our own lives, but ages all parties.

It hurts to be so angry at myself, but at least it means that I'm not hollow. 

Those last few days may be the hardest I’ve experienced yet in my life. But they were also a gift. I have memories of Papa teasing me while we were in the emergency room and asking Grace what the weather was like in Mexico over FaceTime. I spoke with doctors, helped my mother to make impossible decisions, and rallied around and against my family simulatenously. I made phone calls to extended family members to share terrible news when sometimes making phone calls to order take-out makes me feel anxious.

I have lost him, but not the strength he gave to me in those final moments.

He left the world on a whisper, in a quiet peaceful way. None of us even noticed at first and I honestly believe that I too stopped breathing while I waited for a nurse to come confirm what my heart knew to be true. It didn’t seem right to me that the man who could strike up a conversation with a total stranger snuck out in a way that was so noiseless.

But as I let myself define my world with memories of him, as I forgive myself for the way grief is lingering in every corner of my life…I realize he is not really gone.

When our life story is punctuated by loss, all we can do is write new beginnings interwoven with threads of memory. And that’s ok.

Lessons

While grocery shopping with Grace last weekend, a well-meaning older gentleman stopped me and jovially mentioned “Ma’am, I hope your husband has a shot gun”. As I prepared to answer with a quick “He’ll probably need one” (I’ve learned it is simpler for everyone to allow people of a certain generation to believe that I’m married), Grace proudly announced, “My Mama doesn’t need a husband”.

A response that, if I’m being completely honest, shocked both of us.

My initial reaction was pride. I was impressed that my girl realized that we were doing just fine “on our own”. I was pleased that, despite loving princesses and fairy tales and babies, Grace understood that these things were not the ultimate fulfillment. That her life should be a kaleidoscope of imperfect parts and that no one element could truly anchor all the others.

As proud as I was, I couldn’t shake a nagging feeling of worry. Worry that my own life experiences were bleeding cynicism into Grace’s life.  Love is messy and fairy tales don’t always have the happy ending we expected. But the idea of her not wanting love, not seeking a partner to support her, to take out her garbage and rub her back because she “didn’t need one” or worse, because she was afraid of being let down…it tugged at my heart in an unexpected way.

I’d never want my girl to be afraid to get out there and “play the game” (why are relationships always described in sporting analogies?) I want her to get her heart broken 100 times, if it means she is putting herself out there.

This is the constant battle when raising a daughter. Wanting her to be tough, yet soft, strong but delicate.

I’m a far better person for all the love I have given and the mistakes I have made. I’ve had my heart broken enough times to recognize the symptoms but the physical pain of it never fails to take my breath away. But there is some truth in the belief you can’t recognize the beauty in your life without a little bit of the ugly.

You don’t need someone by your side to make your life an amazing journey. But there is no shame or weakness in yearning for the comfort of a shadow next to yours.

The guy who was never going to love me back reminded me what a selfless and illogical act love is. The guy who I desperately wanted to save showed me that letting go isn’t the same as giving up. There have been men who have unearthed parts of me I buried long ago, with small acts of kindness.  Sometimes there is a lesson in the wanting.

A friend recently said to me that she wasn’t sure what the opposite of feeling things deeply was but that it was something close to apathy and that it “just wasn’t her”.   She wasn’t talking about romantic feelings, but that sentiment has stuck with me over the last few days.  Whenever I have made mistakes when my heart is involved, it has been in situations where I’ve tried to remain unfeeling or ignored my own thoughts, negating my emotions as being “crazy”.  I’ve spent so long trying not to feel things deeply that now when I do, it scares me.

I want better for my daughter.

Grace knows that people can have babies without being married. She knows that boys can get married to other boys and girls can marry girls and that it doesn’t really matter who you marry, as long as there is love and kindness there. But what I’m afraid I’ve forgotten to teach her is that love is always worth the risk.

Nothing lasts forever and there are certain to be moments in her life where someone unexpected will hurt her. But even in those moments of pain (which will be worse for me, I’m sure), she is growing. She will come out on the other side changed, but infinitely better.

I didn’t expect to be teaching my daughter about love when I was still trying to figure it out for myself.

Grace is beautiful, but more importantly she is smart, funny and kind. I am confident that she will grow up being certain of all these things.  I hope I am patient enough to foster her fierce independence. I hope she is so certain of how awesome she is that she will believe that everyone else must see it too.

One day, I hope she meets someone who is even more certain of these things. Who will remind her when she falters.  When that day comes, I hope she has no fear in sharing her life with them.  Not needing to. But wanting to. 

