An Imperfect 10.

One of my favorite ornaments sits atop my tree - it’s a picture of my Ma and Dad, on the last Christmas she was here. 

Isn’t that the bitch of life? Never really, really knowing when the last of things will be? The last “I love you,” the last hug, the last words said in anger, the last laughs, the last birthday candles, the last time friends or family get together before one is taken from this earth.

I’ve stared at that ornament now for ten Christmas seasons. Ten. This is the tenth Christmas I will spend without my Ma. You'd think it would get easier by now; it hasn't. It just got different. I. Am. Different. Everyone around me is different. And with that (in)difference, each Christmas gets a little more imperfect than the last. 

---

My Ma was the BEST, most thoughtful gift-giver on the planet. Not that Christmas is about getting the gifts, but well, you know. So many Christmas mornings were spent unwrapping things that I had mentioned I had liked, maybe one time, in April of that particular year. And. She. Remembered. I know now it's not the gifts I miss - I miss being heard; I miss being understood without having to explain myself. I miss being a consideration. I just miss her and the way things used to be.

Sometimes, though, she would give you the most practical, yet ridiculous gifts: like the headlight, for example, she gifted to Jim on one of his first Christmases with us. He was like, "Ok thanks" in more of a questiony tone. But alas, that damn headlamp came in handy more times than you could even imagine. Or how about the time she gave me the head scratcher - which was purely ridiculous but helpful when I had a migraine. Or the dream violin that I thought I was playing but instead hit the "demo" button. Or even the time she wrapped up 3 of the same cardigans because that is really how she shopped. I could go on but I think you get the picture. 

There was never a Christmas that went by that once all the gifts were unwrapped, Ma would turn to one of us and say, "Hmmmm... did you open...? Uh, hang on," followed by a quick trip to the depths of her closet to find the missing item, met with laughs from all of us. 

---

My kids are getting older but still believe in the magic of Christmas. Watching their eyes light up on Christmas morning as they open gifts that they pointed out to me 8 months before the 25th of December makes my heart smile and reminds me that I learned from the best. The. Absolute. Best. 

And as indifferent as I have become to some aspects of this life I cannot change, the Imperfect 10th Christmas without The Best will have some smiles, some tears, and definitely some laughs (but definitely no headlamps). 

More.

 "More."

I've sat here and stared at this screen for a good twenty minutes thinking about how today marks the 9th anniversary of the last word my Ma spoke to me: "More."

"More." A tiny word with such astronomical implications. 

More money, more love, more happiness, more cookies, more sleep, more freedom, more memories, more days on this earth. I imagine this is just a simple list of what people want more of. I know what I wish I could have had more of: time. 

...

In the years since Ma has left this earth for what comes next, I have come to the realization that I am moderately good at a lot of things: teaching, essential oils, crafts, and being a good daughter and friend come to mind. Please don't correct me after reading this because it's simply reality - I'm just proficient in these things and that's okay with me- I've learned to embrace the "moderately good" parts of who I am.  I do like to think I am great at one thing, though, and that's being a Mom - because I learned from the best. When my kids come in from playing in the snow, I have a warm blanket straight from the dryer handy. When they snuggle in close, I ask them, "Are you snug as a bug in a rug?" When they least expect a surprise, one is awaiting them, just because. When they have a fever, I put a cool rag on their foreheads. Through all of this and so much more, they have learned who their GeeGee was, because it's more than imperative to me to keep her memory alive: something I will never stop doing for them, for me, and for anyone who ever loved her. 

In the years since Ma has left this earth for what comes next, nothing and everything has changed. There is a school of thought that speaks to the idea that grief gets easier; it doesn't. You just get different. I'm different. Dad's different. Jim's different. Jackie's different. 

I'm different in that I have learned to let go of what I cannot control.  Sure, I still am allowed a five minute meltdown sometimes, but then I force myself to accept whatever "it" is. I have learned that people will make choices I don't agree with, but it's not me who has to live with the consequence of those choices (although this is not entirely true - see my first sentiment).  I have learned that not everything will make sense, the triumphs and disappointments included. But the single biggest thing I have learned is that nothing will surpass the biggest disappointment of my life: that my Ma didn't get to spend time with her grandchildren, and that will never be different. That? That I will never accept. She deserved more. I deserved more. Jimmy and Maddy deserve more.

...

When I tell you, "I love you more," it's because I probably do... because I learned that from my Ma. To love hard and with everything you have, but not to forget where you came from, what you've been through, or those who have gone to the next place before you. When I tell you, "I love you more most," it's because I want you to shut up because I am right and you are wrong, something I also learned from my Ma. 

