PR

My PR company put out a statement about what it was like to go to Florida two weekends ago and spread my dad's ashes: "It was tough but good. I'm glad we went." Not much to shake a stick at but necessary for presenting to the general public because I hadn't really made sense out of the whole experience. Hell. I don't think I ever will.

And then it came in the middle of a phone conversation yesterday.

Truth be told I was avoiding the question and when I couldn't sidestep it any longer, I was unable to even get the words out. I had been anticipating the inability to breath two weekends ago but not then; not on the phone. I couldn’t blow it off with the canned “it was tough” response. The finality was so true and thick; hard and heavy like hearing cold metal latching a door closed. It surprised me so much that I apologized not because I was crying but rather because I didn’t expect that to be the situation that would bring it out.

I waited for it to come in Florida. I welcomed it there. It was almost as if the trip was my time to mourn. But when we got there, it felt like strictly business. I was on autopilot filling boxes and emptying shelves; looking at photos and reading old letters; feeding Miss M and packing what was left to hold on to him by. In fact, I found my emotional reaction came more from a place of anger than sorrow. Anger at having to discuss who gets what or what to throw away. Anger that, in the end, we are left with someone digging through our shit trying to make sense of it all...

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Later in the day, I finally went to see a doctor to get some antibiotics for this nasty cold. He was trying to earn my business as a general practitioner. I was telling him my story of the past four months. I was explaining that no signs of postpartum were standing out from the regular feelings of cabin fever being housebound because of this cold and the weather - that and having just spread my dead father's ashes in a river two weekends ago. Nope. No strange emotions outside of the general emotions that come to light having done that.

Even that felt surreal. Strange. Unavailable. As in: my dad was already gone. Spreading the ashes was letting go of what was left of his "physicalness". Him and Helen; because that’s how he wanted it to be and that's how I could be part of a ceremony to gain closure.
.
.
.

His silent absence was the most profound part of the trip. I kept feeling like I should check in with him at the other end of the table at trivia or in another room at my aunt's house or back at his condo sitting in his favorite spot. He just was nowhere to be found.

No Where.

I’m not one for making more out of it than it is. He’s not saving us a spot in heaven or watching down on us with immense pride - he did that during his life. When I was with him, it felt good. Knowing what I know now, I almost wish he would have kicked me in the ass a little more but that was not his style. He loved me and made me feel like I was always enough as the person I was at any given time in my life.

Now I am left with a knowledge I always wanted and never understood what I would have to live through to realize. My interpretation of myself is deservedly honest these days: having wasted some of the opportunities he provided, having spent my time angry about what was rather than using the resources I had to build what could be. And yet, I am obliged to be nicer and tread gently with myself as well, since I don’t have my dad anymore to tell me he loves me when it feels like the world doesn’t.

I do hope someday I will experience an energy as lovely as his again.
It is one of my most cherished things.
_______________________________________

I was lucky enough to find the open arms of caring friends as I lived through last year, especially at the end of it; for that I am filled with gratitude.
I refuse to consider it anything less than a good year
(a good year with one hell of a morbid sense of humor).
This year I plan to do it all over (this business of living life) with a kinder heart; with the knowledge that this day is all we have and
this moment is THE moment.

The Big Blue

Miss M has a sleep sheep we turn on to play white noise so she drifts to her unconscious state a little smoother. It has whale sounds, falling rain, the ocean and one other I can't remember right now. A few weeks ago I started playing the ocean sound so she could get used to it for our weekend in Florida.


Sunday morning I was up before sunrise. I had a moment to take in the moon and a bright planet right below it on the horizon. The house was silent. I went down and got Miss M and brought her back upstairs to watch the sunrise over the ocean through the sliver of horizon I could see between houses. A little later on, I dragged D out of bed so we all could go for a walk down along the beach before everyone woke up and the day's events ensued. I knew it was the only time to escape. 


There was a chill in the air and I bundled the dangling M with her blanket and hat. We walked and watched the birds. We stopped and examined the shells. We watched others run by or walk along holding hands. Every now and again Mr. Maillet would stop to look out on the Atlantic like some deep sea fisherman.


I took photos from strange angles trying to capture this first visit for the little lady. M mostly slept (cursed Pavlovian response). I asked M if she remembered being there in July when she was in my belly? 


She had no comment; she might have been snoring. Her little hands were freezing and her cheeks rosy. Still I think she liked it and I promised we would return.

Birthday Misses

M was sleeping and I started to cry. It felt like it had been a awhile (not that I forgot, only that I had been too busy the past few weeks). It had something to do with actualizing the moment at 10:37 pm when I came in to my parent's life. It had something to do with being 1 hour and 23 minutes off from my dad’s birthday. It had something to do with marveling at miss m and knowing what I would do for her to find joy in this life.

Later in a much needed shower, I thought about how strange it is that I am tied so closely to my dad in birth and death. We celebrated our birthdays together. He always let my birthday eclipse his like it did on the calendar. It's yet another way this man loved me to no end.