Embracing Innocence (Happy Fourth Birthday)

Dearest Gracie,

Something very bad happened in the world today.  In a city that I love very much, close to our home, someone committed a senseless, violent act. Lots of people were hurt and many more were frightened. They will spend the foreseeable future glancing over their shoulders, feeling uncertain of their place in the world, unsure of their safety.

I’m sorry to have to bring this up in your birthday letter. A letter that before this afternoon was filled with sweetness and pride, all things I still very much feel.  I wish that I could bottle your innocence, tuck you away from the world.

But I can’t protect you forever.

You are like me in many ways. When tragedies happen, you will want to make sense of it. You will want to dissect it. But that’s the thing about tragedy, my love. There are no answers. There is only the gnawing insistence that you hold on a little bit tighter to those who matter, that you pause for a deep breath of appreciation and marvel for a few minutes longer as sun warms your skin.  Your grandpa often reminds me not to try and apply logic to illogical situations. It’s a lesson I am still working on learning; maybe we can learn it together.

I want you to know that for every “bad” person in the world, there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of genuine people, people who dedicate their lives to rushing in and helping where instinct says to run in the opposite direction. There is lightness to be found everywhere and hope in the darkest situations.

You can be a part of that hope. You can create more lightness.  I have found, in my limited experience, that we are often strongest when the world seems harsh and insurmountable. Give the world the best you’ve got and you might just surprise yourself.

You cannot control what happens in your life or what goes on in the world around you. But you can face it with the same courage, the same open and kind heart that you already approach everything else.

This weekend we celebrated every single piece of you.  And when this horrible thing happened, I couldn’t wait to rush home and celebrate you all over again, to bury my head in your curls and eat a cupcake and laugh until our bellies ached.

When I was pregnant, I spent hours imagining who you might become. I wondered if you would love reading as much as I did, hoped you wouldn’t be as clumsy.

Then, in the midst of this imagining, amid the business of every day life you did something rather shocking. You grew up.  Without even asking my opinion or feelings on the matter.

You transformed from my baby, my tiny little munchkin into a very real and very independent person. With so many thoughts and imaginings of your very own.

You are intuitive and bright. You challenge me with your questions, asking me how my car was built and what happens to our bones when we die.  You’ve perfected your father’s comedic timing and share our love for being outdoors. Strangers frequently compliment you on your politeness and empathy.

By your very existence, you shook me from wanting to doing, from dreaming to living.

Anything that I am proud of in my life, I owe to you.

The past few nights, I’ve been letting you sleep in bed with me.  I know it’s not a great habit to be getting into, but when you asked last night if you could sleep with me, I answered “yes” a little quicker than I normally do.  I needed to feel the stirring of your lanky limbs beside me and feel comforted by your steady breathing in and out.  You laid down and placed your hand on my arm. When I asked what you were doing you said, “I just want to hold on to you, Mama”. And just like that, you knew what I needed most in that moment. 

I promise to do my very best to always give you what you need. I also promise to fiercely protect and embrace your innocence for as long as I can, but I'm starting to believe that I won't be able to keep the world out for very much longer. 

I may not always have the right answers. Sometimes, probably a lot of times, I am going to be scared too. And sad, the kind of sadness that sneaks into your bones and makes putting one foot in front of the other heavy work. 

But you have proven to me, in the last year of your life, that together, kid- you and I can do anything. 

Happy Birthday to my sweet, strong, smart girl. 

Four is going to be even better than either of us can imagine, I just know it. 

Love you to the moon and back, 

Mama

Heavy legs

My legs feel heavy and I am acutely aware of every inch of my body. The bruise that is lingering, yellow and sullen on my right shoulder, just below my collarbone. The rivulet of sweat creeping its way down the nape of my neck. The wisp of hair that won’t be contained. Music is blaring through my headphones, trying to drown out the whine of the old treadmill and the weighty thuds of each step.

My internal dialogue reminds me to keep moving. To will my feet to keep stride, not break the pace that is too fast for my first run in months.

I know you will wake soon. You will call for me, gentle and lilting at first- with your tone becoming increasingly irritated at my inaction. I will urge my body to move up the stairs and I will pick you up from your bed. Sweaty and sweet. I will pause at your door, watching the way your limbs cast shadows in the morning light and savoring the last few moments of quiet. And then our day will begin. Rushing to dress and to eat and to get in the car and to make it to work and to school and to get home and to make dinner and to read books and to get into bed and…

(Recently, crouched on my kitchen floor, I spoke with a friend about his desire to simply do everything. Ringing in his birthday at midnight with popcorn and whiskey, he described all of the things he was certain he needed to achieve. These things appeared insurmountable to me. At least I am reasonable, I mused. Realistic. I wonder now who I was trying to convince)

In the literal sense, I am moving,

My days are full.

