Change...Progress?

Change

                 Change is something. 

Sometimes beautiful, sometimes not and always a varying degree of difficulty. I used to think I was flexible, easy-going, and adjusted quickly to change.

Grammy never even got her copy of this
because it took me so long to order.

                But then my life and everything I knew as normal changed. Right before my mom died, Addie started crawling. That was the last milestone my mom would ever see. I cried Labor Day weekend when we were sharing a loft with some friends and friends of friends and Addie was up all night cutting her first two teeth. I love sleep, but that isn’t why I cried. I cried because things were changing. Life was continuing without my mom, and I didn’t like it. It wasn’t like I thought she’d suddenly come back to life and be confused, but I wanted the world to stop since it felt like it stopped in my mind.

Fewer tomatoes leads to a happier
husband and a greener chile!

                After my mom died, I started making some of my favorite meals that my mom had made. I made her chile rellenos and green chile… not because I wanted to take over or make that change, but because I knew she would make those foods if someone had requested and I wanted to keep it the same. I used the same eggroll wrappers, the same whole green chiles, and the same La Bola recipe for green chile. When Jeff said, “This is delicious! Maybe next time we will try to make it a little greener and a little less red,” I thought No way! This is the way green childe is supposed to be. This is the good stuff!

Life is like freshly chopped jalapenos...
Spicy and can burn you without proper
precautions!

                Recently, the company that makes the eggroll wrappers that we’ve always used went out of business. We have yet to find some that are as sturdy and delicious. We had no choice but to change. I took this opportunity to change our green chile.

                It’s just as good; just not as red.

                Progress? Healing? Perhaps.

Grammy and Addie... Mother's Day 2010.

                Forgetting? Never.

Writing

I cooked today and took photos while I made the green chile because I knew I wanted to write and reflect about the connection to my mom.

It is 9:30 on a Friday night of a week when I have seen very little of my husband.

Dilemma? I must write everyday or I will loose momentum.

I wrote today, with Addie, and we posted some previously written stories on her blog (http://myaddielu.blogspot.com/ ). The story we wrote today will be posted tomorrow, hopefully with photos!

I wrote invitations for Jeff's 30th birthday and shared it in an evite.

I wrote today and shared, so I feel good. I have a plan and photos for a topic for tomorrow, so I feel motivated. It is 9:30 and I am going to bed, so I feel relaxed.

Goodnight. :)

Green Thumb

Green Thumb

            My dad has a green thumb. I don’t know exactly when my mom realized it, but she did brag about his growing ability for as long as I can remember. People gave my mom flowers and plants, and she learned quickly to hand them over to my dad for proper care, and once they were in his care, they bloomed. Other than a Christmas cactus that eventually took over the front window, my mom and plants were incompatible.

            I inherited my mom’s inability to keep plants alive. My mother-in-law gave me a clipping off of her house plant and told me, “It’s so easy to keep alive!” with instructions on how to do so.

            … I killed it.

            My friend Kim gave me a clipping from her house plant. “It’s taking over our condo! Please, take several!”

            … I killed it.

            A company sends cabbages to third grade students every year. There are always a couple of extras, so last year I took one home. Third graders get these things to grow 40 pounds or larger!

            … I killed it.

            My mom died. People recognized the significance of such a loss and the inability to really do anything to make my family and me feel better, so they sent plants to remind us they care about her and us. Addie’s childcare provider Phyllis and her family gave me an orchid. I was grieving and saw the orchid and thought, “Great. I’ve heard those things are hard to keep alive and I didn’t even manage to keep alive the ‘Sorry-we-make-Chris-travel-so-much!’ plant that Becky had given me, thinking I could manage to water it ONCE A MONTH and keep it alive better than her!”

            One year, 8 months, and 22 days later, my orchid has never been so beautiful! In death, my mom’s positive energy lights up living things. In death, those living beings include plants.

            Perhaps my mom is an angel with a green thumb.

Sisters

Sisters

          It’s no secret that I love Christmas music. Students walk into my classroom every morning, and if Christmas music is playing, they know they need to follow morning procedure particularly well because something is up with the teacher. Addie hears Christmas music and asks me to sing along. “Again! Again!” she requests, even though singing has never been one of my strengths. Jeff hears Christmas music and rolls his eyes as he walks away. “It’s not even December!” But he doesn’t turn my music off. When I was in labor, I sang I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas, even though Christmas had just passed and I was trying desperately to shave my legs in the most painful shower of my life. It will relax me. If I am relaxed, the baby will be happy and the delivery will be smooth. She’s not supposed to come yet, so we both need to relax.

           People who know me know that I need Christmas music.

          But why? It doesn’t matter if it is churchy music (except for glooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiaaaaa – it drives me nuts that they need to drag that word out soooooo long!) or children’s music (I have clay-mation classics and Frosty movies galore!) or music with no words. Except for that one song, I adore all Christmas music. I hear Tran Siberian Orchestra and think of my parents. My mom was crushed with the blizzards of 2008 when Becky’s flight was delayed and her Christmas surprise of driving in a Hummer limo, listening to Christmas music and looking at Christmas lights had to be postponed. She loved Christmas too and most of her craft fair entries were Christmas related (her biggest sellers were “Santa Bags” and the many angels she and my dad made together).

          Christmas music is important to me because it is the piece of Christmas that I can have anywhere, anytime at a very low price of running a CD player, and music is a time machine to take us to where the music entered our souls.

          I was eleven or twelve. Becky was seven or eight. Christmas was coming! We weren’t unexcited about Santa, but that wasn’t why we were all smiles! We hung out in her room, listening to a countdown of Christmas songs, and sung at the top of our lungs as we wrapped the thoughtfully sought out Christmas gifts for everyone we loved and added our own personal touches.

          After countless rounds of The Twelve Days of Christmas, we were hoarse and we heard Mom calling everyone to dinner a little earlier than usual. Was she calling us early because dinner happened to finish cooking early? Was she sick of the song? The singing? I think she heard the love and joy of best friend sisters and was ready for the family to bond as a whole.

