Ode to a Bowl

I broke a bowl today and I cried. I didn’t cry because I cut myself. I didn’t cry because the bowl was terribly expensive. I cried because that bowl was the last of a set of 3 that tied me to someone very special. It was something tangible – something I could touch and feel, and then somehow feel her. And now it’s gone.

Bert and I married in 1989 and moved into an amazing old house on an even more amazing old street – Stuart Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. We had neighbors with whom we are still friendly today. They were a part of our daily routine for 11 years. You cannot help but bond with someone during that length of time, if only by their daily presence.

Across the street lived Mr. and Mrs. Moss – interesting because we possibly had some family ties (Momma’s maiden name is Moss), but we never found the connection. For 4 years we lived there with only an occasional wave across the street. That changed the day we brought our first-born home from the hospital.

Mrs. Moss marched across the street, formally introduced herself, and presented me with a ceramic rocking horse with a silk flower arrangement. “I am Ethel Moss and I live across the street. I just wanted to congratulate you on the birth of your daughter and let you know that I can watch her at any time. No charge.” Thus began one of the most impactful relationships of my life.

For our next six years on Stuart Avenue, Nana Moss became a part of our family. She was a surrogate grandmother to my girls. She was at family dinners and birthdays and Christmas. She was a caregiver and companion to our children. She helped me nurse them when they were sick. She helped me kiss boo-boos. She helped me remove splinters. She reveled in their every move and accomplishments, and thought they were as amazing as I did.

Nana Moss outfitted her house for the kids. She bought an entire video library for them – Arthur, Madeline, Little Bear, Teletubbies, and Barney. She had special sheets and towels for their sleepovers. She had toys and games and bubble bath, just for them. She would fix them her special mac & cheese and sherbet. Those specialties she served in these perfect sized little green milk glass bowls.

From what she told me, Nana Moss had a difficult and unhappy childhood. Her experiences clearly impacted her personality. She was acerbic and difficult, but oh so steadfast in her love for our children. She was flat out angry when Bert and I moved 22 miles west. She didn’t speak to us for days. I assured her we would still see her frequently, and we did. I drove the kids to see her 2-3 times each week. I called her every day. I drove her to the Doctor. I took her shopping. The girls and I would take her to lunch, or simply sit on her stoop and drink iced tea. We were friends. She was a part of my every day.

About 6 years after we moved, Nana Moss was diagnosed with a brain tumor. At her request I, along with another former neighbor, managed her medical decisions. We arranged for 24-hour nursing care. It was the most difficult thing I’d ever done…to watch her slip away and leave us. It was a long, stressful, and sad year. The day she died, I cried into my pillow like a baby. My loss was intense. I had lost a friend. I had lost someone I spoke to every single day for thirteen years. My children were devastated by the loss of their Nana Moss.

 

It’s ridiculous to think a bowl, an object, can hold you closer to someone…and yet, it did. Every time I used one of these bowls, I thought of Nana Moss and I smiled. Every. Single. Time. Continuing to serve my children ice cream in those bowl connected me with her.

She was 37 years older than I, but she was my best friend for many years. It was unique and special and sweet. Through her stubborn and strong personality, she taught me how to not take shit from anyone, how to speak my mind, how to do whatever the hell I wanted, and how to be so very grateful for all my many blessings.

I inherited 3 bowls after she died. Over the years, I broke one and then another. I would use that final bowl whenever I craved comfort. I cherished it. And then today, it slipped out of my hand when unloading the dishwasher, hit the floor, and smashed

. It was so unceremonious. I was home alone. I sunk to the floor to pick up the pieces and tears filled my eyes. I thought of Nana Moss and smiled and pouted and cried.

It’s just a bowl, but so much more. Who knew a bowl could hold so much?

Farewell and Goodbye

Tonight was our local high school’s graduation. As a School Board member, it is the highlight of my year to watch each student walk across the stage to receive his/her diploma. It’s exciting and sweet and hopeful and nostalgic.