No one misses you Ma, more, than me.

Copyright 2021 More Seasoned Then • Dana Prezembel Hackett

Because... Dad

Wednesday marks the 8th year since I hugged my Ma before she changed her residence to Heaven.
Eight freaking years.

In the days leading up to and in the days after her passing, I spent time writing a eulogy to send her off in the most appropriate way possible: one filled with laughter, tears and hope. I read what I had prepared for her memorial around the kitchen table to my Dad, my Aunty Cookie and my Uncle Don. I commented afterward that I had hoped I had captured everything I had ever wanted to say to her and that it was a shame that Time often steals the opportunities for sharing what is on your heart.

In that spirit, and knowing that Father's Day is upon us, I felt it appropriate to share with the world some thoughts on the other person who made me, well, me. Dad.

~

Because... Dad

My earliest memories of my Dad begin with the sound of the riding lawnmower and the smell of fresh-cut grass on an early June day. Some of the most precious memories of time with my Dad for "C the G," which, in Dan the Hammer speak was: "Cut the Grass." He held me on his lap for the quarter acre ride from the first peaks of green grass until the last leaves had fallen - Saturday after Saturday, year after year, for the first decade of my life. One day, I was big enough to "C the G" on my own, which lasted about two Saturdays after Dad discovered I couldn't drive in a straight line. More on that later. Nevertheless, our Saturday tradition taught me consistency. Consistency. Because... Dad.


Wherever Dad went, Dana went. I think our strong bond began (with an oft-told story, lovingly shared by Ma) on the day I was born. Back in those days, fathers didn't go into the delivery room, and once Ma was ready to introduce me to Dad, she said, "I hope you're not disappointed she is a girl!" followed by:  "Oh my God she has your nose!" If Dad was sad he never had a son, he certainly didn't ever act like it. I went with him everywhere. Handy Andy. Luke's Hot Dogs. I even asked once if I could go to the Library with him, not knowing he was referring to going to the potty. My sense of belonging? The courage to rock the nose? Belonging. Nose. Because... Dad.

Some of my most treasured memories are held in the back of 406 E. Waverly. I loved watching Dad shotgun a beer and jump into the pool, or try to balance on one of those crazy inflatable horses. Or the one time he was playing softball with me and decided to slide into home plate during the drought of 1989 and the rock-hard earth caused bruises down his entire leg. My love of home? Memories. Because... Dad.

Being Dad's Girl meant watching sports my whole life. Sundays were for the Bears and summers were for the Cubs. I loved going to games with my Dad and one of my fave memories was a "Ball or the Beer" moment in section 107 of Wrigley - prime foul ball territory. A full beer was balanced atop five empty cups and Dad had to make a choice - grab the ball for his 12 year old or preserve the full cup of Old Style. "Sorry, Da" - I think you know how that one ended. Cubbies. Beer. Because... Dad.

In 1995, when I got into my car accident, he never made me feel bad about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. On February 12th, one week to the day and the time that it happened, we cried together knowing that I was going to make it. On the days I didn't want to go on, I did so because he told me I had no other choice. He read me my cards and mail every night once he got home from work and he made me smile when I didn't want to. The drive to persevere? Strength. Because... Dad.

My Dad is the hardest working person I have ever met. One year, he had 52 work trips to take. 52! He never once complained because he was always grateful to have the jobs he has had and always grateful that he could provide for his family. Then, get this, on the weekends, he would be up at the crack of dawn to work around the house or on a project. He never stopped! That drive? That gratitude? Because... Dad.

Back in the day, you didn't have to go to college or have to get your MBA to be successful in the business world. Dad rose in ranks because he had the smarts, the drive, and a work ethic that college simply could not teach. So, when it came time for me to go to college, it was important to Dad that he sent me there without me having loans to repay or worry. My job was to graduate with honors. After I crossed the stage, I handed my honor cords to my Dad because he was the reason I earned them. This incredibly over-priced brain I have? Because... Dad.

When it was time for Ma to cross the Rainbow Bridge, we held on to her together. Although we had always been close, Ma's passing brought us even closer. As we forged on to find our "new normal," we had each other to lean on and figure it out. "We'll get through this," he would say. And we did. And we learned to live without her. And some days that sucks harder than others, but we go on. Because... Dad.

A few years after Ma was gone, Dad was ready to open his heart to someone else. It was hard at first but Dad's happiness means more to me than anything. After meeting Cheryl, I quickly got over any reservations I had because as Aunty Cookie says, "Life is for the living," and because... Dad.