This new year starts alone with the hollow silence of my birthday mate gone forever. It's all I can do to not pick up the phone to say hi.

Happy Birthday Dad - I miss you today and every day!

Happy New You!

I’ve been thinking a lot about the course of a year. It’s easy to take it for granted; to let a year slip through our existence while we’re busy paying bills or listening to NPR. Sometimes I feel like years are strewn on the side of the highway in the rear view of my drive to live. Perhaps I’m paying more attention to the clicks that make up a year right now because Miss M’s weekly development demands I notice changes. It got me thinking about how she started her life in the Fall. Her year begins with Halloween and then moves in to the holiday season. (I remember right before she was born, NR said to me it was a beautiful time of year for a birthday. It's so true - Fall is a poet crunching down some leafy lane in a J. Crew catalog). In my case, each year starts about three weeks after, um, the New Year. It’s ironic because in the course of my year, New Year’s Eve is actually at the end of it all. I always see the holiday as the end to a year instead of a beginning. I asked a few people if they ever view the year through this type of lens, starting with their birthday rather than what society has deemed the definitive flipping of the calendar. A general "no" was the consensus followed by a feigned interest in my theory. So I figured I should blog about it...

Perhaps because my birthday falls so closely after the New Year, it’s easy to adjust the beginning of a year to my birthday (and slightly self indulgent). My years are therefore pretty much in line with tradition (barring the usual New Year's philosophy).

I read my birthday post to the year ahead in 2010 and I feel I was no more knowledgeable than the girl in the photo. Now a lifetime has passed. That is how much has changed this lap around the sun. And I believe it was a good year; even though it kicked my ass.

Looking back, it surprises me to think about how plentiful my innocence was as I entered in to the responsibility of having a kid. Everything fell so easily in line. I got pregnant in January, told my husband on our first anniversary in February. Sheepishly told my dad, not really believing the reality of it all would come to pass (he assured me everything would be fine). I spent the next month truly digesting the news and getting used to the new mountain I had begun to climb. I watched my hormones take the reigns over my mind. I rode the waves and apologized afterwards. I spent the summer riding my bike, easing my stress levels at work, and watching my belly grow. I caught happy hour, art night, and book club as often as I could and all the while realizing subtle changes were happening before the baby was even here. I revisited my dad with D and the belly. In a yellow bikini, I walked the beach in the hot humid Florida summer I knew so well from my childhood. I spent the Fall getting the Bird's room ready. I realized how powerful women can be on a whole new level. I felt the excited support of friends and family alike. I believed I still had control over everything if I thought through it hard enough. I learned how a tidal wave looked and felt. I ran for higher ground, found something that floated, and called for help. The wide net of friends caught me when I couldn’t catch myself. I lost my anchor... and then... I found my sail. I’ve never felt more love in my life. My heart swelled for D, my heart swelled for M, my heart swelled. So much so that perhaps my polar ice caps melted a bit. There was a definitive shift. A crack; and light was shining through. I straightened my back and stood tall. I became the project manager. I began building the memories my daughter would carry through her life. The last hour of New Years Eve came alone at a keyboard for the first time in months. It felt like returning home after a journey of a thousand miles. I had two weeks left to say goodbye to this ball of energy called 34.

Welcome 35. Can you believe just a few days ago I was scared to even call you by name? But I’m too old for that anymore. Perhaps it’s because I'm busy focusing on the moment in the hour in the day in the week in the month of the year. The irony is that it all seems so much faster than the painstaking slowness of youth when I was busy earning each new candle on a cake. In any case, I welcome what is to come. I'm sure it will bring the surprise of things I can’t even imagine and lessons I have somehow escaped thus far.

Back to Mine

So many words have slipped through my brain, so many lush moments ripe with emotion have fallen into the black hole of my mind. I'll always wish I could go back and collect those words that came to me in the lonely moments of my hospital stay and the raw newness of being a mother but something tells me that to wholly live it without a pen was perhaps the way it was supposed to unfold.

Even now when I fall victim to the middle-of-the-night feedings, I think lovely thoughts that come with sleepless inhibition. It is the one reason I welcomed back the curse of Miss M's nightly show. Still, I don't write them down and though I promise myself to remember them in the morning, they slip away into the ether (literally about 15 years of late night thoughts and you would think I know better by now).

Aside from the sheer overwhelming absurdity of being a new mom, I wish I had the time to record my thoughts on a page so I could iron out what I am in thinking. My thoughts are like thick tar these days; so slow and tough on the recall. It’s all so much and so new. This little person gets me in her gravitational pull and I’m lost gazing in on her. She amazes and for the time being it seems more important than pouring over a keyboard. But the fact remains that time is already moving swiftly along. The sweet girl has outgrown her newborn clothes and now talks to me in grunts and smiles. We have these moments together and soon enough they too will feel like a dream. I trust I can get back to solid writing like the true friend I return to time and again. For now, there is nothing to do do but steal a moment away between the tenderloin timer going off in the kitchen and another round of breastfeeding or bottle cleaning and falling a little more in love with the new human in my life.

