Hi...I'm still here. Some days just barely. Some days held together with Scotch Tape. Some days like the wind blowing through your driver's window when "Livin' on a Prayer" comes on (what's now the oldies station, by the way). Whatever day I've had when I hit the pillow that night, the sentiment stays the same: Thank you, God, for all of my blessings.
Seems like summer had just gotten started when that pesky August arrived. The bucket list the kids and I created for 2019 had marks all over it, indicating all of our goals had been accomplished: carnival, beach, fireworks, picnic, gross jumpy places, baseball games, craft camp, acting camp, baseball camp, vacation Bible school... we were busy. Tired and happy, but busy. And blessed.
On tap for the last day of summer was Toy Story 4- just the kids and me. Small "cozies" (blankets), "pets" (stuffed animals), and our little popcorn bags were prepared and off we were to our favorite AMC. Everything about the day and the movie was just perfect: until the closing scene. I hope I'm not spoiling this for you, but the ending is one that makes your throat get all fiery and tight... I looked next to me at Mads, a little side frown painted on her pretty little face, maybe she wasn't understanding what was happening. Then I looked to my Little Old Soul and there it was: the full-on ugly cry. Dammit, I forgot the tissues.
Jimmy just gets it, and if you know him and know him well, you will agree when I say he has gotten it since the day he was born. At this moment, all I could do was outstretch my arms for my tender-hearted boy, and hug him (thank goodness for the oversized theater seats). After the lights came on, and the cleaning crew appeared to get started, I asked him what struck him as so sad, to which he answered, "Goodbyes are hard, Mama."
We walked in silence to the car, and sat in the lot for a moment. Jimmy was still crying. "Wanna talk about it," I would ask occasionally, which was answered with a headshake "no." The moment was so sweet and endearing, so poignant and so raw, so Jimmy and so... Life.
Goodbyes are hard. We have said goodbye to quite a bit in the last seven years - so many people, things, ideas, dreams... I just don't know where to begin if I had to make a list. In that time, we have said hello to equally as many new people, schools, things, ideas, dreams... It's a matter of chance and choice - such is Life, I guess. Such is Life.
Notice the things that make you tired, happy, busy and blessed. When you stop to think about it, these are the things that make you, well, you. It's what we give thanks for at the end of each day, and it's what gets us through Life's Cycle of Goodbyes.
Just don't forget the tissues.
Copyright 2019 More Seasoned Then, a blog by Dana Prezembel Hackett.
Saturday, October 5, 2019
Friday, June 14, 2019
The Uncomfortable Truth.
Hello, my friend, hello.
Try reading that without singing it in your head just like Neil Diamond would, I dare you.
If you're over the age of forty, it can't happen.
It's been awhile. A very, very long while. I have thought about writing a thousand and one times, but again, just like Ma used to share a quote from John Lennon: "Life is what happens when you're making other plans..."
So, here goes.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The day it finally happened was no different than the day before. I peered through the glass to get a glimpse of my children with their friends, typically snacking before pick-up time. Today, though, was different. At the door, Ms. Maureen held out a sandwich baggie, a tiny tooth inside. Behold, the very first lost tooth.
Jimmy was quiet and steadfast in his walk to the door, careful not to make eye contact. But I know my boy. He put on a brave face when "it" happened, but once he saw me, all bets were off. My Little Old Soul knew the gravity of this milestone. I knelt down, arms outstretched, and waited for it. Once he melted in my arms, I could feel the tears hit my shoulder. Mads rubbed his back as I questioned him, "Did it hurt?" head shake 'No'. "Was it scary?" again, head shake 'No'. "What is it, Buddy?"
And there it is: The Uncomfortable Truth.
I carried him to the car that day, all 53.2 pounds of him, partly because I knew there would come a day that I wouldn't be able to, and partly because I knew that he just needed me to. Shuffling down the hallway with him in my arms, I couldn't help but think how much life this six-year-old has experienced, and how much of The Uncomfortable Truth he just "gets."
