To My Daughter, On the Eve of Her Fifth Birthday.

My Dearest Madelyn Marjorie,

Tomorrow, when the world is adorned in green and orange and shamrocks and Guinness and revelling in all kinds of Blarney, I will quietly be raising a glass… to you.

Cheers, Baby Girl, to you, on your fifth birthday.

Cue the ugly cry.

I will cry knowing that 5 years ago, I held you for the first time and kissed your forehead - the same way I have done every night since God carefully chose me to be your Mama. I will cry when I tell you “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” and “I love you most,” at bedtime. I will cry when I close your door for the night, knowing that the next day you will be 5 years and 1 day old.

I used to laugh at your GeeGee for her constant commentary on time and here I am… praying for it to slow down. I beg you almost daily to “stop growing so fast.” Time and time again, you hold my face into your little hands and whisper, “I can’t...but no matter how I look on the outside, I will always be your Baby Girl…” and to me, that is what you will always be.

Mads, I have so many wishes for you as you begin your fifth trip around the sun. I wish you grace for when you stumble, I wish you hope for when you’re heartbroken, and I wish you strength for when you’re up against the odds… But most of all, I wish you peace for when the world wants to show you how ugly it can be.

Know that this peace begins with you: from every morning as you greet the sunshine with “Good Morning, Sun,” to your last words of the evening: “Thank you, God, for all of my blessings…” and every single moment in between. From the exciting to the mundane, you will find your peace in the little things most take for granted and in the love that’s already inside of your heart. It’s the wonderment and love you have of the little things that make the big things that’ll try to break you but a mere wrinkle in the fabric of your being. So keep whistling to those birdies every morning, Mads, because I do believe they are singing their song just for you.

A few weeks ago, while trying to get out the door for the day, you didn’t want to wear your shoes to school because “Hailey* won’t talk to anyone who doesn’t have laces…” and do you remember what I told you? “Hailey sucks and she is not your friend. Not everyone has the

same heart as you, Madelyn, and that’s okay.” And then we hugged. Tight. And it was the kind of hug that was more of a hold - long enough for us to miss our daily “target leave time,” but it didn’t matter - you needed me and as promised, I was there. As the tears streamed down your face, I thought about how to go all Mama-Bear on Hailey but you know what? The people in this world who do not have the same heart as you will just make you stronger. They will hurt you on purpose, they will talk about you, and they will take advantage of your sweet nature. Know that this will happen at 5, 25, and even 95; it doesn’t matter how many candles are on your cake. Just know the problem lies in something that is in them, not something that is in you. So take that, Hailey. Laces are so 90’s anyway.

…

Just the other morning, after hearing your pounding piggies hit the ground while running to my room to greet me for the day, you pointed out and petted the scar on your upper left abdomen. “Here’s my scar, Mama, it makes me beautiful.” “It’s just a little part of what makes you beautiful, Mads,” pretending there were remnants of sleep in my eyes instead of tears, “Your beauty starts on the inside.” That scar is just a little reminder of how lucky we are to have you - and how you overcame your first obstacle at eleven weeks old. I fought hard for you, Mads. Someday I will tell you the whole story, but somehow I think you already know.

You asked for a locket with our picture in it for your birthday. What a “Very Maddy” request. I’m not sure how at five you already recognize the bond of our family, but you do... and for that, I’m the lucky one. As your Mama, I will never have to worry about you feeling the love and the enchantment of a happy home. We are far, far from perfect, but together we are a perfect family. Together we write our own narrative as we move forward through time. While including our own rewrites, rereads, and redos, our experience is uniquely ours and ours alone. And it’s just getting started. I can’t wait to see what lies ahead for you, your brother, your dad and for me.

My Sweet Mads, you are the the sign I needed to affirm that Heaven does exist - your GeeGee told me you’d be mine long before you were even a thought. So thank you for being here; thank you for being you. Even 90 years from now, (when I’m up in Heaven watching over), know you’ll always be my little girl. By that time, maybe you’ll even be sitting in a rocking chair, enjoying a glass of Guinness, thinking of me, too.