          What’s better than having a sister who happens to be a best friend also? Having a mother who is like a sister, and then having brothers who pick incredible wives to be sisters with us! Becky, Mom, and I had something special. We still do. We always will. Now, though, our special sisterhood has expanded to Mandi and Bonnie, and Kali and Addie are fitting in perfectly!

          I sure am one lucky sister!

Pass it On

Pass it On

          “Anyone want to play Hand and Foot?” someone asked.

          “Yes!” multiple people respond as we congregated around my parents’ dining room table.

          We looked around the table to see who we had partnered with. Mom and Dad. Grandma and Bonnie. Becky and me! Yes! We’re bound to win!

          The game got started and all of the teams were staying pretty even. We won a round and Grandma and Chris lost points because of what they had left in their hands. Dad and Mom won a round and we lost points because of the red three in my foot. The game went on and on. I was starting to see why Jeff and Greg tended to disappear when six decks of cards came out.

          “I can open a book of sixes. It’s clean!” Mom said as she laid down four sixes.

          Why did she wait for a fourth card instead of opening a book the last time she drew a six? Weird.

          Becky drew a card and her shoulders slumped. Bummer. No new books.

          Bonnie drew a card and got a thoughtful look on her face. Her lips pursed. She sucked them in. She discarded.

          “I can open another clean book!” Dad said as he laid down four eights.

          Becky and I exchanged a look. She was as confused as I was.

          “Why didn’t you put down three last turn?” Becky asked.

          Dad smiled. “I didn’t see this card hiding.”

          Casper pushed at my hand. Since there wasn’t any food on the table, he wanted scratches, so I leaned over to scratch his soft white ears. Something caught my eye… Is that a card on the floor? Is that a card between Mom’s toes?

          “Hey!” I jerked up. “What’s going on?!”

          Mom and Dad started cracking up. “This game is going on too long! We need to get other things done today!”

          Mom had been passing Dad cards with her toes, and he had passed cards back to her toes so they could collect the cards that would get the game moving!

(To be fair, they tried to make it really obvious so they could get caught and we could call the game…)

Addie bounced on the couch next to me. We weren’t technically on the same couch since she was on the wedge that connects the greenish sectional that fills the living room, but I could feel the bounces anyway.

          “Here, Mommy,” she said.

          I turned, expecting to see her handing me a Monster’s Inc. memory card or two and burst into laughter! She was handing me some cards… with her toes!

          “Grammy would be so proud!” I told her.

          “Yeah,” she laughed.

          It’s moments like these as I see glimpses of my mom in my little girl that I most easily get to share stories with Addie about Grammy.

Knowing Yourself

I knew that if I took days off from posting on the blog, I would take time off from writing for my blog. I've written, but for different purposes.
I'm frustrated with myself for doing so (taking time away from Three Red Stones), but I'm also okay with it because I have had dreams with my mom alive and engaged in my daily life in my dreams since my little break! So again, I am not adding a story to Three Red Stones, but I am headed to my dreams to live for a few hours where my mom lives too. Hopefully the weather will be calm so that Duke can sleep and molars will take a break from breaking through so Addie can sleep. If they can sleep, I can too!

A Different Approach to Blogging on Three Red Stones

I am going to try something a little different this week. Instead of writing each day as its own writing, I am going to build on the learning, lesson, or reflection with supporting stories or examples throughout the week. This approach will give me an opportunity to hear other people’s versions or examples of a story or idea to build in to my writing.  That’s the plan, anyway.

So for today, I present this week’s working title and gist:

Orchestra of Life

                We each walk to our own beat. We match our beat to those around us, and some combinations work better together than others. The challenge is overcoming the loss of the metronome or lead drum and making beautiful music with a slightly different tune.

Thank You

Thank You

Dear Mom,

                Thank you being such a wonderful mother and role model. I learned so much from you that I cannot ever thank you enough. The stories that you shared about your childhood helped me appreciate you as a person, the age in which I grew up, and the decisions that you and Dad made for my siblings and me.

                When I see something that I think it stupid, I imagine you sitting in a restaurant with your mom and getting annoyed with “some dumb kid” for putting crackers in the salt shaker. This helps me remember to put myself in someone else’s shoes before judging too harshly because there may be a very good and legitimate reason for the behaviors I am judging as stupid. You would have really like my teammate’s approach to life… she starts every day by putting on baby oil because then she smells good and all of the challenges just slide right off! If I can become more consistent in putting these two ideas to work for me, I will be a much happier, more relaxed, and more enjoyable person.  

                The stories that you shared about my siblings and me as very young children helped me to appreciate the little things that my little one says. I offered Addie a special “Grammy plate” (one of the cute city plate sets that you bought for me because it made you think of me), and she started to reach for it and then said, “No thank you. I will just eat it from my hand.” I smiled and laughed softly because for some reason, her response made me think of Greg saying, “Me no like bongo beans!” Being able to hear something so sweet from my Addie girl’s mouth and thinking of Greg as a little tike so many years ago makes me happy.  

                Addie and I went to Brenda’s to dye Easter eggs with her mom, niece, and great-niece and nephews. It wasn’t the same as when we dyed eggs growing up. They have a tradition that I haven’t actually seen yet, but it somehow involves dozens of colorful eggs and tapping them against each other to see whose egg will last the longest. At the end of the day, Brenda sent me a photo of me helping Addie scoop an egg out of pink dye and I could really see you helping Becky or me in that photo. It made me happy and sad at the same time, which I’m finding more and more as life goes on without you.

                It’s time for bed, Mom, but I really want you to know that you touched so many lives in so many ways, and I thank you and Dad for raising me in a way that inspires me to touch lives in positive ways as well. I love you.

Love,

Lulu

Self Perception

Self Perception

                I look like my mom, and I have for quite some time. I’ve always been happy about this because she’s always been my role model, my hero.  I haven’t always been able to see that I look like my mom, and I haven’t always been happy with how I look, but as I look at some old photos, I can see why people immediately said something.

