Speechless

2011 was the year I lost my voice. Today I found the courage to pick up where I left off. I opened the page to this blog, a chapter of life I’d long abandoned, and came up short when I looked at my very last entry. On December 31, 2010, I pondered what the New Year would bring, noting lyrically that “there are many things I can’t plan for or anticipate. Illness or financial setbacks may strike…”


Two weeks after I wrote those words, my father went into the hospital. By July, I had buried both of my parents, and stepped into a whole new way existing in the world. I have written before about the challenges of being sandwiched between aging parents and active children. Those years were exhausting and overwhelming. But oh. They were sweet, too.

When your parents pass the age of 80, it is true that their deaths should come as no surprise. But make no mistake, grief easily sidelines those who think they are prepared.

It’s been almost three years now, and I still feel as if I’ve come unmoored. Just when I think I’ve got my bearings, I’m going to be OK, the whisper comes in the night, the morning, the heat of day, “Your parents are dead,” and I am unraveled again, left threadbare and hopelessly tattered.

Tonight my son is at his high school homecoming game. Tomorrow he will attend his first high school dance. My daughter stands poised on the edge of adolescence, ready to leave play dates behind and make the leap into the world of periods and parties, and Jesus help me, boys. It seems lately life has demanded one relentless request of me – learn to let go. Hold the things you love with a gentle grip for they are not yours to contain or control. I have not mastered this lesson just yet.

I went to the cemetery only once, and it is doubtful I will go again. It was a cool April day in 2012, and although I asked for a map on my way in, my tears blurred my vision and I drove in circles looking for the right section of plots. Finally, I parked and set out on foot, weaving between headstones, glancing at names, praying I’d find them, hoping I wouldn’t. Just when I thought I’d have to give up and go back for another map, I saw my father’s name. Although I’d been searching for it for over 30 minutes, it seemed out of place, carved so beautifully in cursive on the granite stone my mother and I had chosen so carefully, like the clothes he was buried in. As if any of it would matter.

“The casket will be closed. Why are you taking so much time selecting a tie?” I’d asked her gently, just days before his funeral. “I just want him to look nice when he meets Jesus,” she whispered. It would be just a few months later when I understood this senseless sentiment, as I stood before an open closet struggling to select burial clothes for her.

I sat down where I stood, cupped my hand to my mouth, and let the magnitude of my loss wash over me in waves. When I caught my breath, I steeled myself to look just few inches to the left where my mother’s name bore tangible proof that her voice, her scent, her laugh were forever lost to me, at least on this side of heaven. Then I put my head down on that soft, damp grass, felt the sun warm on my face, and wept.

I don’t know how to end this post. So for now I will simply stop writing. It’s not much. But it’s a start.

Filling in the Blanks

I just got my 2011 day planner and as I flipped through its fresh, blank pages, I thought about what it means to wipe the slate clean and start a new year. At midnight this Friday, the ball in Times Square will drop and people across the country will shout “Happy New Year!” I will be snug in my bed when this moment passes, but when I wake up on Saturday morning, my husband and I have determined to spend some time talking about our goals and plans for 2011. Soon, my empty day planner will be bursting with meetings, vacations, doctor’s appointments and school events. The minutiae of my life will once again take on a life of its own. But what will determine whether or not it is a “happy” new year?

At 50, I am more cynical about these things. I no longer believe you can determine to have a “happy” year; some things simply are beyond our control. But I do think it is possible to choose to be happy – or at least content – moment by moment, day by day. As I look at the white spaces on my calendar, I imagine writing down activities guaranteed to bring a smile: coffee with a best friend; a weekend away with my husband; a Saturday set aside to lounge, nap and read; an afternoon at the beach.

Undoubtedly, there are many things I can’t plan for or anticipate. Illness or financial setbacks may strike. Opportunity may knock. Life is full of surprises! As you look back, how will you view 2010? Was it a good year? A challenging one? Chances are it was both. No matter, it’s time to say goodbye to the past and look ahead. How will your 2011 day planner take shape? Will you set aside time for the things and people that bring happiness into your life?