But don’t be sad:  I will be too busy up beyond the rainbow, decked out in green and my Irish orange, sporting all kinds of shamrocks, hooting and hollering while crappily dancing a jig and proudly raising a glass: “Cheers to my Madelyn Marjorie.”

And that is no Blarney.

Happy, happy birthday. I love you...most.

Mama

*Names have been changed to protect the jerks.

The Lost Post

I stumbled upon this post in a draft form. The times have changed; the sentiments have not.

...

I love happening to you.

Every night, I whisper a “secret” into my children’s ears. It’s the same “secret” every time but I treat it as though I’m sharing it for the first time: dramatically pushing away the cozy blankies, moving in closely so they can hear the quietness and deliberateness of my voice as I confide my not-so-secret…

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Once in awhile Jimmy gives me a “ Aw, thanks, Mom,” but more often than not it’s a “Yah, that is the same thing you told me last night”… But Maddy, my sweet baby who is no longer a baby, mimics me and tells ME a secret right back from time to time. “Thanks for the cupcake,” “Tomorrow I want to watch Ariel,” and “I love lunch bunch,” are just a few of her secrets.

But then, one night, this gem: “I love happening to you.”

Cue the ugly cry. Silent, ugly tears ran down my face as I quietly exited her bedroom, so as not to bother the Big Guy, studying on the couch.

It’s no secret the last year and a half have been some of the toughest moments of my life, aside from losing my Ma before she got to meet her grandson (this side of the rainbow at least).  While we’ve been through a lot, to me, nothing can top that. Losing my Ma was the single biggest disappointment of my life.

But these last 18 months… yikes. Reflecting on the last 18 months sometimes make me want to scream fu-- at the top of my lungs, but then I worry y’all would have me sent to the crazy house. But it’s true. Life has changed in what seems like a thousand ways some days; on others, it seems like I haven’t skipped a beat. Eighteen months of the longest days of uncertainty, unexpected change, unanticipated growth, wins and losses, and just Life. Happening to me. Everything and nothing -- all at once. To get through, I keep moving. Moving more than I have ever moved in the last 41 years. That’s why I’m the skinniest I’ve ever been… ha ha.

“I love happening to you” brought my world to a screeching halt at the intersection of Self-Reflection and Let it Go.

While all of the things happening in my life that I can’t control can bring me down at times, I can’t let it define me or my family. I’m sure things that are happening to me are at the hands of the Big Man Upstairs, or at least I like to think so.  So I will let things happen, the way they are intended… and just let it “God”.

6.

5:18am.

"A robin bird woke me up, Mama. Actually, it was a cardinal. I speak bird. I'm hungry."

Left dumbfounded, I rubbed my eyes and quietly got out of bed. Mads was just snuggling back into her spot on the couch to join her brother by the time I got to the big room. 

"Mom, can you make me 'Snug as a bug in a rug'?" Jimmy asked, still rubbing the wake-up out of his eyes. "Sure, buddy," I respond, smiling.

...

I have tried to make sure my children really know you in their daily lives, even though they insist they met you during their time in Heaven, before you sent them down to me. This lovely thought is a notion they came up with totally on their own, so we roll with it. If it's the way things work, it gives me comfort and peace and a big ol' smile to my face - like I was let in on a secret that people live their whole lives searching for, never really knowing the answer. 

It's the little things like: "Snug as a bug in a rug," or knowing that Cardinal birds are signs from Gee Gee, that make you a part of their lives. I have carried all of the little things you would do for me and have introduced them to the kids, hoping someday Life won't be so cruel and will allow me to be more than just a Heavenly presence when they pass these things along to their own children.

The reality of you being gone 6 years today is unimaginable to me, and one I am struggling to accept. Six rounds up to 10, and by then we will be counting the number of decades since you crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

I hate decades. You know, those pesky clumps of time in your mind joined together by happenstance. Decades give you the Good. the Bad. the Ugly. - either by chronological time or chronological age. You always said "Life is a series of peaks and valleys," and I'm sure when looking back at a "decade," people see that this is true. Some of the worst and the best times of my life have happened since 2010, (my 30's), but I always try to focus on the best, because that is what you taught me to do.

