28.

 

"Happy Accident Day, Mama," Jimmy hugged me with all his might. Not to be outdone by Brudder, Mads followed in close behind with the same sentiment and maybe even a little bit of a tighter squeeze. These two... hands down, my absolute reason for being. With my eyes leaky, I head downstairs to workout, thankful for the ability to move my body the best way I know how.

Jimmy was well into his first five minutes of PS5 time and asked, "Mom, do you know what song was on while you crashed?" Me: "Yes. 'Tuesday's Gone' by Lynyrd Skynyrd... Do you want to hear it?"

"Can we, Mama?"

"Yep."

"Hey Alexa, play 'Tuesday's Gone' by Lynyrd Skynyrd."

Three bars in... I'm crying. He puts down the controller; he is crying. He says, "Mama, I love you more than anything in this world." 

"...train, roll on..."

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

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. Twenty-Eight isn't a significant milestone or number, but 1995, as I have recently learned, has much more significance to me than just this accident. Today, however, my eyes are leaky - but as a loved one told me this morning, "but you made it." And I did. I made it. And I will make it again.

Until that time, though, I need to thank a few key people in my life. 

*******

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 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. I also know that YOU are the reason I am here. 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; I love you always. 
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

******
They say time heals all wounds, but I'm not so sure about that. The wounds maybe haven't all healed, but they sure have changed. I have changed, and I'm not done. Tomorrow, I will take time out of class and finally explain the full story of how exactly twenty-eight 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, love, and support of so many.


Infinitely grateful... 
Dana

29

July 16, 2006

Dear Dana,

29 years old today. Happy Birthday, Girl! Tonight, you're going to have an absolute blast at Howl at the Moon with all of your friends - they'll come from every aspect of your life: college, work, childhood - it really doesn't matter, because you're the glue.  They'll come together like they're all old friends too - for laughs, for shots, for dancing and for some really, really bad microphone takeovers that will almost get you kicked out of the place. Tomorrow, you'll pay for it with a raging hangover that will piss off your Ma, but she'll get over it quickly like she always does because she thinks you're something to celebrate, too. She may even give you some Pedialyte to take the edge off. Maybe.

Enjoy every gift of a sunrise in this trip around the sun - I'm sorry to tell you, but it'll be the one of the last that seems easy-breezy for ya. Maybe for a long, long time. But you won't know this until much later. But like Ma always says, "life is a series of peaks and valleys," you'll have your shining moments in-between - not really knowing if you're in a peak or in a valley at the time  - and you'll wear them well. You'll live, you'll learn, and you'll reflect on the moments that will test your soul. That is how you are built and that is all you know how to do. You got this. And deep down, you'll know you do, too.

My birthday gift to you is the reassurance in knowing you will once return to the You you are tonight. I promise you this. Back to the girl who laughs loudly and loves with reckless abandon. To the girl who celebrates others and seeks those who celebrate her. To the girl they say, "There she is" when you are seen. You may bend, but you won't break. Some days you will feel like it, but you won't allow yourself to. After all, you are your Ma's daughter and you can't let her down. However, along the way, you'll allow parts of your life to evolve into something that doesn't even look like a life, purely out of survival. And that's okay. You'll forgive yourself for that someday. And you always find a silver lining, because silver linings are all you know. And on those days that you have doubts, look down at those wings, Girl, and fly.

In a few years, you'll teach all of these things to your babies, who will be like you in so many ways. More ways than even you can recognize. He will be your heart; She will be your soul, and you will realize that your world begins and ends with them. As it should. In your early years as a mother, you'll forget all about who you are tonight, at 29 years old. But that won't always be the case. Just remember that when you're ready, you can reopen the birthday gift I just presented to you, and it will mean more to you the second time you take the bow off. 

One day, you'll dream about this night - and in this dream, you'll even be wearing the new tube top and necklace you got today at Express. You'll take the microphone from the piano, and you'll sing Dreams by Van Halen, louder than you can remember your Ma singing it when she thought nobody could hear her. But this time, everyone can hear you - and more importantly - so pay attention now, you will hear yourself: "and in the end, on dreams we will depend, 'cuz that what love is made of..."  You'll awake and just know: It's time to love yourself again. And you will. It won't be easy, but it'll be worth it. It will take time. Stop doubting yourself: be brave, be strong, be the 29 year old you are.