Some of the kids stride confidently across the stage, eager to shake the Principal’s hand and receive the diploma. Others skitter across quickly, barely looking at the Principal as they grab the diploma and run down the stairs. And there’s always the handful of kids who boogie or saunter or strut rather comically, eliciting hoots and howls from the audience. It’s fun and funny!

The walk across the stage speaks volumes about one’s personality – it’s almost as though you can tell what their futures will look like. Except that you can’t.

While we said farewell to these kids tonight – wishing them to “fare” “well” in the coming years, we said goodbye to another kid who walked across this stage just one year ago. On that day, one never would’ve guessed that Cole would be gone one year later. He was a bright, funny, loved and pretty amazing young man. He was on the cusp of great things. It is a tremendous loss.

The emotional rollercoaster of saying farewell to the Class of 2014 and saying goodbye to Cole, all within 24 hours, is really too much to bear. I swallow the lump in my throat as I watch the graduates move their tassels and throw their caps into the air. I hold back the tears as I hear Pomp & Circumstance during the recessional. I smile with somber pride as I watch the graduates posing for pictures, hamming it up with their friends, and just BEAMING with relief/pride/happiness that they have graduated.

It was this same scene last year for Cole. He walked across that stage – confidently, I’m sure. He was happy and on top of the world with his friends. He posed for pictures with his loving and proud family. He had a great summer. He went off to college. He played baseball there and even received the team's Newcomer’s Award – quite an honor.

His family and friends will lay him to rest tomorrow. It will be a moving celebration of his life, but also incredibly difficult to say goodbye. So, let’s not. Instead, let’s say farewell.

Farewell acknowledges a parting, with the expectation that you will see each other again – wishing them well until you’re together again. Goodbye has more permanence to it. With that in mind, as a person of faith, it really is more of a “farewell” to Cole than goodbye. RIP sweet boy. Until we all meet again…

What I learned today: Life is short. Carpe diem.

Expedited Grief

On our way to soccer yesterday, my son remembered, “Oh hey Mom, this guy called the other day when you were gone and said his wife Jennifer died. Sorry, I forgot to tell you that.”

What?! Really?! You forgot?! Someone died, and you FORGOT!?! (I continue to be astounded by the aloofness and cluelessness of my kids, sometimes. Alas, I’ll save that rant for another day.)

He couldn’t remember the man’s name or when exactly he called. There was no identifying number on Caller ID. I could think of only one person it might be but wasn’t sure how to proceed. How do you just randomly call someone you haven’t heard from in several years and ask if his wife is still alive? Thankfully, this person had also left a message for Bert on his cell a few days later, thus verifying my suspicions and giving me an opportunity to reach out to him.

When we finally spoke, he told me his wife passed away over a year ago. Turns out she had hidden her address book in the piano bench and he just found it last week and called us. Jennifer had a liver disease. She was quite sick and ailed while she awaited a transplant. She was next on “the list.” Her opportunity arrived a week after she passed. It’s always in the timing. So very sad.

(Ironically, I had another friend who was enduring a liver disease at the exact same time. Through an amazing connection, he received a transplant from a living donor and slowly improved and became healthier at the same time that Jenn slipped away. Astounding story – read it here.)

Her husband told me so abruptly, I was taken aback. He’d already managed through it. He’d moved on with his life, he said. His head was in a different place than mine at the moment. While his head was reconciled and he had come to terms with the loss, my head was swimming. I had 15 minutes to process the news and get a grip on my expedited grief.

While we hadn’t spoken in several years, Jenn was a large part of my life for several years. She babysat my youngest daughter for two years, so I saw her twice a day every day for two years. Then we hung out as friends for several years after my daughter entered pre-school. She moved, we got busy, I moved, calls were fewer, we had young kids, they were empty nesters, etc. Different lifestyles. Different priorities. Friendships just drift away sometimes.