                In my early adolescent years, I went to work with my mom when she was working for doctors Hesky, Fisher, and Schaffer. (She chose Dr. Hesky to be her oncologist because of the impression his positive attitude left on her and patients at that time… His patients had a higher rate of recovery than others.) I loved watching my mom at work. She was so organized and so busy taking care of this, keeping that situation under control, and she interacted with everyone else in a positive, supportive, and fun way. Everyone loved her, and my eyes beamed with admiration.

                I remember following behind her, walking between a counter and a shelf lined with medical files. Being a shy person, I avoided eye contact with my mom’s co-workers, but I’d glance to put a face with the name. As my mom introduced me to people, person after person said, “You look just like your mom!” and, “Even your hair has the same colors as your mom’s!”  My mom’s response was, “Yeah, but her hair color is natural! I have to pay for my highlights!”

                Every now and then someone tells me that when I did this or that I looked exactly like my mom. I smile, say thank you, and wonder what I can do to look exactly like her again. I also laugh when Addie tells me that my hair is painted because of the one time I took her with me to Carolyn, the hairdresser my mom introduced me to, when Addie saw me getting my hair highlighted. 

It’s not What you Know, but Who you Know

It’s not What you Know, but Who you Know

                Several of my closest friends had babies around the time that I did, and like many parents, we decided that they should be the best of friends. This doesn’t always go as planned, and my siblings and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye with some of the kids we hung out with because they were the kids of our parents’ friends. Fortunately, my daughter and my friends’ kids adore each other, and the more time we spend together, the better friends they become. It’s really a win-win because I get to spend time with my friends while providing my sweet girl with social opportunities.

                Another fairly common occurrence is for parents to become friends with other parents because their kids are friends or play sports or other activities together. My mother-in-law has lots of close friends who have kids the same ages as her three sons. Parents don’t necessarily become friends with every other parent they meet this way, but it certainly is an effective way as an adult to find friends.

                I recently heard a sweet story about my grandmother (Joyce) and one of her closest friends, who has a daughter the same age as my mom.

                On her first day of kindergarten, little Karen Ballard (who was actually quite tall for her age) fixed her hair in two blonde pigtail braids (her mother didn’t know how to put these in), tied her black and white shoes, pulled on her little white sweater, and kissed her mother goodbye.

            “I’ll see you at lunchtime, Karen. Have a great morning!” Joyce said, and she waved at Karen until she could no longer see her.

            Within the hour, one of Joyce’s friends from the old neighborhood pulled into the driveway and knocked on the door. She ooohhhed and aaahhhed at all of the new appliances Joyce had and helped her figure out how to best display some of her husband’s artwork. They had a lovely morning together, and Joyce was delighted to see her daughter walk into the house at lunchtime with her own little friend.

            “Mother, this is Cindy. Would it be okay if she stayed for lunch?” Karen asked, gesturing to the freckle faced little girl standing by her side.

            “Well, I suppose that would be fine, but I will need to call your mother to make sure she doesn’t mind. What is your last name so that I may call your mother?”

            “Mantooth. My name is Cindy Mantooth.”

            Joyce’s friend, who had started pulling plates from the cupboard, turned at the sound of this name. “Mantooth? Well I’ll be! Is your mother Bonnie?” she asked. Cindy nodded and her curls bounced. “Joyce! I know this girl’s mother! What a small world!”

            After a moment of awing over this coincidence, Joyce called Bonnie to see about Cindy staying for lunch and explained who she was and that they had a mutual friend. Bonnie gave permission for Cindy to stay, and she joined them as they were cleaning up lunch dishes. Cindy and Karen headed out the door to finish their first day of kindergarten on that sunny September day in 1961, and Joyce and Bonnie have been close friends, having lunch together at least once a week ever since.

                My mom didn’t invite Cindy to her house that day thinking that her mother needed a new friend, but if she hadn’t invited her over, my grandmother may not have ever met this very dear friend of hers! 

Perspective

Perspective

Tonight, I reflect on perspective by sharing a story from my perspective. Dad, Becky, Mom, and the man at the tattoo parlor would probably tell the story differently.

                Some people can see things from many angles. Others can only see things their way. The ability to see multiple perspectives allows people to develop empathy and compassion, and I am thankful to my parents for teaching my siblings and me to do this.

                One of the most memorable examples of my parents having different perspectives was when my little sister became an only child (well, living at home). At 16-years-old, Becky hardly did more than sleep at that house in Arvada because she was so busy maintaining high grades in challenging A-West classes, serving as student body secretary (later to become senior class president!), scoring goals on the soccer team, staying teeny tiny and super fit with track and cross-country, cheerfully cashiering and expertly making sandwiches at Einstein Bagels, and hanging out with her first serious boyfriend. Like most 16-year-old girls, Becky had some major insecurity when it came to her body, so it came as a shock to my parents when she wanted to get her belly button pierced.

                “No,” my dad answered flatly. He imagined the male attention she would get, and he missed his little girl! One boyfriend for his youngest daughter was already more than he was particularly thrilled about, and he was sure that if she had a belly button ring, she would have to show it off and more boys would be knocking down the doors. “No.”

                Like any stubborn child who desperately wants something, when Becky heard no, she went to the other parent. My mom thought about what it was like to be an adolescent and how difficult it was as a teenage girl to appreciate one’s own beauty. My mom thought about Becky’s low self esteem and thought that if she got her belly button pierced, she would be more confident in herself because of the positive way she would be able to look at herself and the positive and adoring compliments her soccer, cross country, and track friends would shower her with. “Okay.”

                I was home for spring break at this time, so Mom, Becky, and I got in the red speed racer Accord and headed toward Old Town Arvada, where I had gotten my belly button pierced back in the day. When we got to the cute little shop, though, it was closed. Mom saw the disappointment on Becky’s face, turned the car around, and parked in front of a dark, rackety, rotting tattoo parlor. We sat in the car and looked at each other.

                “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. I was beginning to think that my mom had perhaps planned this to discourage Becky from this piercing, but Becky nodded and in we went.