But I feel stuck.

Before bed, you become suddenly inconsolable. You ask me in a voice sweeter than I have heard in a while if we could rock for a few minutes. I gather you in my arms and into my lap. My mind meanders back to the hundreds of hours I have spent in that very chair, in motion but unmoving. 

Moments when you were swaddled on my chest, where I was both exhausted and breathless at the beauty of you.  When I read “Llama Llama Red Pajama” for the thirtieth time. It was in this chair we rocked when your body was scorched with fever, when your mind was clouded with nightmares and some nights, when I just needed to be near to you as my own tears fell, hot and shameful.

You have almost outgrown my lap. I quietly begin to sing our lullaby and you sing along, knowing every single word. You reach upwards, almost absent mindedly, to stroke my hair, one arm thrown lazily around my neck. When our song is over, you launch into a dialogue about our life, our friends, how you used to rock in this chair every night when you were a little baby.

Blurring the edges of this soft, subtle moment are my doubts about the choices I have made. A mistake or regret lingers in every corner of my mind. Some are dusty, rusted. Others are shiny and bright and painfully new. I’ve grown tired of learning experiences, tired of keeping tally of the things that could and have and should go wrong.

But if I had to do it all again, to lead me to this moment with you- it is unquestionable that I would.  I make (and have made) so many mistakes. I hurt myself, over and over again, often just to remind myself to feel.It's often I find myself thinking that I spend many of my days moving back and forth, but not forward.

But you. You remind me to savor the seconds I have that are just pure. You are a living, dancing, epic tantrum-throwing reminder that I have been blessed to be a part of something so much bigger. A vastness I can’t truly begin to appreciate, but that I get to glance at through your fearless brilliant blue eyes.

And my face buried into your neck, trying to pour my gratitude onto your skin, I whisper thank you.

A dream is a wish your heart makes. Or something.

Let's talk for a moment about disney princesses, shall we?

I was once a preschool-aged girl myself. And I'm certain that I loved the princess set as is to be expected. In fact, I have a very vivid memory of standing in my grandparent's kitchen and proudly flashing half of my family my brand new Belle underwear. This memory haunted my pre-teen years as being the most mortifying thing I ever brought upon myself. 

I currently have a love/hate relationship with the disney princesses. I'm pretty vocal about the fact I am careful about what Grace watches on TV and how much she watches. Not in a judge-y way, because I am absolutely not above placing her in front of the television during that horrific hour after school and before dinner so I can cook dinner not totally lose my mind. But disney princesses? The messages their fairy tales impart...enchanting, yet terrifying.

In 2010, Disney played a mind trick on me. They released Beauty and the Beast "from the vault". Obviously panic ensued and I rushed out to purchase it BEFORE IT WAS TOO LATE (It went back into the vault last April. I'm on to you, Disney). Because Beauty and the Beast is my disney princess kryptonite. 

Cinderella? Glorified maid and full time doormat. Relied on a fairy godmother to fix her problems and then when she lost her shoe (sloppy) just waited around for her prince to find her and put it back on her foot. 

Sleeping Beauty? Literally forced to sleep through her life until her true love "awakened her" at age 16. That's the stuff of all parental nightmares. 

Ariel? Actually changed not only her geographical location but her physical attributes so she could be with her prince. Heidi Montag, I'm guessing The Little Mermaid was totally your favorite. 

Snow White? My mom actually refers to her as a "ho".  Cooked and clean for not ONE but seven little men. 

But Belle, she showed promise. She loved to read (which pleased my nerd girl self). She had goals. Her dad was bat-shit crazy, which is clearly character building. She saw past the superficial stuff and fell in love with a man who was quite literally a beast and always managed to tell the town "hottie" to shove it. 

Now granted, once she realized the Beast was a handsome prince and that giant castle stopped being so doom and gloom and got rid of those walking, talking, singing utensils and household items...she seemed pretty content to embrace that "provincial life". But all and all...Belle is my girl.

Grace also loves Belle. She tells everyone that Belle is her favorite because she reads books. Normally when I hear my words coming out of her mouth, I'm mildly horrified, but that is one statement I whole-heartedly endorse. 

This new adoration of Belle has led to lots of questions. About love. And getting married. We've been to a few weddings lately and the institute of marriage, a mystery to most adults, is an extremely difficult concept to explain to a 3 year old. And it has led me to face the terrifying reality that someday, sooner than I'm ready to admit, my baby is going to want to date. And someone is undoubtedly going to break that little heart that I so laboriously created, crafted to be kind and generous and open. And I'm going to have to resist the urge to break their face. 