It’s a surreal thing to know that she’s gone; to know she’s BEEN gone for over a year, and I knew nothing about it. I missed her illness. I didn’t get to comfort or visit her. I didn’t get to grieve her. I didn’t get to support her husband or family during their grief.

It’s not about me…I get that, but I feel like I missed the opportunity to be a friend in her time of need. Of course, she could’ve contacted me during that time and didn’t – so there’s a reason. And the husband could’ve contacted us without the address book – I mean, it’s pretty easy to locate someone’s number using the Interweb! Again, he didn’t – so there must’ve been a reason; just as there was a reason he reached out to me a year later.

I have no idea. All I know is she’s gone. It’s weird to grieve without the conventional process. I missed it, and I will miss her. RIP Jennifer.

What I learned today: Ignorance is bliss.

Parenting with "crazy eyes"

Tonight was not a stellar night of parenting. The boys have been pushing my limits of late. They’ve been deceitful with their actions, lazy with their responsibilities, and have taken bickering to a whole new level. Add to that the layer of year-end stress from SOL testing, projects, and exams, and there is a heightened level of stress that hangs over the house like Pig Pen’s cloud of dirt.

I’m not a yeller. I generally keep an even keel. But when I lose it, I lose it big. I bring out the Greek and go ape sh*t on the kids. It is a high decibel rant that covers every foible and insecurity that any child would have. It is a rant so loud and outrageous and spiteful that I expect CPS to show up on my doorstep. Coupled with my “crazy eyes,” it absolutely gets their attention – but at what cost?

After my apoplectic fit, I order them to their rooms. “Brush your teeth. Go to bed. You’ll be up at the butt-crack of dawn to do a list of chores so heinous, you’ll beg for mercy.” Nice.

I hear one in his room crying. The other sheepishly leaves a note of apology on my bed. It is written with such tenderness and self-loathing, that I’m arrested. To know that my words and actions have extracted such drastic feelings from him absolutely cuts me to the quick.

After an appropriate time of reflection, we gather together to talk about it – to talk about everything – their actions, my reaction, our family, our love, how hard we all try, how truly blessed we are. I wipe their faces and tears with a washcloth, trying to erase the night. I calm them. I breathe with them. I try to quell their fears and misgivings. I tuck them in. I kiss them and tell them they are loved, and tomorrow will be better.

My 17 year old daughter walked into the maelstrom right before I sent the boys upstairs. She knew what was going down and quickly went upstairs to shower. Later, she asked me if everything was OK and I shared my thoughts. She asked, “Geez Mom, how loud did you yell? I remember, one time…” and she continued to share another proud (not) parenting moment of mine, complete with the “crazy eyes.”

On the one hand, I was horrified that she remembered it in such great detail. On the other hand, I was happy that it didn’t ruin her. She is a responsible, motivated, self-respecting and confident young woman who respects her parents. The boys, I feel sure, will be the same. The things that really matter are steadfast – they are smart and kind and caring and considerate, even if they don’t always show it.

Her parting words? “It’s just a phase. You have to do it or they’ll be complete brats.”

Perhaps. I just wish I could accomplish that without whipping out the “crazy eyes.”

What I learned today: Parenting ain’t for sissies.

Dog vs. Daughter

I've been replaced by a dog.

Mom talked last year about getting a dog. I was vehemently against this. I was concerned it would be too much for her...that she would trip over the dog...that it would be overwhelming and taxing and just the wrong thing to do. Turns out I was wrong.

The dog has been a saving grace.  A constant companion who not only brings Mom relief and love and comfort after a difficult visit with Dad or a lonely day at home...but also a welcome diversion and constant distraction for Mom.

It is wonderful and awful. I feel guilty that I'm glad she is now so busy and distracted so that I do not receive twice daily phone calls. Yet, with that, comes the realization that there is someone in her life who demands more attention and is, apparently, quite wonderful and talented and special.