...

Six years ago, I watched you take your last breaths, as you were greeted by Deb, your parents, and your brother at the gates of Heaven... at that exact moment, I felt a strong kick from the little boy growing in my tummy. Judging by what Jimmy tells me, this is no coincidence. While you don't want me to remember you in the last 13 days of your life in that hospital bed, this moment was so raw and purposeful, it's almost the first thing I think of when thinking of you. It reminds me you are always here, always a part of who we are and what we do.

Today, we will visit the flower park and bring a balloon with us to send up to Heaven. When it reaches you, send us the cardinal bird so we know you got it.

Just not at 5:18am, please.

Love you, Ma. More.

93 Gas. From the Mobil.

My car only takes 93 gas. From the Mobil. Not that you have to fill it up or anything, but in case you do, it has to be 93 gas. From the Mobil. 

It was April, 2012. I was four months pregnant when I got rear-ended and begged to borrow Ma's car for a few days. She wasn't jazzed about the notion because it broke one of her Life's Rules, cataloged under Tape Number 39: Never drive anyone else's car. God Forbid you get into an accident. God Forbid you get into an accident driving someone else's car. What a pain in the ass.

Sitting in the driver's seat, checking my mirrors and adjusting the seat for my longer legs, I can recall thinking: I've never driven this Bad Boy before. How funny, because that "Bad Boy" of a car was a 2005 Volvo. Hardly as badass as the zippy Acura I was paying exorbitant payments on at the time. But I liked it. It belonged to my Ma. I was going to be a Mom. Seemed like a natural fit. The Volvo, although older than the Acura, made me feel like my "Mom Card" had been punched for the first time. "First a Volvo... then what? Skechers shoes?" I remember thinking as I backed out of the drive. She shouted to me from the garage,  "My car only takes 93 gas. From the Mobil. Not that you have to fill it up or anything, but in case you do, it has to be 93 gas. From the Mobil." 
...

Tossing the key onto the kitchen table, I told her "I really like driving that thing." Ironically enough, two short months later, "that thing" would be mine. Because Life can never be as easy as your hand out the window in the wind.

Once Ma was gone, I sold the Acura, bought the Volvo for the bargain price of $1, and have been happily driving it ever since. Dad and I liked the notion that GeeGee's car would be taking her grandchildren to doctor's appointments or to baseball practices. I still even keep a bookmark stuck into the dash that reads, "We are so very proud of you," in Ma's handwriting, of course. Nice to see that reminder every day.

The Volvo has taken me (and her Grandchildren) 46,000 since June of 2012, just days after she was gone. My goal was to see the odometer at 65,000 miles before trading that Bad Boy in... I'm just short of that, and that is okay. My emotional attachment to this car is irrational at best, and I know it. In my mind, that car was one last connection to my Ma, and each day I drive it, it's one day further from last seeing her... but, depending on what you believe, it's one day closer to seeing her again. In the meantime, though, I always look for the "signs" she isn't really that far away after all.

On Saturday, after a particularly uncomfortable "Car Dealer Hostage Situation," (an entirely different blog post that just has to be written) I just wanted to get back to the kids for hugs and love. Almost home, I was greeted by a "sign"... A Cardinal, casually sitting in the middle of the road, unfazed by the approaching Volvo. After a few seconds, that bird flew north, probably to Wisconsin. Ma loved Wisconsin.

...

Today, I met a dealer named Jimmy H. and he loved the Cubs. Good signs. I finally picked out a car, and will take delivery in a couple of days. When I asked Maddy earlier what color car I should get, she told me "Blue. So it'll match my eyes"... GeeGee's too, baby girl. GeeGee's too. Blue it is.

If you happen to hear about a woman who had to be pried away from her ridiculously old, trade-in car, that's probably me. But, I will try to compose myself and recall her sage advice: Tape Number 20- crying makes you tired. Crying does nothing but make your face puffy and tired and then you’re all cried out and you’re thirsty. Stop crying.

I will say my goodbyes and be sure to make this car my very own. First order of business: finding the perfect spot for my bookmark. After all, it will be nice to be reminded of how proud she is of me, while out shopping for a new pair of Skechers, or even just while filling up with gas. 

