Hi... Leave a Message

Every day for months and months after Ma left this side of the stars, I called the house to listen to the outgoing voicemail greeting..."Hi, leave a message..." Recorded in a voice that sounds a little tentative like: "Maybe you want to leave a message, maybe you don't..." or, "Am I setting this thing up correctly"...  Many times, I would carefully hang up and "leave" my message by whispering out loud, wherever I would be, with whatever was on my mind...usually consisting of "I love you, Ma, where are you?"

For many times over those months, words weren't able to pass my lips without sobbing, or "ugly crying," so I would just write...  I left my Ma a daily message, but in a journal. My words, accompanied by quieter tears, expressed what, in months earlier, used to be said in a phone call. In reading this document now, I see all stages of grief. On paper.

I still call the house periodically to listen to her voice. I even tell Baby Jimmy, "Shh... listen to GeeGee". And then I hang up, or just whisper my love yous. I am certain my Dad has seen my name pop up on the caller ID throughout times of day he knows I know he isn't home...but he has never said anything. I'm sure he knows what I am doing.

Today is the third birthday we are honoring my Ma's beautiful life, without her sitting across the table from us saying, "Don't you tell that waiter that it's my birthday!" So, I called to "Leave my message" at a time where I knew my Dad would be at the cemetery leaving her birthday flowers; some traditions we will never let go. After the fourth ring, I hear an unfamiliar, cold greeting....BEEEEEP.

I called again. Just to be sure. BEEEEEP. And then it dawned on me: Baby Jimmy was playing with the phone the other day and must have erased the outgoing greeting. My heart sunk and I got one of those hard, heat-filled lumps in my throat. The voicemail greeting is gone. She is gone. And it's her birthday. How can I ever tell my Dad? He will be heartbroken. I am heartbroken.

And then I remembered, I had panicked once when Dad was having work done on his phones and I had family members call and record it, so I would have it forever. It's something, but definitely not as comforting as knowing I could still call the house and it would be like Ma was still there, like she always was, listening to what I had to say.

So here goes.
"Hi, leave a message..."

Hi Ma, Happy Birthday. I love you. More. I miss you so much it makes my chest physically ache sometimes. Well, all the time, but I've learned to live with it. I've got that bullshit eye infection again, so I'm stuck wearing glasses, can you believe it? I'm probably not drinking enough water, but I'm finally getting enough sleep. I made the broccoli stuffing for Christmas dinner, but it didn't taste as good as yours. I'm doing my best in taking care of everyone, Dad especially. You would be so proud of him - he goes to Carter's and picks out clothes for the babies and they're perfect. The right sizes and everything. It's almost like you are there with him, helping him shop. He is so generous, as you were. Jim is good, too. He is now on the day shift and doing the ET work you found so interesting to hear about. He takes care of all of us, too, and for the first time, I really think maybe in his whole life, think he is really, really happy. And the babies? Well, Jimmy told me yesterday, "Mommy, I love you, more," and I just about melted. Keep in mind, though, it was after I handed him a large order of French Fries. He talks to your picture and points upwards to Heaven when I ask him where you are.  He is so so smart... Has a photographic memory, knows all his letters and sounds, and loves M & M's, like you. And our Maddy, Madelyn Marjorie, the other miracle baby... Ma, she is something. Quite the rascal, but she has a smile that will make you stop whatever it is you're doing to soak in the joy life brings. She is strong; she is tough. She is very much like you. Mads is crawling, standing, and soon will be walking, although I am sure it will be more like running, after her brother, whom she adores.  Time to go, naps are over. I know what you're thinking... "You're so lucky your kids are good nappers, you were not a good napper..." Yah, Ma, I know. I think about that every naptime when I have a few minutes to myself to think about life...and you...and miss you. More.