Dad takes care of all of us. He was the one who fed my babies their first bottles, the one who let me cry to him when life got tough, and the one who bailed us out of countless jams. He loves us when we are down and he loves us when we are up. Dad shares in our heartbreaks and in our happiness. Dad is every part of us. We are so very grateful for who he is and for what he stands for. We are the lucky ones.

And with that, we are who we are because... Dad.

This Teachable Moment

When I started teaching middle school twenty years ago, I remember one of the more seasoned teachers urging me to embrace any "Teachable Moment." You know, that moment that you could never plan for, that moment which usually occurs at an inopportune time, that moment that you put everything on hold in order to teach the life lesson the universe has presented you. That lesson is one that oftentimes usurps what you originally thought was more substantial or important. Teachable Moments.

This. This is the Ultimate Teachable Moment.

The uncertainty, the unfathomable, the unreal... as unsettling as it is, we must seize this teachable moment. We must step up as a parent, a spouse, a child, a friend, and most importantly, as a teacher (even if not by trade) to all. If we do, we are going to get through this. If we don't, we have lost out on modern history's (or our own personal history's) most Teachable Moment. And of all things to worry about, that is the biggest and scariest disappointment of all.

We learn best by doing... I believe that we learn best by doing what is right. Some may say that what is right for some is not right for all, but we are all living through the unimaginable...together, we need to do right by each other. Let's start with the basics, shall we?

Share.
People are freaked, I get it, but share your damn toilet paper. All that's left is the decorative-dyed-pink sandpaper type shit tickets that can only be found at the Aldi. I saw you at the Meijer today: I know you don't need 60 two-ply double mega rolls. Nobody needs that much TP. Nobody. Stop it. You are making others panic by simply over-buying what you think you need. You know what you need? A knuckle sandwich, a deep breath, and a break from technology overload. Open a book, read a little, and share with us something new you've learned... not only from the words on the page, but also about yourself. If you'd like, you can even read in the bathroom amongst the rolls and rolls you've been hoarding that you're now regretting not sharing because you just got called out.

Love.
Show your neighbor some love. Check on the old lady across the street or the man you pass on Kirchoff Road who you know has no home.  Just a "hello" as you pass or a "What can I help you with?" is often just enough to show others that they matter. Snuggle with your kids, because as much as you want to water down this situation for them, they, in fact, know what is going on. Be calm, be honest, and most importantly, be present and loving. Dance with them to silly songs, not only for the movement their bodies crave, but also to show them that love never fails.

Teach.
Teach yourself how to be flexible. That is one of the biggest problems I see with the world today: inflexibility. I mean, who really, really likes change? Not many of us. We are too inflexible to see benefits change can bring. Maybe a year from now we will look back and see the benefits the changes from this experience has brought all of us. Be a role model for your children as you work from home and make sure they follow your lead... your child is still a student and you, the parent, are the teacher responsible for them: make sure they shower, brush their teeth, and get dressed daily. They need to exercise. Then, make sure they complete their e-learning assignments.

While you do, sit with your child for five minutes and guide him along (as a student). Then take a moment to reflect on that nasty email you sent to his teacher about a month ago, criticizing how she handled a situation or how your accusatory "not MY kid" has now become, "Oh crap, it was MY kid." Guaranteed. You'll be astonished and terrified at most kids' work ethic (yep, I'm talking about your Precious Prince); you'll be horrified at the constant tapping of pencils or flipping of tabs on the Chromebook. Don't believe me? You will. Recreational technology should always be earned (it's not a right) and it should only be entertained after the assignments of the day have been completed. Remember, you're the parent. Right now, you're the teacher. Hmmm...Teachable Moments.

We are all living it. Together. Share. Love. Teach. Teachable Moments always carry an "I told you so" undertone, and a month from now maybe you'll tell me I'm wrong...or maybe you won't.

In summing it all up, I thought about the days of school my children will miss - their teachers most of all -but also their friends, the structure, the routine, the familiarity. And then I wondered, will missing this many days of kindergarten matter when Mads is 18? I won't let it. Then I started thinking of this gem, one my Ma loved, and today it's more apropos than ever:

All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten

by Robert Fulghum

Most of what I really need
To know about how to live
And what to do and how to be
I learned in kindergarten.
Wisdom was not at the top
Of the graduate school mountain,
But there in the sandpile at Sunday school.