                Now, reader, you should know a couple of things about little Becky Mayer. First, when she was five and getting her ears pierced, she screamed and cried so loud that my brothers and I could hear her on the other side of Villa Italia Mall! Second, her only experience with piercing was when she got her ears pierced and when Dan (second oldest) bought do-it-yourself piercing kits from Sally Beauty supply to pierce (against my Dad’s wishes) his ear. And third, Becky passes out when she is poked with needles, an unfortunate trait she picked up from my dad.

                So there we were, three women very clearly sheltered by the Arvada lifestyle we had lived for 16 years standing at the tall counter, face-to-face with a large, very tattooed man. “Can I help you?” the man asked. He was clearly better versed in dealing with sheltered Arvadians than we were in dealing with very tattooed men.

                “Do you pierce belly buttons?” my mom asked.

                His steel eyes stared at her. He blinked. “Naval piercing? Yeah. How many?” His eyes narrowed as they shifted from my mom to my sister to me and back to my mom.

                “One,” my mom said, and we both pointed at Becky. The man reached under the counter. I held my breath, sure he was going to pull out a weapon and make us all get something pierced.

                “You’ll have to sign the waiver since she ain’t 18,” he said as he slid the paper and a pen to my mom.

                He turned his back and when he faced us again, he was wearing rubber gloves and holding a very large needle and strange hook. I put an arm around Becky’s back, sure she was going to faint from just the sight of the gleaming silver. The man nodded toward a table like you would find at a doctor’s office, and Becky gulped as she climbed on. Mom and I stood on the table across from the man, thinking that if Becky looked at us and not at the dagger, she would do better.

                Thinking back at that moment with Becky looking at us, I’m surprised she went through with the piercing. I don’t have to say anything and people can know exactly what I am thinking or feeling because of the look on my face, and I either inherited or learned this “trick” from my mom! Becky was one brave teenager for getting her belly button pierced after seeing the place, meeting the man, and especially while staring into horror-stricken faces during the actual act!

                Everything went well, Becky didn’t pass out, and she didn’t scream or cry so loud that Old Town would have heard. She got what she wanted because she knew someone would see things her way. I don’t think my dad was ever particularly enthusiastic about her belly button piercing, but when she didn’t become a different teenage daughter, he decided it wasn’t the worst thing she could have pierced… but that’s a story for another day.

                For tonight, I think about the many perspectives that I try (sometimes successfully, sometimes less successfully) to consider each day. Mom and Dad were raised in different communities with different home situations, and they each had specific experiences with their families and friends that helped them grow into the parents they became. It makes sense that people with different upbringings would have different perspectives, but it has really only been since losing Mom that I have been able to appreciate the different perspectives my brothers, sister, and I have. After all, we have the same parents, lived in the same house, and shared the same home life and vacations. The differences in our perspectives are a result of our internalization of these shared experiences based on the perspectives we had at the time.

Easter Dresses

Easter Dresses

                Easter is an important holiday, particularly to Christians, people who like to spend time with family, candy-mongers, breakfast people, and people who enjoy hide and seek. For my family, Easter meant delicious brunch at Dardano’s with two neatly dressed boys and five girls in matching (or nearly matching) dresses that my grandma picked out from Joslins. The dresses were lacy and pretty, pale pink or blue with flowers.

                Getting these dresses was one of the highlights of the Easter season, and putting that Easter’s dress on right after hunting for Easter eggs (and sampling a few pieces of candy) was magical! I carried my white tights into my mom’s room where I would watch her put on her panty hose by scrunching each leg into the foot, and then she helped me with mine. The great thing about white tights is they didn’t get runs the way panty hose do! Once Becky and I put on our shiny shoes, I felt like royal sisters who were friends with Shirley Temple.

                My mom wanted to pass this tradition and royal feeling to her granddaughters, so she picked out Easter outfits to send to Kali in Hawaii. When Addie was a couple of months old, she, my mom and I went to Flat Irons Mall and made our way to Children’s Place. It was my first time in Children’s Place shopping for my own daughter, and my little bunny got lots of attention. We looked at pink dresses, black and white dresses, and dresses that came in 3-6 month as well as size 7 (so Kali and Addie could match).

                On Easter morning, Jeff headed off to a baseball game and I pulled on Addie’s little white tights by scrunching them at the feet and pulling them up her chubby little legs. She was adorable in her white dress with pale purple polka dots, matching diaper cover, bonnet, and shiny white shoes. My little Easter baby was ready for brunch!

--

                This is Addie’s third Easter, her second without Grammy. This is the second year I picked out a cute outfit that’s not a frilly dress. I’m not sure why, but her black and white checkered skirt and little white shirt with a painted pearl necklace are adorable and will do just fine. Maybe on Mother’s Day she will wear an old Easter dress of Aunt Becky’s. 

Picture This

Picture This

          We went through a phase with Addie where she did not want to smile at the camera, and if someone pointed one at her, she looked away or tried to hide. We’re over that. Now, if she sees a camera whether it is pointed at her or not, she smiles and says, “Cheese! Che—ee--ese! Che-ee—ee--ese!” I look at these and laugh, knowing that she will not love all of these “cheesy” pictures when she’s older, but they tell a story to me and bring back my memories of her at this age.

          That’s what happens when I come across old photos. I had forgotten about the many hiking trips we had gone on as a family, but coming across a photo, I remember the fun!

          With four kids, I imagine it was sometimes a challenge to keep everybody entertained and too busy to pick on the other three. We were up early on these Saturdays, much earlier than the 10:30 mandatory wakeup by my dad. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation because most of us didn’t really wake up until after 10:30. Footwear was always an ordeal for me… I looked at my tennis shoes and knew that was the wise, sensible choice, but I saw my flip flops and knew they were what I really wanted to wear. I also knew, however, that if I chose the sandals, I would have to change them before we left because experience had told my parents not to take a child hiking in flip flops.

          We drove for what seemed like forever, and with each twist and turn in the road, my stomach felt a little less in my stomach and a little higher in my throat. If I took Dramamine before leaving the house, chances were I’d fall asleep before reaching the hiking destination. My parents dealt with this problem by often letting me have the front seat in the van, but the drive from Arvada to the outskirts of Boulder still felt long.