Although this car doesn't take 93. And that's okay.

5.

This. This is how she'd love you to remember her. Cheers to a life well lived, loved and full of laughter.

5 Birthdays.
5 Christmases.
2 Grandchildren.
Somehow, though, we knew you were there - and there we were, looking for your signs. We have held onto your "life is for the living," and we hold onto each other tight. Just like you held on to each one of us. Love you, Ma. More. 

...

Today marks the 5th anniversary of my Ma "crossing the rainbow bridge," the lovely metaphor she used for breaking the news of a loved ones death to me so many times over the course of our almost 35 years together. Somehow, though, when talking about your own Mom, it's not as picturesque or breezy.

It's true that anniversaries are tough - milestone ones, tougher. But to be perfectly honest, I have to tell you that from June 11-24th of every year since 2012, I have relived each day as if it were happening for the first time. Taking her into the hospital, calling Dad to get there, listening to the doctors each day, missing a morning with her to check the baby's heartbeat at my own appointment, witnessing her saying goodbyes and thank yous to loved ones, overhearing private conversations between my parents "You can date, you just can't remarry," telling Aunty Cookie and Uncle Don to get on a plane now... all of it. I feel like it's just happening for the first time. Even to today, the fifth anniversary of when I asked her Peruvian doctor in front of her, "¿Ella está muriendo hoy, sí?" to which he tearfully responded while looking away, "Sí. Lo siento mucho..." It's all very real, very current, and I don't foresee it going away any June soon. And I used to like the month of June.

I do have regrets. I wish I didn't honor all of her wishes and had friends and family come to see her. I would have happily applied her lipstick each time. I mean, Auntie Sharon had seen her through her teenage years, so what was the difference now? But to her, it mattered. It mattered more at that moment than anything. And honestly? I knew the time we had was so short I didn't want to feel any more cheated than I already did, so I obliged. So to those who didn't get the time that I did, I am deeply, deeply sorry.

...

The New Normal sucks. Sucks the wind out of your sails, sucks the breath from your chest, just sucks sucks sucks. I'm sorry for all of the times I've used that phrase to my friends who have lost a parent in the years since Ma... it's just protocol in helping others along through the passing of who made you who you are. A lifelong friend of mine, Bobby, told me he divides his life into the timeline: "Before Ma, After Ma"... I can see that...that may be a better way to phrase it since this life without her is anything but normal. "BM, AM" from now on. Although calling life with her the "BM" would really have pissed her off.

...

There are still some days that I honestly don't know how I get up and function in this world without her. But then there are my two little ones who are up with the early morning sunshine, excited about what each day brings: asking for a hug and some more chocolate milk, or telling me that they "love me more," and I get it together. One of the greatest responsibilities I have as a parent is making sure my children know the ones who have lived and gone before them. Judging by the excitement in their eyes when we call Papa's house on speaker and they hear her voice still on the machine, by the joy in their eyes when they see a rainbow, and by the thrill of finding that red cardinal bird nearby, I think I'm doing a darn good job. And if I'm not, just tell me I am anyway.

...

A close friend of mine lost her last remaining parent, her father, just recently after a brief illness. It was so important for me to quietly be there for her, as she has supported me, advised me, and guided me over the years, knowing herself what life is like after losing a Mom. It's a crappy club that someday we will all be a part of and until it's your time to join, you cannot even fathom what it's like to be in. I will never forget that while giving my Ma's eulogy, I looked up into a sea of faces and she was the only one I saw, standing along the back wall. With a nod, she gave me the confidence to continue when I didn't think I could.

In the days since her father's crossing of the rainbow bridge, she has said more than once to me that she "didn't know how I could get through that" reading - and the truth is it was because of her:  the nod of her head, and the knowledge I always had a friend to lean on if I needed it. So to that friend: you know who you are, thank you for always being there, understanding and nodding when I needed you to the most.

So with that, in the spirit of keeping my Ma's memory alive, I thought it was important to share again the words I spoke at her memorial service. So here goes...