I love this quote from Edith Lovejoy Pierce:

"We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day."

Have a wonderful holiday weekend. And a Happy New Year!

Giving Thanks

Several years ago, Oprah kicked off her television season with a self-improvement theme that emphasized the importance of gratitude. The idea was a simple one: Keeping a gratitude journal that lists your daily reasons to be thankful has the power to change your life. Although a part of me responded openly to this suggestion, the cynic in me thought: “Easy for you to say; you’re Oprah! What’s not to be thankful for?”

It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate things like family, friends, provision and shelter. It was that the frantic pace of a daily commute, kids to raise, a marriage to tend and dinners to prepare left little time or energy to reflect on feeling thankful. What I struggled with most was connecting the idea to the emotion. When people went on about being thankful for sunsets or hummingbirds, I got it intellectually (who doesn’t love hummingbirds?), but in truth, I was too busy to actually sit down and appreciate such everyday miracles. Sometimes, it takes unexpected adversity to make us pause long enough to take stock of what is — and is not — important.

Five years ago, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Although he was immediately placed on medication, the disease progressed quickly. His gradual inability to recognize loved ones and his surroundings has been heartbreaking to watch. During the early days of his diagnosis, as I struggled to add caregiving to my already lengthy to-do list, I found even fewer reasons to feel thankful. I wrestled with unanswerable questions like: “Why did this happen?” and “How could we have prevented it?” I also felt guilty, because being around my dad made me so sad that I often couldn’t wait to get away from him.

Watching my father literally lose his mind has made me appreciate the preciousness of time. To rush through each day and forgo opportunities for reflection is to miss the chance to create a memory. And, if Alzheimer’s teaches you anything, it is that memory really is the essence of life. Every great experience, from a picturesque vacation to an exquisite meal, is made all the better when it is relived. Retelling our stories keeps them alive.

Recently, my 12-year-old son offered to stay with his grandpa while my mother and I ran errands. Later, when I asked him how things went, he said “Grandpa asked me the same questions over and over. He couldn’t remember who I was.” “What did you do?” I asked anxiously. “I just answered him,” he replied simply and without irritation.

My eyes teared up as I realized the boy who had once been babysat by his grandpa was now repaying the favor. And, I was grateful, not for the disease that created this role reversal, but for the lesson it contained. I thanked my son for his compassion and patience. Then, I sat down and told him what his grandpa was like as a younger man — how much he enjoyed long road trips, his passion for baseball, and his habit of playing the piano and singing (off key) at family gatherings. We laughed together and shared a memory.

As we barrel into the hectic pace of the holidays, it’s a good time to pause and reflect on the meaning of gratitude. It can be found in both the highs and lows of life — everyday experiences become routine or profound, depending on whether or not we allow gratitude to grip our hearts and restore our sense of wonder. I’ve discovered that thanks is not something you feel, it’s something you give. You have to release it in order to reap its benefits.

How about you? What will you give thanks for this holiday season?

All Dolled Up

Saturday we dropped nearly $300 in a couple of hours at The American Girl Place. The occasion was my daughter’s eighth birthday, and the outing required a two-hour trek (one way) from our semi-rural home to the upscale Los Angeles shopping center where the store is located. The multi-level doll emporium is truly a little girl’s dream, housing every American Girl doll, book and accessory, plus a movie theatre, photo studio and café – really, it is retailing run amok with glassy eyed little girls running around clutching $95 dolls while helpless -to-say-no- moms, dads and grandparents belly up to the cashier with credit cards extended. But…as someone who can sort of remember what it was like to be an eight-year old girl, I have to admit the place had me at hello. The bright airy feel, the delightful themed alcoves, the heart shaped cakes and chocolate pudding served in tiny flower pots? LOVED it.

