The Best Thing to Ever Happen to Me

March 16th. The eve of Madelyn Marjorie's first birthday. We've already celebrated with family and friends at a party suited for an Irish Princess. Tomorrow, while the world dances the Irish Jig, drinks green beer, and sings "Oh Danny Boy," we will also smile and laugh and sing and dance. Because Maddy is the best gift we have ever received.

Dear Maddy,

As I write this, I like to think about where you were exactly one year ago...still cozy in my tummy...and then where you were ten minutes ago, trying to take more than four consecutive steps... on the verge of turning one year old. The day before each birthday is a time to think about the last year before looking forward to the next 365 sunrises and sunsets.

Every night I tuck you in and keep your door open just a wee bit so I am able to peek in and watch you sleep. You sleep so soundly, so peacefully (now!). I have seen millions of your little cells heal. I have heard you sigh and watched you settle in comfortably. I have been blessed to witness the personality of the little life in front of me unfold. You have literally grown before my very eyes... Every night I whisper to you, "You are the best thing to ever happen to me..." I know when your Dad and brother read this they will say, "What about me?" --  but you, Madelyn, are the best thing to happen to ALL of us...

My little Love, you are a miracle. Your mere existence is proof that miracles do happen. Your heart makes us love harder, live deeper, have faith, and laugh. A lot. You have singlehandedly strengthened the bond of our family. You challenge us. You make us believe. And you make us smile. Each and every day. 

While fading from this world before departing for the next, your GeeGee told me that my "next one (baby) wouldn't be so easy..." "A girl?" I asked... "Yes, you'll be more seasoned then..." Undoubtedly, you had crossed paths. Undoubtedly,  she was cluing me in to your early days. Undoubtedly, she sprinkled some of her soul into the stars which brought you to us. Strong. Determined. Beautiful. Funny. Unafraid. That's our Maddy. Undoubtedly ours.

You have a best friend in your brother...with whom you laugh and play and follow and look out for each other. When you cry, he comes running, "Oh no, Mah-dee," and when he cries, you crawl to him to offer comfort. You even sit in timeout with him! You conspire against me, thinking it's so funny to go into your rooms and close the door on me. Which it is, but I won't admit that until you're at least 17. You bring a softness to your father that only a daughter can bring. Although you prefer your share of tickles and gymnastics time on the floor with him. You also bring a smile to your Papa's face that only a little rascal can...it's almost like he is reliving his life from 45 years ago, when he first became a father to a baby girl. And to me, you are my gift straight from Heaven. While your brother healed my heart after I lost my Ma, your GeeGee, YOU have healed my soul. You are my most direct evidence that Heaven does exist. 

In thinking back to when we first found out you'd be joining our family, albeit unexpectedly, we were nervous, excited, and dumbfounded the world could bless us with another baby so soon after the first. And then the doctors warned us...numbers didn't look good; baby may not stick around. But you did. You have fought to be on this earth, a part of this life, this family. You have fought for us and we have fought for you. And we thank God for that each and every day. It's a testament to your personality, Maddy. Just like the Shakespeare quote that adorns your nursery: "Although she be but little, she is fierce" - and those words, my love, could very well have been written about you.

You are our Star of Wonder, Star of Night, Star with Royal Beauty Bright... We love you, Madelyn Marjorie...here's to the love and laughter and joy and beauty the next 365 sunrises and sunsets will bring. Cheers baby girl!

We love you...More.
Mama, Dada and Jimmy

P.S. Brother is very sorry for stealing your thunder during the Happy Birthday Song.

1,000 Days

My hubby and I share a Google combined calendar on our iPhones. For better or worse, richer or poorer, sickness and health... until one forgets to update the freakin' calendar...

I will inevitably say, "I need you to pick up the babies on April 10th..." to which he will respond, "I'm taking a class that day," or "I am working for so-and-so...," or the ever-so-subtle, "Did you put it in the calendar?" (keep in mind folks, the first two responses are NOT routinely inputted in aforementioned calendar!)

"Remember, the Calendar is not the final "final" word... the Calendar is not the Gospel... the Calendar is not updated... the Calendar doesn't make sense... the Calendar is filling up quickly..." and suddenly the Calendar is now a proper noun in the house which dictates our comings and goings. And, in case you were wondering...those quotes weren't coming from me...ha.

On the Calendar, I like to set audio alerts for events. Not only does this irritate, aggravate, and annoy my hubby because they inevitably ping at an inopportune moment but to make matters worse, oftentimes I don't take the moment to double check my alerts for proper timing. More than once, the alarm has gone off at 11:30pm to remind me to watch a segment on the Midday News that day or "Call Doctor" will beep at 2am instead of pm. The Calendar, nor I, seek perfection. 

But today, J had a legitimate question about the calendar. "What does 1,000 days mean?"

To which, I burst into tears.

On March 21st, the Calendar will alert me to the fact that my Ma has left this Earth for the Next Place exactly 1,000 days prior. One. Thousand. Days.  1,000 phone calls. 1,000 hugs. 1,000 "I love yous". 12 seasons. 3 Christmases. 2 grandchildren. Countless moments. Countless tears. Countless laughs and tugs at those heart strings. All missed. 

Maybe it's not normal to keep track of the days. But to me, it helps me live day-to-day in the "New Normal" - that's what Ma used to call Life after a big, changing event. The. New. Normal. And for 1,000 days I have found love and hate in that New Normal. 1,000 times I have sat and wondered how unfair and fickle Life can be sometimes. And for 1,000 times after I remembered Ma always quoting, "Life is what happens while you're making other plans..."