Very glad to see that you are wearing one of Ma’s favorite colors: Black.
Whether you called her: Margie, Marge, Midge, Midgie, Bridge, Bridget, Large Marge (her personal favorite), Lanny, Lumpy, Margeeee, Gee Gee, Godzilla, Auntie Margie, Uncle Margie, Margie go beep beep, Mick or Big Momma, to me, she was one syllable: Ma.

Amazing, isn’t it, that such a short syllable embodies such a character, but it’s her great influence, strength, kindness and thoughtfulness that gathers us here today. By the way, she would be a little upset about all of this fanfare for her. If you’ve wondered why you can’t give her a face-to-face sendoff: it’s because absolutely NO ONE would have been able to have ratted and puffed up her hair to the proper specifications! We all know that is true.

We know family and friends have come great distances to be here. So if you are family, know Ma lived for you. If you are a friend, know she cared for you. Regardless of which, know she always thought about you. If she made you Monster Cookies, took you to a New Kids Concert, or sent you pictures or greetings, she spoiled you. She even gave Kennedy the dog only bottled water – nobody could make you feel more special than my Ma did. – She did these things in her way, where half the time someone would say, “Got your Mom’s card,” and I had no idea what they were talking about. Always loving each and every one of you, behind the scenes.

For those of you who have followed the Carepages site that detailed what the last two weeks have been like, you know that this came out of no where. Nothing could have been done to have changed the course of the outcome, so we are relieved to know she didn’t have to go through this for a long duration. Ma deserved to go out in style: with the strength and grace she has always shown. But it’s funny when you spend days in the hospital – things start to run together, time doesn’t make sense. Every day we were there once the pain meds kicked in, Ma thought it was Sunday. I’d tell her, “No, Ma, it’s Wednesday,” and she would look at me like I had three heads. Anyway, Ma loved Sundays – the day family was together, the day her parents would come over years ago – a day to relax, and this last Sunday, well, it was no different.

Although it is shocking and heartbreaking, we got to spend some special moments with her the last few weeks – a friend pointed out to me that we never had to worry about making up for lost time, because we never had any. We were always close. Through this all, she didn’t shed a tear, and if she did, she never let us know it. I asked her if she was scared, and she said no. She told me she was ready to go home – and by home, I’m sure now she was talking about Heaven, and she would be sending us a rainbow here and there as a “sign”.

Words can never quite describe how holding your Ma’s hand as she is fading away, while at the same time feeling a little boy kick inside of you; we are finding comfort that Ma’s legacy will live on through baby James. She told me last week that I was going to be a great Mom and I told her that if I was half the mom she was, I’d be doing more than just okay. It was a special moment between us last week when I recorded the baby’s heartbeat at my own appointment and brought it to her to listen to. We somehow both knew she wouldn’t be there in person, but she will always be there in spirit. I told her she was the best Ma a girl could have, and she told me I was her Miracle baby, and the best kid she could have had. Ma always talked about the “Circle of Life” – and I guess she really knew what she was talking about.

She was quiet, dignified and peaceful in passing- the same way she lived her life.
Ma wouldn’t want me up here talking about her “walking the rainbow bridge” as she would call it – She would want me to talk about her life. A Short, but very full life. While I’ve always been one to know that life doesn’t end with departing from earth, I’d be willing to bet she is up there, perfecting her dance moves with Patrick Swayze as we speak.

Ma and I have joked through the years that she should just put some of “Margie’s Life’s Rules” on tape, because she liked to tell you the same things time and time again – not because she forgot she had told you something, but because, she wasn’t quite sure you had heard her the first time. Or, you kept making the same stupid mistakes after she told you the first time. So, throughout the years, she would start some of these thoughts with … “tape number…” And I thought I’d share some today.

Tape Number 20- crying makes you tired. Crying does nothing but make your face puffy and tired and then you’re all cried out and you’re thirsty. Stop crying.

Tape number 45 – my car only takes 93 gas. From the Mobil. Not that you have to fill it up or anything, but in case you do, it has to be 93 gas. From the Mobil.