          We piled out of the car, my dad readjusted his backpack to make sure we had enough snacks, and then we distributed the canteens. We all liked the army green canteen even though it was the bulkiest to carry.

          The six of us started up the mountain. At first, I remained alongside my brothers, just to show that I could keep up with the boys, but when their conversations focused on boy-topics and teasing me, I sped up to analyze boulder location and lichen or found my way back to Becky and Mom. We admired trees and plants, and every now and then found a beautiful rock that would look great in a collection! The collections, of course, stayed at the top of the mountain so as not to remove them from nature where everyone could enjoy them.

          My dad waited at various scenic locations to get photos of us coming up over a hill, or posing in front of a bench with a beautiful mountain view behind. I recently found a photo in which the boys are styling and could have been in the Thomson TCAP video, and my mom, sister, and I are all looking at the camera with a Fire Ball in our cheeks like it was a completely insane time to snap a photo!

          We spent a lot of weekend days hiking, and I remember some of the more recent trips, but these trips from the 80s would be long forgotten if not for photographic evidence. These memories renewed by photos make me want to start hiking now, while I have only one child to keep track of so I will be prepared for more later on.

          So this is my plea to all of those camera-shy people out there! Don’t turn away from a camera because you don’t like how you’ll look to you… smile and think, “Cheese!!” for those who love you. 

Reflection

Reflection

                When Natalie first brought the writing challenge to the staff, I had mixed feelings. I’d love to really dedicate time each day for my own writing, but what will people think if they read them? Eventually, I bit the bullet and decided to give it a shot.

                One month of stories connected to my mom. One month reflecting on the fortunate childhood I had. One month giving written appreciation for the friendship between my mom and me.

                One month, and I still have so many stories I want to share, so I will continue. If I let a day slide by, it may become more, and then I will be upset with myself for not writing the stories that go through my head as I go through various daily activities. I have some hard stories to write, and when I started my blog, I planned to get to them toward the end of the month, but I have to wait until I am feeling emotionally strong.

                Tonight is not a night of a Mom story, but a night of refreshing my brainstorm list and making a plan on how to continue writing so that it is therapeutic and something for me. 

Grown Up

Growing up

                I woke up this morning and found quite a surprise. I didn’t wake up because Dad was knocking on all of the bedroom doors, “You’re wasting the day! It’s time to get up!” I didn’t wake up to Becky’s running alarm blasting and waking everyone in the house up except her. I didn’t wake up to Dan’s Metallic music shaking the floors. I didn’t wake up to Greg’s truck alarm being set off by neighbor kids. I didn’t wake up to the smells and sounds of Mom making a pancake breakfast.

                I woke up to the sounds of responsibility. Motherhood called from upstairs, “Mommy! I want you! I’m all done sleeping!”

                Ownership barked from his kennel telling me he didn’t feel well and needed out.

                Marriage whispered from the other side of the bed. “Should we have omelets for breakfast before we start our chores?”

                How did this happen? I still feel like the sleepy kid who wants to sleep until her dad knocks on the door at 10:30, and I still feel like the teenager who shares a Prelude with her brother, but I look like a 31-year-old mother/wife/teacher. I am a grown up.

                Weird.

Today is the last day of the challenge. I thought I'd write something amazing and profound, but I am out of time and grown up life awaits. 

Self Pity Monster

This is not an easy one to post because recognizing my own flaws is a lot less comforting than remembering my mom and the joy she brought (and hopefully brings in these stories) to others. Acknowledging my weaknesses should be a first step to making some changes, but change is hard.

Self Pity Monster

                The Self Pity Monster is one of the ugliest monsters that I’ve ever seen with bloodshot, puffy eyes, runny waterproof mascara, swollen chapped lips, and a frown that would curdle milk even if it were turned upside down. The Self Pity Monster is sneaky, making little itty bitty appearances in a way that seem very temporary and then BAM! Full-force SP Monster in the mirror!

                After a full day of electrical work, Jeff was working on a project with a fast approaching deadline, so Addie and I were going to join two couples with their two-year-olds for an evening of play, food, and then sleeping for the kids, painting for the moms, and whatever for the dads. I left my house with Addie at about 4:15 with my hopes for a successful evening high. I thought, Oh, it will be such a beautiful evening and so much fun, I will be inspired to write an amazing post when I get home! Little did I know that the brief appearance by the SP Monster earlier in the day had settled into the backseat of the car to make sure it took charge while we were away from home.

                We were unloading the car as the third child pulled up. The girls greeted each other with smiles and hugs, and when we got inside, the little boy got the same greeting. Magical, I thought as I watched the three darlings play with cars and kitchen sets and bugs that crawl down the window. The other moms and I chatted as we watched this happening, and the dads went outside to start grilling. It’s really no big deal that Jeff couldn’t make it. We’re doing our thing and we aren’t even around the guys.

                And then there was a knock on the door. I heard a woman’s friendly voice. Must be a neighbor, but then into the kitchen walked the mother and stepfather one of my friends, and the SP Monster whipped through the kitchen.

                Hm. Maybe I was supposed to invite Dad. At least Becky (my sister) will be here after the kids go to bed, and in the back door walked the parents of the other friend!

                This is a little awkward. Maybe I should have stayed home. The SP Monster had taken a seat on a stool near where I was standing to watch broccoli boil and had a stupid ugly grin on its face.

                The kids continued on with their play, but since grandparents had arrived and were naturally doting on their adorable grandchildren. My child either sensed that something was not right with Mommy or noticed that she wasn’t getting quite the fuss that the others were getting, so she started throwing herself into conversations and literally into the lap of another mom who had just done a cute flip with her little one.

                So there I was, hanging out in the kitchen with the SP Monster, feeling sorry for my little girl because she didn’t have a grandparent there to engage her in play and to make sure she was eating her dinner and to brag about all of the wonderful things she does, and why brag about your own child to a grandparent of another? Through the lens of a grandparent, my amazing child’s wonderful accomplishments mean nothing. So then I’m feeling even sorrier for my child because she doesn’t even have a mother who will go to bat for her because she’s so busy feeling sorry for her SP-Monster-self.