So on that date, March 21st, the Calendar's plan for me is to surround myself with the New Normal. Big Jim, me, Papa, Baby Jimmy and Maddy. All five of us. 

The Calendar will alert me, on that date, to the fact that life goes on, even if you're not ready for it. I guess in a way, keeping track of the days without my Ma may be not about what she has missed but the strength that I have been forced to gain to carry on. So we will plan to celebrate life, together, with 1,000 laughs, 1,000 smiles, 1,000 'I love yous', all for Ma. And maybe 1,000 beers, too.

I don't think she would want it any other way. 

Except for the beer.  Scratch that. 1,000 m&m's...those'll work just fine.

Life is No Accident

I'm sitting here eating a cupcake. Not just any ol' cupcake: it's a special cupcake my husband brought me as a treat to celebrate my "anniversary"... although the anniversary is not of our first date or our wedding.

It's February 4th, the eve of the 20th anniversary of "the accident" - the car accident that shaped my future, my life, my heart. On that day, the day that I almost died, I learned at the tender age of 17 what it takes some people a lifetime to figure out...how to really live.

Don't get me wrong: I don't live life perfectly...but life is just perfect, just for me. 

That cold Sunday morning, I cooked up a plan with a friend, to be somewhere with some people we probably shouldn't have been hanging out with anyway. I must have been feeling guilty about not being truthful about my plans with my parents, because for the first time in many years, I sat and chatted with my Dad as he shaved (and anxiously awaited the lil' bit of aftershave he would swipe on my chin, just as he did when I was little). And I watched my Ma, purposely and gracefully, put on her makeup (and teased her about the face she would make while putting lipstick on, just as I did when I was little). Before I left the house that day, I said "Goodbye" maybe ten times to each of them. The last hug I gave Ma was so that the corner of the island countertop we were standing either side of caught my rib in such a way as if to say, "Don't go"...

But I did. And it happened. The exact details of the accident are probably not all that important to share, bit by bit, but know that many people had a hand in putting this Humpty Dumpty back together. Literally.

I had a 1% chance of ever walking again. Knowing this fact, I made it my mission to live my life for the 99% of those who couldn't. To love, to give, to hope, to work hard, to give thanks and to laugh. A lot. At 17, I learned that everything certainly DOES happen for a reason, that the Man Upstairs had a design tailored for me, that the past has a plan for the future, that life has its peaks and its valleys, that there are some things you just can't control, that 'time' is a friend and a foe, that sometimes what you think is your path to take is really not an option in the end, that life just has to go on, that friends, true friends, will always lend a hand, and that family...family is everything. 

Twenty years later the sentiments are the same. I look around - if that accident didn't happen to me, so many things would have been different. Not better, just different. In looking at the smiles on these babies, I don't think things could ever be better than this. If, somehow, I could have known what my future would hold for me on that day 20 years ago, I would have still gotten in the car. 

The physical scars still visible pale in comparison to the life I have loved and enjoyed the last 20 years. 
Or to this cupcake.

Thank you for being a part of my life.

This Lil' Piggy...

My Ma used to look down at her feet on her birthdays and say, "These feet are ___ (insert age) years old. Isn't that something?" She always found it funny that feet, hands for that matter, aged, right along with the rest of the body. I would say, "But Ma, your eyes, nose, mouth, those are all ___ years old, too..." but that didn't strike her as interesting in knowing that her feet were now a year older than just the day before.

How ironic that just the other day I looked down and thought: "These feet are 37 1/2 years old"... While not the portrait of beauty, they've certainly served their purpose. They tell a life's story. They've been with me as I weeble-wobbled my first baby steps, as I pushed to pedal my pink banana-seat bicycle, as I made the game-winning kickball catch in 4th grade, as I gratefully hugged my orthopedic surgeon after my car accident, as I proudly displayed my summa cum laude cords at BU's commencement, as I stood in front of my very own classroom for the first time, as I traveled to various places and spaces on this earth, as I walked 117 miles for breast cancer, as Dad walked me down the aisle, and as I ran to a crying baby in the middle of the night. My feet have been there for me, even more so than some people I know. My feet. Carrying me through. Ten pudgy toes. And one pain-in-the-ass bunion.

Never thought of it that way before? I guess it's no coincidence that every vacation, I take a picture of my tootsies. After all, they earned the vacation, too.

Once Ma had left this earth for what comes next, I had an overwhelming urge to run. Just get on the treadmill, turn on my tunes and run. But with a giant baby boy in my belly and a painful toe, that wasn't happening anytime soon.

Fast forward. A new house, a new baby, a running toddler...

After a painful surgery last September to remove said bunion, after an awful recovery - ummm...nobody told me it would be THAT bad and believe me, I have had LOTS of surgeries... I was able to run just this last weekend, for the first time...embarrassingly enough, in years. My feet, which have always kept me going throughout the course of life's peaks and valleys, had been holding me back...for years. But now, I could run. Albeit a short run, it was a run, nonetheless.

So, I set a goal. Couch to 5k. Alright, maybe not for 2015, but for 2016, I would like to run the Pancan Purplestride 5k, for team Marchin' for Margie. (Check it out, here)

Until then, look for an upcoming picture of my piggies, soaking up the warm Arizona sunshine, taking in a baseball game, or chasing after those babies. I might even be sporting a lovely shade of green toenail polish. Green does mean "Go," doesn't it?

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.