The challenge is to find the time to be the me I used to be when really I should be sleeping while she sleeps or cleaning something or researching daycares or a million and one other things that could come before my wants and needs - such is a mother's plight. D is a passing ship at times; Gingy, a long lost pen pal I haven’t wrote (still her loyalty finds me in the middle of the night when he is sleeping and she is screaming. G wakes up to sit at the top of the stairs across from me - us two the only ones mostly conscious). It feels clunky and indulgent to carve some space so the sweet nuggets of thought and gems of life don't slip so deep into space that I can't find them again. And yet if I don't stop now, they will be gone when I wake up years from now. How do I get back to mine? Perhaps a redefine is in order.

Legacy



Did you know Elvis would be 76 years old today? I can't imagine a 76 year old Elvis. It's funny to think he would be the same age as my dad (for about two weeks) if they were both still alive. Still there is a wake of influence and inspiration in our lives.


(possibly for posterity but mostly b/c I see a resemblance)

Dedicated to Posterity

There are those stories that make you feel like life does have magic. It simply must, otherwise the story would never exist. I love those stories. They bring inspiration to our existence.


I can’t remember when Jeannette Harris first shared her story with me. I think it was one Christmas day after all the presents had been opened, after my fifth slice of pumpkin bread, after the Wassail, and the craziness of friends stopping by. I imagine it was in the dim light of her living room with the Christmas tree aglow and the stained glass window in the hall lit up. Ah holiday lighting: it’s cozy and creates the perfect setting for a story. She began:

“My mother, Ruth Carey, had moved from the Poconos to Key West. Her family was Pennsylvania Dutch and she was the pioneer of our southern Florida family. My brother, George, was five at the time when I was born. My Gramma, Emma Hohenshilt, ran a birth announcement about me in the Stroudsburgs newspaper up in the Poconos. She then watched for the printed version and clipped two copies to send to my mom as a keepsake.”


Ruth received the letter and read the birth announcement. She was beside herself upon reading an error in her baby girl’s name. She wondered how they could make such a mistake and how her mother did not catch the error before sending the clippings along in the mail. Disgruntled, she pasted the birth notice on the inside cover of Jeannette’s baby book, the Log of Life Dedicated to Posterity. It sat across from the baby photos and cards that accompany the joy of a new life.

Fast forward to the days leading up to Jeannette’s wedding. Her fiancé, George, had been anticipating some sort of “sign” to validate their decision to spend their life together. Six months before the wedding George started talking about this sign. He had full faith that something would appear by their wedding day.


The sign became a fixture in the hustle and bustle of the wedding preparation. As the days before their wedding day dwindled, the curiosity of friends and family grew. Everyone began asking about it. Though George had full confidence in the matter, even his nervous mother wondered, “What does this mean?” Jeannette was apprehensive but sure something would appear. She would kid about it with the rest of the group as the jokes ensued: “Maybe you missed your sign in your sleep, George...”

Two days before the wedding, Jeannette began to wonder when this sign would come. Still she packed up her childhood and prepared to move into her married home. That afternoon as she was going through stuff with her father, they had a very sentimental and reflective time deciding what to save and what to toss. They found the old baby book and looked through the few photos in it. Ruth hollered, “Finish packing and get ready for the rehearsal dinner. Please make sure everything is in the box.”

When her father went to put the Log of Life in the box, the old birth announcement fell out. He picked up the little square piece of paper and slowly sat down on the floor upon reading it. Jeannette thought something was wrong as she watched her dad. He said to Jeannette, “Call George, here is his sign.” He also yelled out, “Ruth come up here immediately. We found George’s sign.” When Ruth came in the room, her husband handed her the announcement. She looked at it but didn’t read it. They had to tell her to re-read it again. When she did she said, “I remember that,” and started to cry.

Birth Announced
Word has been received here of the birth of a daughter to
Mr. and Mrs. George Carey, of Key West, Fla., on November 10. Mrs. Carey is the former Ruth Hohenshilt, of the Stroudsburgs and they have a son. The baby will be named Jeannette Harris.

Mrs. Carey’s mother, Mrs. Emma Hohenshilt,
who recently returned from California, expects to visit her new granddaughter at Christmastime.


Jeannette called George. She was so excited and giggly; jumping up and down. “You’re not going to believe this: we’ve got your sign!”

She went on to tell George about their discovery. George was blasé and said, “Oh yeah? Cool.” Jeannette asked if that was his sign and he said, “Yes.” Jeannette’s dad got on the phone and said, ‘What do you think about this?” George said, “I knew it would come.” Jeannette’s dad commented, “He had more faith than all of us.” For his part, George was glowing at the rehearsal dinner.

On her wedding day, Jeannette placed the second copy of the announcement in George Harris’ bible, which she carried up the aisle.