                There we were, our fun evening out with friends and all I could do was watch. I watched my daughter and her friends being silly and having fun. I watched my friends with their husbands together making decisions for their toddlers. I watched my friends with their parents, sharing in memories and reflecting on similarities to when they were kids. I watched the spouses with their in-laws, being polite and sophisticated. I watched the evening happen all around me and I felt the SP Monster completely take over.

                I put my toddler in her pajamas. I talked to her and rocked her and sang to her and loved her, and when she didn’t want to go to sleep because she wanted to play at this exciting house, I felt the tears of the SP Monster roll down my face. I wouldn’t be painting. I wouldn’t be chatting. I wouldn’t be girl-nighting. I would be driving home to tuck my toddler into her own bed while my friends and their moms enjoyed Canvas and Cocktails in the comfort of my friend’s house.

                My mom wouldn’t have done that. My mom would have bragged about her kids, pointed out the amazing things her kids were doing, just to make sure people noticed how Greg had taken apart a computer and put it back together more efficiently, or how far Dan threw a perfect spiral. My mom wouldn’t have cared if the grandparents thought it was impressive that Becky broke her arm in two places and pulled off her favorite sweater so that it wasn’t cut. She wouldn’t have told them anyway because kids need to hear that someone thinks the things they are doing are amazing.

                My baby is amazing. Did I let her down by not bragging about her? Did I disappoint her by trying to get her to sleep in her friend’s guest bed? Have I destroyed my two-year-old’s self-esteem because I cried in the dark as I rocked her because I was feeling sorry for myself?

                Probably not. But I’ve got to get rid of this monster before I do!

Appreciation for Parents

Exhaustion of Mundane Activities

                Being a parent of a two-year-old has given me a greater appreciation for single parents than ever before, and I have always had an appreciation for parents who take on this role alone. I am fortunate to have my partner in this with me, and I was lucky to have two parents raising my brothers, sister, and me. I love breaks when I get to spend additional time with Addie, and I am bummed that it is already Thursday. I am, however, exhausted.

                How on earth did my mom do it with four kids? My dad was great, of course, and certainly knowing he would get home from work, we’d eat dinner as a family, and he’d help with homework and put us to bed had to help my mom through each day, but just thinking about clothing, how on earth did she do it? My mom was the one who took us shopping for clothes and washed and folded our laundry (until Becky was in 2^nd grade and my mom was tired of having to wash and rewash Beck’s clothes since she wouldn’t put them away and they got wrinkly so she’d put them back in the hamper). I remember one time when my brothers were at school, baby Becky was napping, and my mom helped me with a Cabbage Patch puzzle while listening to the Zephyrs and folding laundry.

                I think about my challenge today with trying to sort through boxes and bags of clothes from good friends and trying to predict what the weather is going to be between now and June when I will have a chance to do this again, and guess what sizes will best fit my not-average-sized two-year-old in the meantime, all while trying to keep my child entertained and safe. What a task, and there is only one of her. My mom had three kids ages two and under! And then she had another one four years later!

                I have one and I am exhausted. It’s spring break, so I don’t even have my regular exhausting routines tugging at me, though they are weighing on me as lesson plans and grading get done less efficiently than if I had my quiet planning period. Jeff will walk in soon from bowling, and look around and wonder what on earth I did all day. Maybe next time, I’ll leave the clothing sort for him.

Up with the Stars

Up With the Stars

I’m up with the stars now

It’s really not so bad

I’m no longer in pain

And I’m here with my dad.

I did what I needed

I led a good life.

I was one heck of a mother

And the most loving of wives.

I’m up with the stars

It’s really not bad

I’m there for you all

So don’t be so sad.

I’m up with the stars

Watching over my mother

To keep her healthy and upbeat

And I’m supporting my brothers.

I’m up with the stars

Where I can see it all

Addie with her Lamby

And DJ with his ball.

I’m up with the stars

Watching where you go

Dan and Mandi in Oklahoma

And the rest in Colorado.

I’m up with the stars

And from here I truly can be

With all of my loved ones

My wonderful friends and family.

I’m here with the stars

Try not to be so blue

I’m here with the stars

But there with you too.

Gingersnaps

Gingersnaps

This is one of my family’s favorite stories to tell, but we all have a slightly different take on it. This is my take...

                My mom was a baker. We thought she started “Karen’s Cakes” because she was such a good baker. We give her credit for all of the delicious family recipes that became tradition, even though she got most of them from my grandma. When we were young, my parents told us that my mom didn’t know how to cook until she got married. Once she got married, she learned to cook, and when she had kids, her cooking became as dynamite as her baking!

                Becky is a baker also. She always has been. She started baking at a very young age and while Greg was making his famous bologna bowls for everyone, Becky was making cookies. She has always been good at baking, and when kids in grade school volunteered their mothers to make cakes and cookies for bake sales, Becky volunteered herself.

                Like everyone who does something, Becky tried different recipes and made mistakes early on. The biggest mistake she made, though, was letting her big brothers and sister taste her I-accidentally-used-confectioner-sugar-intstead-of-granulated-sugar cookies before she tasted them herself and noticed her mistake. Being the youngest of four kids, Becky definitely got the brunt of the teasing. We were told not to dish it if we couldn’t take it, and we were ready for Becky to tease back… she just chose not to.

                At dinner that evening, the banter continued. Becky reached her breaking point and got up from the table, bumping her table with the chair as she shoved it in. She hurried down the hall, and when she was nearly to her room, I made one more jerky comment.

                Sweet, adorable seven-year-old Becky turned around, pointed her middle finger up to the sky, and yelled, “#$*@ YOU!!!” before finishing her run and slamming the door behind her.

                We all started, slack jawed at my dad, waiting to see what he would do. His eyes were nearly bugging out of his head, and then he gave a little look as if to say, “You guys deserved that,” and my mom gently left the table and headed toward Becky’s room.