Tape number 74. Quentin Road is a speed trap. When leaving the house, make sure you don’t speed, especially on Quentin Road. Cops sit there all the time. To write tickets…If, you’re speeding.

Tape number 88 – when going to the mall (at 10 am because that’s the time you need to run errands, not at 5 o’clock- are you crazy?) always park in the same section so you know where your car will be when you come out.

Tape number 126- beep beep beep. Tommy Skilling says, when a weather watch is issued, it means “watch out” and when a warning is issued, it means, “danger danger”. In both cases, put your gym shoes on (over your pantyhose,) grab your camera (in case you see any shapes that look like people in the clouds,) and then go in the bathtub or the basement. But first, turn off your computer because if you have a power surge, you want to make sure it’s okay. Don’t trust those surge protectors.

Tape number 207- don’t color your hair. I know what your natural color is, you’re not fooling anybody. (Easy for a natural blonde to say).

Tape Number 300- Don’t bother me when I’m on the phone. Unless you’re hurt or bleeding.

Tape number 320-don’t call me between 7-9pm Wednesday nights. Idol is on. –

Tape number 459 – Just stand in front of the mirror for this one picture, it’s so cool!

Tape number 466- when looking at paint colors, grab 500 paint chips and stare at them. Don’t just go and pick a paint color willy-nilly. Make sure you sample it on each wall, in the moonlight, sunlight and artificial light.

Tape number 555- Everything goes in circles. I should have saved the platform shoes from 1960s, the bellbottoms from the 70’s and the leggings from the 80’s.

Tape number 634 – Just relax. Don’t burn the candle at both ends because you’re going to get sick!

Tape number 699- Do NOT go up and down the wooden stairs with just socks on. You’re asking for trouble.

Tape number 702- don’t stick your hands into my bag of M&Ms. Dish ‘em out

Tape number 797 – No, I don’t want to travel, but be safe, have fun and bring me back a spoon.

Tape number 884 – Washing your hair in the sink prevents you from getting water in your ears.

Tape number 902 – When you find something you like, don’t just buy one of it. Buy in multiples.

Tape Number 941- eat slow and chew it good.

Tape number 983 – don’t use words like “it’s not fair,” because I don’t like the word “fair” It’s called “life.”

Years ago, my friend told me that, and I quote, “You and your Mom look nothing alike, but I swear, you are the same entity,” – at 22, I wasn’t sure I was in agreement or even liked this observation, but I find comfort in it now, because there is no better person to be like than her. But it’s funny, I have seen myself doing things over recent years that I am not sure have always been there, or if I’m just taking note now, but are just so “Ma”… and I don’t mind it a bit.

My sister would always tell Mom that she was “stupidly right”… and she was. My Dad the other night told me that I’ll carry out her legacy, and I will. So, stop your crying, because you’ll be sorry when your face is puffy, you’re tired and your makeup is outta whack.

And to you, my sweet Ma, I love you… “More.”

And today, when we visit the flower park and send our balloon flying up high to Heaven, think of us and give us a nod... it's going to be anything but normal, but it's going to be okay. And as long as we have each other we can keep her spirit, her strength, and her memory amongst us.

No Worries...I Got This...

As a "threenager," our little Mads has grown very witty, independent, and very much an old soul in her own right. Almost daily, while assisting her in putting on shoes, buckling her carseat or filling her water cup, she waves me away with a quick: "No worries, I got this..."

Whaaattt? 

Kid, you're 3. And you still use a pacifier (don't judge- that fairy will get here sooner or later). I guess that's just my little way of controlling the ruthless, unforgiving clock of childhood that my Ma used to talk so much about as she watched her babies grow up in that cliché blink of an eye.

But the Mads? At three, she gets it. I mean, GETS it. She "gets" Life more than many of 40-somethings I know and love. And that fact makes me love her endearing charm, shameless stubbornness, and sweet, nurturing soul all the more.

...

The other day, we tested out a new park nearby - one that was well suited for ages 5-12 (or at least that is what the sticker on the equipment said). Nevertheless, Jimmy found a rope bridge to zoom across, only a mere minor obstacle in his way to the giant rock slide. Maddy, in trying to keep up with Brudder, coupled with her less adept footing, ran up to the rope bridge and terrifyingly whined, "I scared, Mama. Help!" complete with her arms outstretched. Reassuring her she was safe, I helped her down and she moved onto something else to try. 