One last thing:  tonight, when the blaring rendition of Forever Young is played, grab that mic and sing with those friends, "Whatever road you choose, I'm right behind you, win or lose" like you're literally singing for your life, because, really, you are. You are singing to your future self and let me tell you something: she is dancing her ass off. How do you know I know what I'm talking about? Because everything will be okay in the end - and if it's not okay, it's not the end. 

Because when you look in the mirror tomorrow, all you will see is you. At 45. 

Love, 

Dana

January 22, 2023

p.s. - I love your hair.

Bye Mom

It’s late. Like, really late. I should be so asleep that I have gotten up to pee twice already, but I’m not. I can’t. It’s June 23 ½. 

Ten years ago on this night, I camped out in Room 906 of a building I can see from my now new-ish home (an intentional part of this home purchase). I look outside now, wondering who occupies 906 now. Covid? Car accident? Pancreatic Cancer? Not sure which, I search the predawn sky for the planets the news told me that were supposed to align, right before the sun hits the horizon. Nope. Nada. Can’t see a damn thing, except for the light on in a hospital room I imagine is Room 906, wishing that the family of the person resting there tonight doesn’t suffer the same heartbreak I felt at this very moment, exactly one decade ago. 

Dad and I had decided that we weren’t leaving and we needed to be with her. We sobbed as we signed the papers nobody ever wants to sign for someone they love. We watched. We waited. We pretended this wasn’t really happening. But it was. And on June 23 ½, it happens all over for me again, and the reality of time and space won’t ever change that - an uncomfortable truth I have come to expect.

But that night, we weren’t sure what was in store, except we had lost enough people we loved that we understood there was no leaving. So there we were, Dad in a chair, me six months pregnant and camped on a love seat, hoping she would make it til the 24th, when Aunty Cookie, Uncle Don, and the rest of the family made it in to say goodbye. 

The sun rose swiftly on that morning and I remember I couldn’t wait for my family to arrive, but also hoping the clock ticked more slowly and its hands pushed the people we loved further away from 906. Once they did arrive, I knew that she would know then know it was time for her to move on. In her transition, or what I call the “float,” between here and the Next Place, she was slipping away from us, but not until I got her last word spoken on this earth, “More.”

More. More is all I ever wanted, but it’s something I will never, ever have - and that is the single biggest disappointment of my life.

So there we were, at about 8:30 in the evening on the 24th of June, “More” was going to be out of my grasp until “More” is the last word I will utter to my own children someday when it’s my time to go. Ma took four distinct breaths, the kind you make out of awe and surprise at what your eyes have just glimpsed, and that was it. She was gone. 

In the years that have followed, I have tried very hard to keep her memory alive, but there are no more pictures, no more one-lined emails, no more pantyhose (if you know, you know), and no more memories. A friend of mine, Bobby, who lost his mom very young once told me, “Life is divided into two time periods: Before Ma and After Ma,” and I can attest to the absolute truth of that sentiment. I hate that. Sometimes, though, I think I have memories of my Ma with my children, and then I realize that none of it happened, but somehow I find comfort in the lies I tell myself to just keep going, strong and steadfast just as she taught me to do.

I have found over the years that the days leading up to the anniversary are worse than the actual date itself, but the gravity of double-digits overwhelms me today and everything sucks. I have found that the pain doesn’t get different, you just get different, and today, that sucks, too. I wonder if I am even a tenth of the mother she was, because today I will make them clean their rooms and floss their teeth and they will think that I suck. Today, I do, and I’m allowed that. But just for today.

Tomorrow, I will get up and get Maddy ready for her dance recital and secretly record her on stage and later, I will be the loudest Mom at the baseball playoff game, cheering on Jimmy and his buddies. I guess that will be my “More.”

Bye Mom. Until we meet again. More.

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?