While I'm happy she is busy and occupied, I cringe every time I hear her speak to the dog like a baby. That sugary talk, that doting, all-consuming attention should be reserved for me or her grandchildren. She tells the dog that I'm her sister. I'm so not.

After setting aside the childish envy, I see an old woman who is trying her best to cope...to forget, if only for a few minutes, how stressful her husband's health is.

She is an amazing woman who is quite suddenly alone - no children or husband to care for - no one on whom she can dote. So what's the obvious solution? Well, clearly, it's a 3#-nothing little ball of fur named Missy who thinks my Mom hung the moon.

What I learned today: Let it go. 

Recycling & Repurposing

I wrote this piece about my (then 11 yo) daughter 5 years ago. "What sucks more than being 11?" was my way of capturing the angst and growing pains she was experiencing at the time. It is infinitely interesting to now view this 5 years hence - to see how she's grown and changed during that time, including her views of me. I still think it sucks to be 11, but apparently it also sucks to be 16. That's a post for another day. In the meanwhile, I've allowed my work-life to overshadow my writing-life this week and am recycling this older piece, repurposing it for my current blog. Hope you enjoy it.

What I learned today: Recycling & repurposing can make you cry.

What sucks more than being 11?
It sucks to be 11 years old. Just ask my daughter. She’s caught in limbo – literally…purgatory, that place between heaven and hell. Not a child anymore, though not yet a young woman. Seeing her deal with such raw emotions every day brings back the same memories to me. The ones I wanted so much to just leave my mind and never return, because when you’re eleven it’s all quite dramatic. 

Both my girls, like me, were late bloomers. Of course, now as a parent I’m terribly grateful for them to not grow up too quickly. But I remember how devastating it was for everyone else to be “ahead of me” in nearly every sense of the word – not yet time to shave…no need for a bra…can’t wear make-up or high heels…no period. No matter how many times I read Judy Blume’s book, I couldn’t will puberty on fast enough!

My daughter is a microcosm of me – truly a “mini me.” It’s like looking in a mirror. She looks like me, has the same interests and talents, and the same tendency to make much more out of a situation than is necessary. I understand her deeply, and this is what makes it so hard to step back and let her find her own way. I’d much rather draw a map for her – take two steps forward, one to the side, hop over this guy, slide down this railing, poof, you win! But then what would she learn? I don’t want her to be a soldier; rather, I want her to lead.

It makes me think back and wonder if my Mom felt the same way. Was she attuned to what I was feeling? Did she want to fix things for me? From my perspective, she was agreeably absent from my middle school dramas. She would envelop me every afternoon with a hug and a healthy snack, but I don’t recall detailed discussions about my day – who did what; she said this; he made me cry, etc. So why does my daughter feel compelled to share this with me? 

Despite what she thinks, she is quickly growing up. I see a devastatingly beautiful face behind the hair that falls in her face. She’s more gorgeous than she can even imagine. The curve of her face, the blue grey eyes, the freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks – it’s a dead sexy woman in the making. And really, who the hell wants to think of their daughter as sexy?! Her body is changing too – taut, athletic, growing curves, and a butt you can bounce a quarter off of. It’s ridiculous. 

I know she sees these changes. She’s been waiting for them. But now that they're here, it’s a little scary for her. She waffles between wanting to be more grown up – putting on make up, wearing fashionable clothes, looking “hot,” having more responsibilities and privileges – and just wanting to be a kid – running around in the mud, acting goofy, making rude noises, having no responsibilities. 

I’m the lucky recipient of her love and adoration. For some reason, she thinks I have my act together and models herself after me. How long will this last? Another month? Another year? Before too long, she’ll decide that her friends are much wiser than her mother. In the meanwhile, I’ll enjoy any moments she chooses to be with me because while she thinks being 11 sucks, having your children grow up and leave you sucks even more.