Not five minutes later, she found herself on that part of the playground again. Faced with the giant tightrope in front of her, she took one step and nervously choked, "I scared, Mama. Help me!" Reaching out my arms, she leapt into them and focused her attention on the sand lot next. 

Watching her play in the sand, I couldn't help but notice her focus her sights on that rope bridge. If you know the Mads, you know what happens next. 

"Help me, Mama," she quietly insisted (more than asked) as her little foot took its first step on the rope bridge. She kept both hands on the guide ropes and I told her I would keep my "hand on your arm until you make it." 

And then she started this:

"No worries, Mama, I got this. I can do anything." With that she proceeded to sing-song: "I can do anything, I can do any-thing, I can do anything, anything..." 

And, fourteen little steps later, she turned to me and beamed: "I did it!"

Cue the ugly, ugly cry. There I was, at the park amongst a zillion other moms and kids, sobbing, hoping my Jackie O sunglasses disguised my vulnerability, but not my pride. 

...

So, the moral of the story is this: There should be no worries because YOU GOT THIS. You can do anything, anything, any-thing. You may give up a handful of times, but in the end, you got this. Use your guide ropes, ask for help, and be grateful if you are lucky enough to have someone to keep their hand on your arm until you make it. Because you will. All you have to do is make it past that first, scary step.

I'm Still Here... A Reflection on Mother's Day

Sunday will mark the fifth Mother's Day I will have spent without her. Sunday will also mark the fifth Mother's Day that I, myself, actually have been a mother. Life's timing still takes my breath away sometimes. 
...

Brunch? Nope. A nice dinner out somewhere? Not so much. Ma's favorite Mother's Days were spent at home, with us girls, my Dad, her parents and her sister. I'm pretty sure we usually just barbecued after planting some flowers. Or maybe we even picked up Burger King, since an occasional Whopper made her happy. I'm fairly certain I made her more than one macaroni necklace and homemade card, always secretly wishing she would put them in her Hope Chest for safekeeping. Mother's Day was uncomplicated, happy, warm and sunny... meant for playing with bubbles saved from Easter baskets and dirty knees from "helping" pot the petunias. 

The ease of togetherness and not feeling obligated to share her M&Ms...that's what she loved about her special day.
...

1988

She didn't want to be wished a "Happy Mother's Day" because it was anything but happy. It was raw, unfair, and unnatural. She had lost her oldest child and now the second Sunday of May was a glaring reminder of how cruel life could be. She hated it. Any forward progress she had made in grieving had been unwound. Any flowers or cards we gave were met with a half-smile, a quick hug, and a quiet "Thank you." Any semblance of what we had known of the day to celebrate the most important woman in our lives floated away like bubbles catching a breeze off the wand, just right.

And on that day, it rained.
So, I searched. I searched for the rainbows Debbie had promised she'd send.
She didn't disappoint. 
The best gift Ma got that year was Hope. There is always Hope.

...

By the time I was 13, I grew impatient with the uncomfortableness of Mother's Day. "I'm still here, Mom," I told her, because at thirteen years old, I knew that I knew it all. She understood where I was going, even if it came out wrong. Even after she had lost her own Mom the year after that, she tried. She tried to embrace the day, for me. After all, I was still there.

...

So here I am, almost 5 years after Ma changed her residence to the other side of the stars, that I will spend the second Sunday of May, embracing the moment for my children. After all, they are here. They are who made ME a mother. But my Ma... she made me the mother I am. And for her, I will celebrate. We will take our annual Circle Tour, finding comfort in the simplicity of the day. We will search for rainbows and any signs to show my children SHE is still here, invisible, very much a part of me, very much a part of them. We will delight in our hotdog picnic, enjoy the warmth of the sun and the ease of being together as a family. 

And maybe even blow a few bubbles up high to Heaven.
One may even reach her. 
Hope. There is always Hope.