All I Could Ever Need

My son is really diggin' this Christmas... He waits by the window for the lights to go on every day at precisely 4:59pm; he sings "'Fa la la la la'  and 'Santa, Santa, HO HO HO' " along with a Mickey Mouse holiday episode; he runs to the door when the bell rings signaling yet another package has arrived... Most of all, though, he cherishes his Christmas tree, both the one here at home and the one at Papa's house (Papa's tree has an amazing new train whizzing in circles beneath it). Every time he leaves "Tree's" presence for nap, for Antie's, or for whatever adventure, he waves and says, "Bye, Tree".

The collection of the colors and the sparkles of the ornaments we've amassed over the years make his eyes dance. Maybe it's the "fancy" LEDs; maybe it's just magic. Whatever it is, it makes my heart sink to think that once the New Year hits, we'll all be saying, "Bye, Tree".

Miss Maddy prefers the "sneak attack" on the Tree... Every time I see her gazing at it, her beauty stops me in my tracks and I can't help but think of the line "...tiny tots with their eyes all aglow..." that's our girl. Now more than ever.

I just got off the phone with one of my dearest friends, who asked me what I was getting for Christmas this year (besides the washer and dryer, which, incidently, I love). And I told her for the first time, in all of my years, I have "All I could ever need". And it's true. While I spend a lot of time wishing my Mom were here, I do feel her presence in my children's hearts. I have a husband who loves me, provides for me and the babies, and can chug a beer with my other best guy, my Dad... Who has always been a hero and a friend. 

Look closely at these pictures. The best presents I have ever been given are already around "Tree". 

I wish you all a holiday season filled with love, light, and happiness in your heart. Love you all. 

The Dance

My Ma was a Stay-at-Home-Mom. 

Rarely, though, did we stay at home in the early days. Among the countless doctors appointments for me and my ears, nose, throat, rotavirus, kidney infections, blah blah... the weekly visit to Jewel for groceries or even the $10 she gave to the attendant to fill up the Caprice Classic station wagon at the full-service Mobil on Mondays, we were on the go. 

Being a "SAHM" or "Domestic Engineer," as she preferred, Ma adhered to two principles:

One.
Dressed, ready, hair done, makeup and shoes on by 8am. Every. Single. Day. (In fact, I had only seen my Ma without pantyhose on two times in my life).

Two. Up and out of the house for store, doctor, Grandma's or wherever by 10-10:30am, or you stayed home for the day. 

Some of my most cherished memories are of those days we stayed home, just me and my Ma.

...

We had a "Don't touch" kind of Living Room or "Frunch Room" (depending on if you're a native Chicagoan) at our house on Waverly. In it, there was a "top-of-the-line" (for 1981) stereo receiver, record player and speakers that heard their fair share of Anne Murray, Englebert Humperdinck, and Kenny Rogers.

Since I wasn't much of a napper, to my Mom's dismay, she insisted each part of the daily routine included "Quiet Time"... During my "Quiet Time," I could watch Scooby Doo, color, play house with my dollies, or basically anything that would keep the noise down, and would keep me from bothering my Mom. During the QT, the house was quiet, except for a muffled beat, keeping time, coming from the Frunch Room.

It was my Ma, drowning out the world with the sweet, soft music she loved, listening to the stereo she cherished, dancing. 

She tapped her toes to the beat, raised both arms, hands in little fists by her shoulders almost, and swayed back and forth. 

Every day, the same routine. Every. Single. Day. 

I'm pretty sure she wore out a spot in the shag carpeting because she chose the same location to dance each day. I am also sure I wore out a spot in the carpet where I stood from the hallway, peeking in.  I loved to watch her dance, to lose herself in the music, like nobody was watching. But I was. And I will never, ever forget how beautiful she looked.

This, I'm sure, was the only type of exercise Ma ever did. To her, dancing wasn't for exercise, but for simply a few fleeting moments to herself in a day she devoted to her children and her husband. A few moments each day she could take a few deep breaths before tackling the daily "What's for dinner?" question or before touching up her makeup at 4:30 each day, without fail, before my Dad came home from work.