To me, The Uncomfortable Truth is just that: truth that doesn't lie, that doesn't spew sunshine and rainbows, even though that would, frankly, make things much easier. The Truth that everyone doesn't (and shouldn't) get a trophy. The Truth that you're not everyone's cup of tea. The Truth that life goes on and sometimes that just freaking hurts. The Uncomfortable Truth unveils the raw folds of dog-eared pages in your book of life: chapters of good, bad, and downright ugly.
...
On a random Tuesday a few weeks ago while on our way to school, Maddy asked: "Mama, how did GeeGee go to Heaven?" The hard, proverbial lump in my throat prohibited me from answering. Noticing the pause in the conversation, Jimmy took care of it for me: "Maddy, she had the cancer." Which then led to her next line of questioning, "Mama, what's the cancer?"
"Well, Mads, it's when one tiny cell in the body decides to change and it makes a person sick."
"Oh, okay, but I don't want to get the cancer" she says, to which I counter, "You don't necessarily have the choice." Choice is not always a luxury afforded to us. Again, The Uncomfortable Truth.
...
What is for you, will not pass you. This holds true for friends, opportunities, employment and especially in the mundane moments which allow you to move from who you once were to who you are now meant to be. The last few years for us Hacketts have been far from a whisper on the wind; I like to think of the time more like a palmful of glitter held in front of an ordinary table fan. One minute, sparkly and organized, and with the turn of the dial - a glistening mess all over the damn place. You know what, though? In picking up the pieces, we found strength in each other and in those who raised us up. Those who believed in the beauty of our mess helped us persevere, helped us become all the better for it. I've always thought glitter was a pesky art form, but it sure does sparkle, doesn't it? You have to see it for what it is, in this case - opportunity. You can either grab the dustpan, tidy up and toss it, or you can bust out the Elmer's and make it into something else. In the end, it was not all so bad - just make sure the glue dries on your new project, and be sure to entitle it The Uncomfortable Truth.
...
It's the close of my nineteenth year of teaching. In the last few years, I have given a "Señora's Top Nine" bits of life advice to my graduating eighth graders, on our last day as a class. Here is number three:
Be of service to others. If you think your life is so bad, I can tell you, there are others out there who have it a heck of a lot worse than you. Be grateful for what you DO HAVE, and the more grateful you are, the more the world will give you things to be grateful for. Do something nice for people less fortunate, because there may be a day your life will turn and you’ll be on the receiving end. That is what makes life beautiful and scary at the same time...you just never know.
And there you have the most undeniable Uncomfortable Truth of all- you just never know.
You just never know. You never know when you'll have the last conversation with someone you love. Never know when the "best worst thing" that has ever happened in your life guides you to become the very best version of yourself. You'll never know when that tooth will finally fall out. But what I hope you do know, deep down to your very core, is that The Uncomfortable Truths of life serve to help you grow, persevere, and carry on (preferably with glitter in tow).
And that's the truth.
And maybe, just maybe, a $20 under your pillow from the Tooth Fairy could make things easier, too.
...
As a side note, I googled "The Uncomfortable Truth" after writing. As it turns out, Mark Manson wrote a book encompassing these ideas in a book about Hope. You can find it here, perfectly summing it all up; although his version includes a spin I wish I could have put into words myself. I give credit where credit is due, and so should you. All ideas copyright 2019 More Seasoned Then, Dana Prezembel Hackett
Try reading that without singing it in your head just like Neil Diamond would, I dare you.
If you're over the age of forty, it can't happen.
It's been awhile. A very, very long while. I have thought about writing a thousand and one times, but again, just like Ma used to share a quote from John Lennon: "Life is what happens when you're making other plans..."
So, here goes.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The day it finally happened was no different than the day before. I peered through the glass to get a glimpse of my children with their friends, typically snacking before pick-up time. Today, though, was different. At the door, Ms. Maureen held out a sandwich baggie, a tiny tooth inside. Behold, the very first lost tooth.
Jimmy was quiet and steadfast in his walk to the door, careful not to make eye contact. But I know my boy. He put on a brave face when "it" happened, but once he saw me, all bets were off. My Little Old Soul knew the gravity of this milestone. I knelt down, arms outstretched, and waited for it. Once he melted in my arms, I could feel the tears hit my shoulder. Mads rubbed his back as I questioned him, "Did it hurt?" head shake 'No'. "Was it scary?" again, head shake 'No'. "What is it, Buddy?"