                We may have thought Becky was getting in trouble, but we knew it was really us who deserved a lecture. What I found out years later was that Becky was not getting lectured. Mom was offering comfort regarding Becky’s baking mistake and provided positive encouragement to help her get past the mean comments from her siblings.

                Fortunately for the rest of us, Becky didn’t give up on baking, and once she used the very colorful language that she learned from the girl across the street, she was much more effective at standing up for herself. Wasn’t that just like Mom, though? Don’t get mad… Understand. 

Bittersweet

Bittersweet

This story was shared by my Uncle Dave on Saturday night. My mom had shared this story with us years ago, but I had forgotten until Dave relived it for us.

                When my grandparents got married and my grandma got pregnant, she stopped working so that she would be home to raise the kids, keep the house clean, make dinner, and help with homework. It was important to her that she remain active in the school to support her children as well as the community. Because of this dedication, she occasionally left Karen (my mom) in charge of her little brothers while she attended a function at school.

                It was during one of these functions when poor, sweet, innocent David became the target of Karen’s practical joking. Like most kids, the three Ballard children were fans of chocolate, and Karen was quite experienced in different types of chocolate since she started baking with her mother at a young age. She was famous for her gingersnaps, and then for some reason, she started leaving a vital ingredient out. Eventually she mastered them again, and this experience came in handy when she had to talk to Becky about an evening of colorful language much later in her life. Nevertheless, she knew chocolate.

                Anyway, on this particular Thursday, Joyce was out, Bob was still at work, and the kids were left to entertain themselves. Karen put on her sweetest-sister-in-the-world look and offered to get a snack ready for David and Roger. Roger, however, was suspicious of Karen’s antics and knew to let David choose his piece of chocolate first. Karen was old enough by this point to know better than to watch David with laughing eyes, so she pretended to be getting something out of the cupboard while watching him from the corner of her eyes.

                The chocolate got closer to his mouth. He was almost drooling because he so desperately wanted some chocolate! Roger waited to see if this was something he wanted to. Finally, it reached David’s mouth and he popped it in with one shot, and he had barely started to chew when Karen started rolling with laughter!

                “Blech!!” David spat it into the trash and started rinsing his tongue under the faucet. “Vha – i – at???”

                With tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks, Karen managed to sputter, “Bittersweet chocolate!!”

                “That’s disgusting!” David said when his tongue was free of the no-sugar-added wants-to-be-a-treat chocolate.

                Roger decided to find his own snack.

                My mom always said to treat others the way you want to be treated, and she also said, “If you can’t take it, don’t dish it.” She really lived by these mottos and loved laughing and having a good time. She could tease with the best of them, and when it came back at her, she took it like a champ.

"Where's my Chicken?"

Corn and Potatoes from 7-11

                The summer of 2010 was an interesting one. Mom had planned to watch Addie one day a week when I went back to work in April so that they could have that time together and to help Jeff and me. She didn’t expect to have to continue chemo, and then when she was done with that and her office had again changed her position, she and my dad only got to watch Addie a handful of times.

                When I was done with school, though, and on summer vacation, Addie and I spent more time with my parents. It was a good summer with trips to the zoo, lunches, and just little visits. By the end of July, things were more difficult because Mom was in and out of the hospital and we didn’t really want to admit what we knew was happening. When she went to the hospital for the second time in just a couple of weeks, I did cry to Jeff, “My mom’s going to die!” and he was shocked and wanted to know who had said that. “Well, nobody, but she’s in the hospital again and she’s just not herself.”

                Early in August, when it sounded like another round of chemo might help her, but before they had administered it, Mom was in the hospital and had visitors. Greg and Bonnie and Mike and Cheryl were there to see her, but also to spend time with my dad since Mom was in and out of sleep without much notice. She woke up while they were chatting, and tried to get out of bed to get dinner ready and the table set! She was always thinking about others!

                A little while later, I called her. She said, “Where’s my chicken?” in a very light-hearted way.

                “I’m just getting Addie fed, and then I will be on my way. I am bringing corn and mashed potatoes too.”

                “I don’t need that,” she replied. “I already had it.”

                “You did? Where did you get corn and potatoes?”

                “7-11!”

                I wanted to ask if she was drunk, but assumed they wouldn’t allow booze into the hospital! Apparently she really wanted her chicken!

                When I got to the hospital with dinner, she was asleep and my dad was reading a magazine. She woke up briefly, ate some chicken and chatted for a short time, and then was out again.

                I’m glad I got to take her some of Jeff’s deliciously grilled chicken and wish that I hadn’t made her wait so long. Now, when I ask where something is or hear someone ask, “Where’s my ---?” in just the right tone, I laugh and think of that night… just a week before the end. 

Alone in a Crowded City

We had a birthday celebration this evening in honor of my mom. It’s so interesting to get together for a purpose like that and the different interactions people have with one another. It was my dad, my sister and her husband and her best friend from out of town, my oldest brother and his wife, my uncle and his three daughters and the boyfriend of the youngest, my other uncle and his two kids, my grandmother, my mom’s best friend, another couple my parents have been good friends with for a long time, Jeff, Addie, and me.

                We’ve had different combinations of this group together in different settings, and I love the feeling when we’re there. Everyone played a role in the person that my mom was, and everyone has special memories to keep her who she is to us. We spent some time sharing stories, which led to smiles, laughter, and tears. To be together in such a comfortable place and share those stories and emotions is a special and wonderful thing.

                It is also exhausting. On the drive home, I looked at the lights across the landscape and wondered how it can be that when we were all together in that house, and Addie was getting laughs by repeating a part of a story about my mom (“Where’s my chicken?!”), everything felt so whole, but looking at those lights and knowing it’s a crowded city, I still felt so alone. 

Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff...

You are What you Eat

                When I was in eighth grade, I spent a week at a GT camp of some sort. It was a lot like sixth grades Outdoor Lab, but it was more about team-building and diversity than nature.

                My mom picked me up from Drake around 1:30, and as we were driving down Ward Road in her maroon minivan, she asked, “Did everyone help cook?”