...
As the years went by, life, as it does, became more and more hectic. My sister was diagnosed with cancer and then... just gone. My grandparents became ill, and then they left this earth, too, a little over a week apart from each other ...I was in a car accident that nearly ended it all for me, too. And my mother, I don't know how she did it, took care of all of us. Every. Single. Day.

But once in awhile, when my sister was sleeping, or before she headed out to Grandma and Grandpa's to care for her parents, I would hear the soft beat of music, and I knew exactly what she was up to. 

I stopped peeking in on her. I knew she needed her time. Alone. To close her eyes and dance. Like nobody was watching...and I'm pretty sure during these times a tear or two would quietly float down her cheek, but because I wasn't peeking, I can't ever really be sure.

...
I don't think my Ma ever stopped dancing. Time had passed and she allowed herself to grieve the losses of her daughter and her parents, but she kept moving. Same dance moves, louder speakers, and a CD player. 

I walked in on her at our new house, blasting, and I mean BLASTING, music. That time, it was Van Halen (Sammy Hagar days)... She claimed she had to turn it way up because she blew out her eardrums years ago (to Anne Murray, Ma?). I think she turned up the volume because she liked feeling the drum keeping time, sinking into some of life's most fleeting moments.

...

Today, during Jimmy and Maddy's naps, I reached for my iPod, found a favorite of hers, and danced. Like nobody was watching...although I secretly hope she is peeking in on me, from above.

Happy Birthday to My Little Love

I lied.

With the best of intentions, I sat down last week to jot down some funny anecdotes about how my hubby leaves the kitchen cabinet doors open, garbage on the counters, clothes in the dryer, and never, ever replaces the freakin' toilet paper roll...Like that's sooo hard!? Blogtime ended mid-thought by an early end to my almost two-year-old's nap.

Two. How did that happen already? Two years full of love, laughter and memories. And then the tears started.

In the first blog post, I shared that the purpose of this blog is for my children. To be frank, there's an overarching fear within me that my life will be cut short and they won't have all of the information they need or won't be able to hear my "voice". At their births, I began a separate journal of letters to my children; today, I'm sharing a letter written for my Birthday Boy. So, there you have it. I lied. This post may make your eyes leaky.

October 14, 2014

Dear Jimmy, My "Little Love"...
Happy Birthday, Jimbo!

I love and hate that you are two. I love that you can say "two," but I hate that it's time for you to give up your pacifier. Two years of giggles and tears every single day (sometimes within minutes of each other) and two years of filling up my heart with a gratitude and a wholeness I have never felt until you came along. From your first breath, you have taken mine away, and have done so each moment thereafter. My life begins and ends with you; thank you for being mine.

You are growing, growing, growing so fast. Stop it already. Seriously.

I think of all you have learned in this last year and am in awe: run, jump, dance, speak, create...all of these came to you so naturally and are parts of your unbending daily routine.

Part of your daily "schtick" centers around music. Maybe that has something to do with your father, who is far more musical than your tone-deaf mother (you actually cry when I sing to you sometimes)... Or more honestly, I think your musicality comes from the Anesthesiologist, who, in the moments before your birth, thought background music was an absolute necessity. U2's Greatest Hits (doctor's choice!) echoed throughout the OR and at the moment I first saw you, "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" was playing. Bono couldn't have been more wrong.

You were exactly what I was looking for, exactly what I needed. You came to me when my heart was so full of grief because GeeGee had walked the Rainbow Bridge just a mere 3 months prior. How your personality from Day 1 was so effortless and enjoyable after growing alongside a broken heart defies all logic. You are a miracle baby. You will always be my baby. 2, 22 or 82 years old. Always.

Jimmy, I wish you more love and laughter and as many trucks, cartoons and dance parties as you can handle in this upcoming year. I hope the music in your heart continues to play wherever you go, your feet keep you skipping along, your left-arm fastball to stay out of the house and your snuggles and sharing and learning never end. But the teething?...the teething can go any time now.

I love you. Always.
Love,
Mama
xoxo

Why the Name?