"Growing up is hard, Mama."
And there it is: The Uncomfortable Truth.
I carried him to the car that day, all 53.2 pounds of him, partly because I knew there would come a day that I wouldn't be able to, and partly because I knew that he just needed me to. Shuffling down the hallway with him in my arms, I couldn't help but think how much life this six-year-old has experienced, and how much of The Uncomfortable Truth he just "gets."
To me, The Uncomfortable Truth is just that: truth that doesn't lie, that doesn't spew sunshine and rainbows, even though that would, frankly, make things much easier. The Truth that everyone doesn't (and shouldn't) get a trophy. The Truth that you're not everyone's cup of tea. The Truth that life goes on and sometimes that just freaking hurts. The Uncomfortable Truth unveils the raw folds of dog-eared pages in your book of life: chapters of good, bad, and downright ugly.
...
On a random Tuesday a few weeks ago while on our way to school, Maddy asked: "Mama, how did GeeGee go to Heaven?" The hard, proverbial lump in my throat prohibited me from answering. Noticing the pause in the conversation, Jimmy took care of it for me: "Maddy, she had the cancer." Which then led to her next line of questioning, "Mama, what's the cancer?"
"Well, Mads, it's when one tiny cell in the body decides to change and it makes a person sick."
"Oh, okay, but I don't want to get the cancer" she says, to which I counter, "You don't necessarily have the choice." Choice is not always a luxury afforded to us. Again, The Uncomfortable Truth.
...
What is for you, will not pass you. This holds true for friends, opportunities, employment and especially in the mundane moments which allow you to move from who you once were to who you are now meant to be. The last few years for us Hacketts have been far from a whisper on the wind; I like to think of the time more like a palmful of glitter held in front of an ordinary table fan. One minute, sparkly and organized, and with the turn of the dial - a glistening mess all over the damn place. You know what, though? In picking up the pieces, we found strength in each other and in those who raised us up. Those who believed in the beauty of our mess helped us persevere, helped us become all the better for it. I've always thought glitter was a pesky art form, but it sure does sparkle, doesn't it? You have to see it for what it is, in this case - opportunity. You can either grab the dustpan, tidy up and toss it, or you can bust out the Elmer's and make it into something else. In the end, it was not all so bad - just make sure the glue dries on your new project, and be sure to entitle it The Uncomfortable Truth.
...
It's the close of my nineteenth year of teaching. In the last few years, I have given a "Señora's Top Nine" bits of life advice to my graduating eighth graders, on our last day as a class. Here is number three:
Be of service to others. If you think your life is so bad, I can tell you, there are others out there who have it a heck of a lot worse than you. Be grateful for what you DO HAVE, and the more grateful you are, the more the world will give you things to be grateful for. Do something nice for people less fortunate, because there may be a day your life will turn and you’ll be on the receiving end. That is what makes life beautiful and scary at the same time...you just never know.
And there you have the most undeniable Uncomfortable Truth of all- you just never know.
You just never know. You never know when you'll have the last conversation with someone you love. Never know when the "best worst thing" that has ever happened in your life guides you to become the very best version of yourself. You'll never know when that tooth will finally fall out. But what I hope you do know, deep down to your very core, is that The Uncomfortable Truths of life serve to help you grow, persevere, and carry on (preferably with glitter in tow).
And that's the truth.
And maybe, just maybe, a $20 under your pillow from the Tooth Fairy could make things easier, too.
...
As a side note, I googled "The Uncomfortable Truth" after writing. As it turns out, Mark Manson wrote a book encompassing these ideas in a book about Hope. You can find it here, perfectly summing it all up; although his version includes a spin I wish I could have put into words myself. I give credit where credit is due, and so should you. All ideas copyright 2019 More Seasoned Then, Dana Prezembel Hackett
Saturday, March 16, 2019
To My Daughter, On the Eve of Her Fifth Birthday.
My Dearest Madelyn Marjorie,
Tomorrow, when the world is adorned in green and orange and shamrocks and Guinness and revelling in all kinds of Blarney, I will quietly be raising a glass… to you.