These are the things I learned:

Share everything.
Play fair.
Don't hit people.
Put things back where you found them.
Clean up your own mess.
Don't take things that aren't yours.
Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
Wash your hands before you eat.
Flush.
Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
Live a balanced life -
Learn some and think some
And draw and paint and sing and dance
And play and work everyday some.
Take a nap every afternoon.
When you go out into the world,
Watch out for traffic,
Hold hands and stick together.
Be aware of wonder.

I think now we need to put everything on hold and live like we are in kindergarten. This...this is the Teachable Moment that will redefine all of us. Let's hold hands (then wash them for twenty seconds, lathering twice and following up with hand sanitizer) and promise to stick together, k?

Twenty-Five.

Isn't it funny how a song can transport you to another place and time? Next time that happens, take a second to notice how the cadence of the bass and drums can take your breath away, yet simultaneously fill you with a constant reminder that in a moment, you'll have to return to the absolute here and now. Instant heartbreak.

Just the other day, while scanning the stations in the car, a song came on that did just that. I cranked it as loud as it could go, and found myself in the front seat of my Mom's car, in my 17-year-old body, listening to the same tune as we were passing Memory Gardens on Euclid Avenue.

"Ma, when I die, please play this song," It was more of a tell than an ask.

"Huh?"

"When I die, this is the song. It's Peter Gabriel (eye roll like she should know). I love it. It's one of my faves."

"Okay, fine.  Do you think you're going to die?"

Annoyed teenage silence.  

Five days later, I did just that. 

*****************************************************************************

I don't really talk about it much, except sometimes after a beer or six with my Brudder-Cousin, Mark, who is the only one I know who I think knows what I'm talking about. 

It was brutally cold. I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. It was noon on a Sunday. I didn't have much experience driving, but that fact didn't make it my fault.

The moments after the accident are meant to be between me, God, the ones who've gone before me, and us alone. I think that it's Divine Design that has prohibited me from being able to write about it, even after all of these years. I don't want to fill your head with how it'll be for you, because I believe we all will experience something a little different. What I saw, felt, and believed to have experienced was quiet, beautiful and everything I had dreamed it would be...but it was quick, and it was not my choice whether or not that moment was the true end of me on earth.

******
I remember hands positioned underneath me, with the imminent intent of moving my body to a safer location. I tried to speak loudly for the good samaritans to hear: "Do NOT move me, I broke my neck," when my pleas were met by a woman in charge coordinating: "Okay, on the count of Three..." at that moment I knew that was it: I was going to be paralyzed. I begged for God to take me back to where I just was because that would be better than being paralyzed from the neck down. Before three, I could hear running and hollers: "DON'T TOUCH HER: I'M A PARAMEDIC!"

He asked me my name and told me his. "Troy," he whispered. And he comforted me and cared for me so I didn't bleed out or suffer further injuries. He is the first reason I am still here.

The next thing I remember is seeing a man in a University of Michigan sweatshirt, and he told me he was going to take care of me. I think I said, "I just got accepted to MSU," and he told me "Don't worry, I am going to make sure you get there, but I'm partial to U of M." 

Then I remember being wheeled into surgery, telling my parents that I loved them and hearing Dr. Benson tell my Dad, "We won't be able to reattach the finger but we will do what we can to save the hand," and then I blacked out from crying so hard. The next thing I remember was being on a bed that constantly rocked back and forth, opening my eyes to see the end of the tube stuck in my mouth, busy doing the breathing for me. I remember spelling "Make it stop" one letter at a time with my right index finger in my Ma's palm. My Ma, who rarely cried in front of me, mustered up the strength to say, "I wish I could," through obvious tears. This went on for days.

*******
The days, weeks, and months that followed were not easy. For anyone. I tried to keep a positive attitude but I was resentful that I was missing what was supposed to be the best part of high school. I remember drinking a lot of milk to heal my bones, and eating a copious amount of pudding pops. I had a halo brace screwed into my head, a large bandage on my arm, a full leg cast and then about 80 stitches in the other leg. It was a 1% chance of me walking again after the injuries I had to my neck alone - and I was determined to tackle the situation and lead a life all would be proud of. I owed that to all who cared for me, and to the second chance at life I was given. 