Two years ago, while pregnant with my first child, I spent 13 days caring for my Ma who was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer. I would have given all of my days to have spent more time with her, but 13 is all I got. 

My Ma didn't want visitors, didn't want people to see how sick she suddenly was and how quickly she was declining. We had hopes the metastatic cancer would at least allow her to meet her only grandchild, a boy to be named Jimmy, just three months later. 

Time can be fickle and wasn't on our side. Thirteen days later we said our final goodbyes. But I got 13 full days of love and honesty and laughter that nobody else got. I got to see my Ma as she made the transition from this earth to what comes next. I got a crash course in motherhood, because she knew she wouldn't be here to tell me what she needed to when things came up. I'm lucky to have had that. Thirteen, albeit short, days was what life thought was all that was needed to put a capstone on an indelible existence. A short and sweet exit for a short and sweet lady.

During that time, Ma would take little naps: just to take the edge off, maybe just her mind off, of the inevitable. She awoke from one of those naps and giggled and pointed to my swollen tummy and said, "The next one won't be so easy," to which my response was, "Why, is it a girl?" and with a nod, my mother, who I'm sure during her nap met the little lady who would greet us just 17 months after my son was born, whispered: "You'll be more seasoned then..."

After the birth of my daughter, I had more than just the typical "maternal instinct" that something wasn't right...I kept hearing my mother's voice "You'll be more seasoned then..."After weeks and weeks of countless sleepless nights, doctors appointments, and feeling helpless as baby cried, I found a doctor who listened to me when I declared that her pain wasn't "just gas" as I begged not to be turned away. I kept thinking that if I was "more seasoned" as my Ma said, I should know what typical infant gas is... and this was not it. And I was right.

Baby M was born with a congenital defect called Organoaxial Volvulus of the stomach. Basically, her stomach was twisting intermittently, causing blockages. Of course this would cause agonizing pain. If not caught and surgically corrected in time, my baby would not have been cared for by me, but cared for by my Ma, on the other side.

So "More Seasoned Then," is part of who I am, part of what defines me. It will be remembered as one of the last full conversations I had with my Ma. In thinking of a title for a blog that I've intended on writing for years, it seemed like a natural fit. 

I hope you stay tuned to what's to come on "More Seasoned Then..." I promise, not all entries will be so heavy. As I glance into the kitchen to see my hubs, yet again, left cabinet doors open, I'm pretty sure I found my first light topic. 

XOXO

It's Time.

So, it's time. It's that time of year that things just "fall" into place. Work, school, family, life. With the changing colors we change the pace in which we just live. We stop taking for granted the warm breezes that kiss our cheeks knowing they'll soon be a fleeting glimpse of the all-too-short summer months. Holding them in before each exhale, we consume every last morsel of the hope fall brings. We stop to look at the clock at 6:30pm, wondering where the sun has gone - and get ready for our favorite show's season premiere... We stop to look at our loved ones and begin our year-end reflection, just as we always do, as the holidays approach. That Christmas shopping list seems to change every year. With the end of 2014 approaching, we realize almost another year has passed and there's still too much on our "to do" list.

So, it's time. My Ma, my life's number one cheerleader, always encouraged me to write. I think she told me when I was six or seven that I "liked writing," so I believed her and I wrote and wrote and wrote to make her proud. She even applauded my twisted poems about hating Barbie because of her stupidly perfect hair and smile. She was pleased with pretty much everything I wrote, except for the time she found my diary and figured out I was coo-coo crazy for a boy at 13. Bottom line: Ma was my reason to write.

It's been exactly 820 days since I sat down to really write with a purpose. That last purpose was my Mom's Eulogy. I woke up today and decided it's time to write and not cry while the words pour out. It's time to write: to share and try to laugh about the peaks and valleys we all experience. It's time to write so someday if I leave this earth too early like my Ma did, my babies have my words on paper (or screen!) so they can hear me while reading them, just as I do with my Ma's emails to me.

It's just time. I hope you enjoy.