Cheers, Baby Girl, to you, on your fifth birthday.
Cue the ugly cry.
I will cry knowing that 5 years ago, I held you for the first time and kissed your forehead - the same way I have done every night since God carefully chose me to be your Mama. I will cry when I tell you “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” and “I love you most,” at bedtime. I will cry when I close your door for the night, knowing that the next day you will be 5 years and 1 day old.
I used to laugh at your GeeGee for her constant commentary on time and here I am… praying for it to slow down. I beg you almost daily to “stop growing so fast.” Time and time again, you hold my face into your little hands and whisper, “I can’t...but no matter how I look on the outside, I will always be your Baby Girl…” and to me, that is what you will always be.
Mads, I have so many wishes for you as you begin your fifth trip around the sun. I wish you grace for when you stumble, I wish you hope for when you’re heartbroken, and I wish you strength for when you’re up against the odds… But most of all, I wish you peace for when the world wants to show you how ugly it can be.
Know that this peace begins with you: from every morning as you greet the sunshine with “Good Morning, Sun,” to your last words of the evening: “Thank you, God, for all of my blessings…” and every single moment in between. From the exciting to the mundane, you will find your peace in the little things most take for granted and in the love that’s already inside of your heart. It’s the wonderment and love you have of the little things that make the big things that’ll try to break you but a mere wrinkle in the fabric of your being. So keep whistling to those birdies every morning, Mads, because I do believe they are singing their song just for you.
A few weeks ago, while trying to get out the door for the day, you didn’t want to wear your shoes to school because “Hailey* won’t talk to anyone who doesn’t have laces…” and do you remember what I told you? “Hailey sucks and she is not your friend. Not everyone has the
same heart as you, Madelyn, and that’s okay.” And then we hugged. Tight. And it was the kind of hug that was more of a hold - long enough for us to miss our daily “target leave time,” but it didn’t matter - you needed me and as promised, I was there. As the tears streamed down your face, I thought about how to go all Mama-Bear on Hailey but you know what? The people in this world who do not have the same heart as you will just make you stronger. They will hurt you on purpose, they will talk about you, and they will take advantage of your sweet nature. Know that this will happen at 5, 25, and even 95; it doesn’t matter how many candles are on your cake. Just know the problem lies in something that is in them, not something that is in you. So take that, Hailey. Laces are so 90’s anyway.
…
Just the other morning, after hearing your pounding piggies hit the ground while running to my room to greet me for the day, you pointed out and petted the scar on your upper left abdomen. “Here’s my scar, Mama, it makes me beautiful.” “It’s just a little part of what makes you beautiful, Mads,” pretending there were remnants of sleep in my eyes instead of tears, “Your beauty starts on the inside.” That scar is just a little reminder of how lucky we are to have you - and how you overcame your first obstacle at eleven weeks old. I fought hard for you, Mads. Someday I will tell you the whole story, but somehow I think you already know.
You asked for a locket with our picture in it for your birthday. What a “Very Maddy” request. I’m not sure how at five you already recognize the bond of our family, but you do... and for that, I’m the lucky one. As your Mama, I will never have to worry about you feeling the love and the enchantment of a happy home. We are far, far from perfect, but together we are a perfect family. Together we write our own narrative as we move forward through time. While including our own rewrites, rereads, and redos, our experience is uniquely ours and ours alone. And it’s just getting started. I can’t wait to see what lies ahead for you, your brother, your dad and for me.
My Sweet Mads, you are the the sign I needed to affirm that Heaven does exist - your GeeGee told me you’d be mine long before you were even a thought. So thank you for being here; thank you for being you. Even 90 years from now, (when I’m up in Heaven watching over), know you’ll always be my little girl. By that time, maybe you’ll even be sitting in a rocking chair, enjoying a glass of Guinness, thinking of me, too.
But don’t be sad: I will be too busy up beyond the rainbow, decked out in green and my Irish orange, sporting all kinds of shamrocks, hooting and hollering while crappily dancing a jig and proudly raising a glass: “Cheers to my Madelyn Marjorie.”
And that is no Blarney.
Happy, happy birthday. I love you...most.
Mama
*Names have been changed to protect the jerks.
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