I was a girly girl who loved dolls – baby dolls, Barbie dolls, talking dolls…you get the idea. As a child, I remember feeling intoxicated when I opened a new doll and inhaled that oddly toxic plastic odor unique to toys manufactured in the 60s. So when I bought my daughter a huge furnished doll house several years ago I was dumbfounded to find her bored with the whole concept. What was the point, she wondered, of rearranging the tiny furniture in each room or setting the miniature family in front of the itty bitty TV? I admit I had no answer for that, except that I did it when I was little and I kind of thought she would too. Sexist and backwards I know, but some parental expectations are simply pre-programmed.

Still. I respect my daughter’s independent streak – she knows what she likes and isn’t afraid to say so. For the next few years we steered clear of dolls in favor of more purposeful toys like Legos, board games and puzzles. Then she got an American Girl book and her perspective changed. For the uninitiated, nearly all American Girl dolls come with a back story – some are historical characters who grew up as slaves or during the Great Depression. Others are modern day heroines facing 21st century challenges like bullying and peer pressure. These dolls have a point. A purpose. My daughter was ready to be initiated and I jumped on the opportunity – a quick catalog call and the first doll was on a UPS truck to our door. Having already mothered a son through various phases of trucks, trains, guns, dinosaurs, cars, guns and more guns, I was selfishly eager to mix and match tiny outfits, style stiff synthetic hair, host doll tea parties, and rack up some serious mother/daughter time.

That was two years ago; we now have three American Girls in our collection – the third came home with us on Saturday. When we pulled in the driveway with our big red bag, I watched as my daughter raced from the car to show her drop-jawed little friends the bounty of her shopping spree. Shaking her head, one neighbor girl exclaimed with envy, “You are so lucky!” My daughter sighed, a beaming smile playing across her face. “I know.”

As flashbacks of my long-gone girlhood played across my mind, I thought “So am I.” Then I went upstairs to set up the tea party.

Just Let Them Eat Cake

My son turned 12 today and I did not send cupcakes to school. His birthday celebration took place over the weekend and was decidedly low key– his father took him and two friends to a water park for the day – I stayed home, got my hair cut, took a nap and ordered pizza for the slumber party later that evening. What a difference 12 years makes!

I recall with embarrassment the early years of motherhood when every birthday was celebrated as if my first born was the only child ever to turn two, or three, or four. Back then, I would launch myself into birthday party hysteria, hosting gala themed events replete with costumed TV characters, back-yard sized bounce houses, and cutesy menus (who can forget the Thomas the Tank Engine "Mr. Conductor Peanut butter sandwiches" cut into train shapes?) I've actually lost sleep wondering what to put in the goodie bags!

And it's not just me. My friend threw a circus for her daughter’s 7th birthday. A circus. There was face painting. Clowns. Balloon animals. Live entertainment. Seriously? What on earth is wrong with all of us?

Of course, like it or not, eventually you are forced to scale back. As kids get older their guest list gets smaller, typically narrowing to a few best friends rather than the obligatory entire class. Your audience dwindles too; parents start dropping off rather than staying for the festivities, so there really is no one left to impress. And as a mom, your involvement in the whole affair becomes increasingly optional. Apparently not convinced of this, I popped my head into my son’s slumber party late Saturday night to ask if they needed anything. I couldn’t help but laugh as three pre-pubescent faces glared silently back at me as if I’d asked them to sign up for summer school math. I got the message – get lost mom. We’re fine.

And you know what? I’m fine with that too. Maybe kids aren’t the only ones who mature over time. Still, my daughter will be eight in May. I'm wondering if Justin Bieber does house parties...

Sweet Hearts

My dad was my first Valentine. He was that strong, handsome, home-by-five provider that typified suburban 1960s life. I remember the years he worked a night job at a local country club – on holidays like New Year’s and Valentine’s Day there would be fancy, celebrity-filled parties – Lucille Ball, Jack Lemmon, Count Basie – these were the A-listers of my parent’s generation, and my dad served them all. On those nights I’d try to wait up for him because he’d always come home with great stories of who was the best (or worst) tipper, and he’d bring bags of leftovers and party favors: gourmet finger sandwiches, frosted tea cakes, pink and red balloons, streamers and more.