I've learned a few lessons about love myself, but honestly, I'm still not 100% clear on the whole thing. My parents, who celebrate their 26th wedding anniversary today have also imported some lessons on me by osmosis. 

So Grace? Take my advice for what it is. Flawed and not foolproof and probably not even something I always take myself. But it comes from a place of love, of wanting the very best for you.  John Steinbeck wrote, in a letter to his teenaged son Thom on the subject of falling in love- "The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it". 

The first time you think you're in love? You probably aren't. But I promise to fluctuate between supporting you and being excited for you and threatening to lock you in your room until you're 30. 

Trust your instincts. There's never been a time that I've had a gut feeling about someone and been super glad I didn't go with it. Treat respect as the minimum, non-negotiable expectation. Everyone that you allow into your life is going to teach you some kind of valuable lesson. Sometimes, it just takes a lot of crying in the shower and Ben and Jerry's to decode it.  Try not to let yourself become too cynical and guarded. You get back what you give out. Not everyone who tells you they love you will mean it- so save it for when it counts, not to make someone feel better or because you feel pressured to do so. When someone loves you, you won't need to hear it because you will feel it, infinitely. Relationships are hard work, but don't confuse hard work with feeling like garbage all the time. 

Steinbeck also wrote "And don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens- the main thing is not to worry. Nothing good gets away" Seems to me that guy really knew what he was talking about.

Nurture your passions. Dream so big that it scares you. My life thus far has been relatively happy. I want yours to be exponentially happier. The person you are meant to be with will encourage you, challenge to grow and be there by your side when you need them to be. Love yourself. Love your friends. Love your family. The rest will all fall into place. 

At least, that's what I'm hoping for. 

On your birthday...

Dear Mum, 

As a little girl, I was unequivocally a Daddy's girl.  I remember (with some horror now, as a parent myself) having this preference. For that, I am sorry. The fact that you even tolerated me, while working the night shift, is an amazing feat. 

And now?

It is unbelievably cheesy to say, but today you are truly my very best friend. There is a point you reach in adulthood where you begin to see your parents as flawed, actual human beings. What I have learned about you and from you as I have grown into my own adult skin has allowed me to appreciate you even more. 

Today is your 50th birthday. I share the number because it's only that- a number.You are vibrant, enthusiastic and far more fashionable than you were 10, 15, 20 years ago (you're welcome). I hope to be one ounce of the woman you are when I meet the half century mark.

You are absurdly funny (occasionally without meaning to be) and unendingly kind.  

When my friends or former boyfriends have met you, they often told me I suddenly made perfect sense in the context of you. My silly sense of humor, my unexpected and sparing snarkiness, my love of books, my abysmal math skills, my increased tolerance for shopping and finding bargains, my attempts at kindness and compassion- it's all you. Who I am, who I strive to be, as a mother- patience, love, resilience- exists because of who you have been for me. 

You have taught me many things in the last 25 years. 

How to quickly calculate what kind of savings a 20% off sale really means. 

How to be unafraid to dream. Unafraid to challenge myself. At 50, you are working towards your Master's degree. We received our bachelors degrees on the same day, after you had already been a nurse for over 20 years. This summer, the girl who failed gym class (seriously) ran her first 5k. I watch you change and grown and continue to push yourself and it reminds me to not ever become too comfortable.

How to create delicious concoctions out of tequila. You make the best margaritas of anyone I know and I am desperate to learn your secrets. 

How to be a better daughter. You expended endless energy taking care of your family, your parents. It is often thankless and always exhausting. But you do it because it is right. And I promise you, should a day come where you need to be taken care of, I will do the very best job. Because I learned how to do it from you.

That working hard and being kind will grant you the most beautiful and honest of successes.

That failure is relative. 

There are countless lessons you have taught me, things I have learned just by watching you. I find myself typing and the words falling short of the gratitude and love inked into my heart. 

I have written often about how grateful I am that you and Grace have a pure and  amazing bond. You have exploded into your somewhat unexpected role of Mimi. My daughter is unbelievably in love with you and I look forward to watching your relationship shift and stretch and strengthen as time moves on. She is so lucky. 

And I am luckier. 

There is so much strength in you that goes unnoticed. But not by me. 

I am prouder each day to be your daughter than I was the day before. 

Ugga Mugga, Mumma..and Happy Birthday, you old broad

Love, always...

Bean