                “Yeah, sort of. We had different tasks and had to use blind folds and glasses that block your vision and stuff like that, so everyone helped with meals, but it wasn’t always cooking.”

                She nodded as though this made perfect sense. “Did you cook with a lot of onions?”

                I thought back to the meals. It didn’t seem like there were a lot of onions, but maybe mixed into the spaghetti sauce. “Not really. Why?”

                “Oh. You smell like onions,” she said in a normal non-judgmental way.

                I showered as soon as we got home and realized that the smell wasn’t actually onions. I had taken deodorant with me, but had either outgrown the teenage-scent or had forgotten to put it on! I asked Mom for one of the many extra Secret deodorants she had in the linen closet and under the sink, and learned right then to make sure I never ran out.

                Many years later, Dan, Mandi, and their kids were in town and staying with my parents. We decided to go to the zoo, so I got 6-month-old Addie and all of her stuff loaded up and met Dan, Mandi, Kali, DJ, and Grammy by the benches in front of the Denver Zoo. Mom was wearing an adorable hot pink Hawaiian sundress (which she had also worn to my master’s graduation in AZ the year prior). It was surprising to see her in such an outfit because she was always cold, but I thought Oh, this is a good sign. It’s a hot day and she is warm enough to wear a sundress!

                Kali loves animals, so we needed to look in every cage and window to see whatever creature might be there. We went through the feline house and I saw Mom’s arms covered in goose bumps. It is chilly in here. They must have the AC cranked up. I noticed, though, that when we were looking at the tigers outside, she stayed in shaded areas. Hmm… maybe she should be wearing a sunhat.

                When we got to the polar bears, I pushed Addie’s bulky Jeep stroller as close to the glass as I could and took a picture of the big white bear playing with a piece from a wooden ship. I turned around and saw Mom sitting under a little tree. Wow, she’s not only warm enough, but she’s actually hot! But she’s still holding her arms like she’s cold.

                “Are you okay, Mom?” I asked. “Do you need a hat or some sunscreen or anything?” Interesting that at one point, she worried about me, and now I’m worrying about her.

                “I’m okay. Thanks though.”

                “You have goose bumps. Do you want me to sit with you in the sun?”

                “No! I can’t sweat! I think I forgot to put on deodorant!”

                This was the second or third time she had forgotten to put on deodorant in the last couple of years, and with all of her medical treatment, I thought maybe she just kept forgetting to buy it. I offered to give her some of mine, and she laughed.

                “I have a stockpile of deodorant, but I put it on after I put my shirt on so that I don’t get it all over my shirt, and I just forget to put it on sometimes.”

                Stockpile?! She wasn’t kidding! We are still finding stashes of deodorant as we sort through her belongings. Mom taught me to cook with onions in clothes that I’m not wearing out, always have a stash of the necessities (like feminine products, deodorant, toothpaste, soap, and shampoo and conditioner), and don’t sweat the small stuff, but don’t forget to put deodorant on or you are likely to sweat even more!

Washing Dishes

Animal Rights

                My mom loved animals, and I got that from her. I love little creatures with their wee little noses and their cute little noises. Unless, of course, they are in the house and they aren’t supposed to be.

                I was home for Mom’s birthday and to take the Place test so that I could apply for my teaching license in Colorado. Greg was home at the same time, planning to move back with his then-fiancé in early summer. We were looking around the Denver area for reasonably priced apartments for people our ages, but we were really spending time with Mom and Dad, enjoying the feeling of being at home again.

                One night, after laughing and chatting over grilled vegetables and chicken, I was rinsing the large colorful plates and bowls before loading them into the dishwasher that my grandma had handed down to my parents. It wasn’t new, but it worked better than the dishwasher they had previously had.

                I lifted the chrome handle with my left hand and pulled the front of the dishwasher down, peering inside as I did so in order to see how full the dishwasher already was.

                “AHHH!” I shrieked when I saw the tail and I slammed the door shut!

                “What??? What’s wrong?” Mom asked and she, Greg, and Dad all bolted up in their chairs with their eyes as big as the plates I wanted to put away.

                “A mouse! There’s a mouse in the dishwasher!”

                “How? How can there be a mouse in the dishwasher?” Greg and Dad asked as they joined me in the kitchen. “Where was it?”

                “On the right side, near the back! I saw the tail when I opened the dishwasher. It was running away!” I backed away, wanting to see and point it out, but also wanting to get out of the kitchen in case the mouse… well, in case it… I don’t know what it could have possibly done, but I didn’t want to be there if it did anything!

                It should be noted that my dad and my brother are not just smart. They are sma-art! Genius smart! And they had battled mice together before, like the time they put a mousetrap in the kitchen trash can, but had to end up drowning the poor mouse that got caught because he was hopping up and down in the canister with the trap stuck to his foot.

                So these smarties were in the kitchen, investigating the dishwasher situation, with me peeking over their shoulders and Mom standing just outside the back door, where she could hear us, but wouldn’t hear any sounds of an animal suffering. She had coaxed Casper, her white fuzzy cocker spaniel, into the backyard so that he wouldn’t interfere with whatever had to be done.

                They slowly lowered the dishwasher door, peering in at the spot I had described, and then slammed it closed when they saw the tail go back down the drain! They did this a couple more times, and then, before getting the mousetraps, one of them said, “Why would a mouse return so quickly to the dishwasher? If we scared it, wouldn’t it hide for awhile?”

                “Yeah… It can’t be a mouse,” the other replied.                

                They exchanged an inquisitive look, and shared a genius thought that ended with a look on their faces before saying, “It’s the rubber lining! It came loose!” and then opened the door again and grabbed hold of the loose rubber!

                Mom came back inside when she heard the laughter with a look of relief that there was no mouse, and there was no need for pesticides. We laughed about it for the rest of the weekend, and again when Greg moved near Cherry Creek. When I moved back into my parents’ house, there was a new dishwasher with tightly fitting linings! Thinking that I had had such a close brush with a mouse gave me a greater appreciation for my dad’s humor and the Mickey Mouse in a mousetrap ornament!