When I was older, February 14th was always celebrated with heart shaped boxes of candy. One for me, one for my mother, my daddy’s “girls.” Long before I dreamed of boys, I knew there was one man in my life who would never forget his Valentine. The tradition continued until I left for college, a relief I think since my taste in chocolate had gotten expensive by then. Dad had gone from grabbing $12 boxes of Whitman’s Samplers at the five and dime to waiting on line to shell out $25 for Godiva truffles, my favorite. Not that he ever complained.

I just ordered flowers for my parents for Valentine’s Day, and as I addressed the card, there were many things I wanted to tell my dad about my recent reflections, but couldn’t. The dementia that has stolen both his personality and our personal history leaves me no common ground on which to build a conversation, share an anecdote, or even reminisce. He will never remember our Valentine tradition since he will never again quite understand what this holiday of hearts and flowers and candy even signifies.

So I wrote this blog to say thanks to my dad, for showing me what romance should be: sweet, thoughtful, tender. A man of few words, my dad maintained traditions of love and loyalty that spoke volumes.

If you are loved by your father, you are blessed indeed. Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy. I miss you so much.

Melting Down

While on vacation over the New Year’s holiday, my seven-year old daughter experienced the mother of all meltdowns. As I learned later, it started as squabble with her older brother that left her feeling angry and misunderstood. Not wanting to be labeled a tattle, she chose to sideline herself as her brother and friends continued to play, seemingly oblivious to her self-imposed absence. Watching them laugh and joke without her only added to her frustration, and after festering in a stew of toxic emotions for twenty minutes or more, she finally just lost it.

It began as a low moaning whine and built into a crying jag jarring enough to raise the dead. Loud, relentless and borderline hysterical, she refused to be comforted. Hugs, threats, teasing, tickles and the tested and true “ignore her until she stops” technique all failed to halt the emotional tidal wave wracking her small body. Eventually we had her lie down to finish crying it out, and exhaustion quickly took over. She slept for three hours.

I’m not new to parenting and am well aware that tantrums come with the territory. But this experience caught me off guard. My daughter was not just unreasonable. She was unreachable, lost someplace inside herself we couldn’t seem to access. As I puzzled about her behavior, in a flash of insight I understood that while her uncontrollable crying was triggered by events of the day, the depth of her distress was rooted in experiences that occurred years earlier. An adopted foster child, she has already experienced more loss in her short life than I am ever likely to know. As a result, she’s been known to personalize even the slightest criticism, experiencing correction as rejection. And although maturity has tempered her tendency to overreact, she still has her moments.

Watching her sleep, all puffy eyed and flushed, I longed to take the brunt of the blows she’s been dealt. Kissing her still wet cheeks, I add my own tears to hers, heavy with the knowledge that I will never be enough of a mother to replace the one she’s lost. There is a hole in her heart my love can bandage but not mend. Then I do what I always do: I give her to God, healer of broken hearts, and ask Him to help my little girl sense the comfort of His arms around her. And I pray He helps me parent her with compassion and understanding. Especially when I don’t know how.

Today as I was putting on my makeup, I suddenly caught a glimpse of my own mother’s face staring back at me from the mirror. It’s an unsettling phenomenon that happens more and more frequently as I age. Then I realized with a start that my daughter is likely experiencing a similar phenomenon when she looks in the mirror. Her enviably high cheekbones, coffee-hued skin and luminous black eyes surely echo the face of the woman who carried her to term. I suspect this realization haunts her, since it's a face she has never actually seen outside of her dreams. When she was very young, she'd tug my arm in restaurants and stores, pointing to strangers and whispering, "Is that my real mom? Look - she's brown like me."

So I give her extra hugs. When she complains and frets, I do my best to console. And when all is said and done, I take to my room, close the door and have a meltdown of my own.

I can’t carry her pain. But I can follow her example and simply cry it out.