*******
I think I've written about how some anniversaries are harder than others. With Twenty-Five looming over me this week, I have been quieter than normal and obviously introspective. I had the intent of handwriting letters to certain people and sending, but time got the best of me. I think I put it off long enough, because I knew that if I just sat down and wrote, the anniversary was much closer than I thought it was. I don't know where life will lead me in twenty-five more years, so here goes:

*******

Dear Troy,
I do not have the words to thank you enough.  I'm so grateful for the uncanny timing you had that day, and I know that that made all the difference in the quality of my life from that moment on out. I love that we have built a friendship over the years: having you at my high school graduation, and dancing with me at my wedding will be two of my all-time favorite memories. Since that day, I have long-carried the belief that I, too, will stop to help someone. It's part of my purpose - one of the reasons I lived. I hope you know how much you mean to me.
Forever Thankful,
Dana


Dear Dr. Perlmutter,

I'm guessing it was probably a bummer to be on call on a Sunday, away from time with your own family. I have thought of this often since having children of my own. My life would not have been the same without you, and all you have done for me, from those early moments on in the ER until now. 

Your kind and composed demeanor kept me calm, in the most un-calm situation. I remember you trying to talk to me while there were tons of other nurses and doctors hovering over me with wires and tubes in hand and you asked them to give us a second. They quieted, and you had to lean over the rails of my bed to meet my eyes to tell me, "You broke your neck, Dana," and I tried to respond "I know that."  I remember talking so people could understand me was so hard, and so utterly exhausting. You must have seen the panic in my eyes and knew what I was trying to ask, when you instinctively responded, "We will take care of you," and I felt at ease. That's exactly what you did - you more than took care of me - you made a miracle happen. While taking charge in all of my care, your decisions were made in my best interest. You beamed when I made it through the first week and eventually when I started to thrive. I try to live each day to make you proud, to show my appreciation for all you have done to afford me the life I have so very much loved to live. 
With Love and Gratitude,
Dana 


To all of my Aunts, Uncles and Cousins,
You all stepped up when you didn't have to. Those dizzy first days that you came to visit, to offer love and support for me (and Ma and Dad) have never been forgotten. When I got home from the hospital, and you stayed overnight to give my parents a break, we appreciated it then as we do now. You will never know how much you all mean to me. 
Love,
Da

My Dearest Friends, 
I found out quickly who you were after this experience - at seventeen it's so silly to think I needed a life-changing experience to see what was already in my heart. You stood by me, cheered for me, and loved me through a difficult time. You made me laugh when I needed it most, and let me cry when I needed to vent. A special thank you to Shane and Jimmy Key... two of my most cherished friends - we didn't allow a bad experience to simply define a friendship... we allowed it to sow the seeds a lifelong friendship.  
Always,
Dana


Dear Jim,
You never once hesitated or flinched when we first started dating as we talked about my accident (and the obvious finger). It meant the world to me that you saw me for me beyond all of my scars, hurts, worries, and anxieties. I never thought I would be lucky enough to find someone who loved me for me. Thank you for supporting me always and never thinking it was funny to put an engagement ring on my right hand- I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you. 
More Most,
Me.


Dear Jimmy and Maddy,
Someday when you read this, I hope you are in a place in your life that you can understand that even though bad things happen to good people, we have to take a moment to find the good in those bad situations. I often say that my accident was the "best worst thing that could ever happen to me," and I mean it. Mama may look a little different than your friend's moms, and that's okay. It's just like I always say: Everybody's body is different. I know you respect that and appreciate that, and even at your young ages, you understand that. I need you to now understand this: I thank God for you every single day, and I know the road to your life on this earth began with the help I had from others the day of my accident. So many things could have been so different - and if they were, chances are you'd still be on the other side of the rainbow. I love you more; I love you most. 
Love,
Mama

Dear Ma and Dad,
Not a day goes by that I don't think about the agony I put you through - and I'm so incredibly sorry. You deserved to be happy, not to endure another heartbreak. Both of you have always done so much for me and I owed you so much more gratitude than what I gave you in return. Nevertheless, you cared for me and loved me and forgave me. You recognized it was an accident, that it wasn't my fault, and it was a journey we would take together. You told me we would make it through, and we did. Sure, there were good days and bad days, but they were all days God granted us together. I am who I am because of who raised me, and boy, am I ever thankful I was raised by the best. You gave me strength, you gave me hope, and you gave me love, even when it was hard to love myself. 
I love you more.
Da

******
Outside of my classroom is a sign with "25" on it, and a little note: they say time heals all wounds, but I'm not so sure. The wounds maybe haven't all healed, but they sure have changed. Tomorrow, I will take ten minutes out of class and finally explain the full story of how exactly twenty-five years ago, a girl just three years older than they are now, beat the odds to build a life she loved to live, with the help and love of so many.


Infinitely grateful... 
Dana

Goodbyes are Hard.

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. 

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?"

"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