oh and btw, happy halloween!

It's been a while, eh? Almost two months. Nothing much to report on truthfully.

School is going quite well for Lovie. She still loves it. We still love it. Her teacher is constantly telling us how smart she is and the other day she started compiling a list of kids she wants to invite to her FIFTH birthday party (in less than two months #omgholdme). She sat there and sounded out each name and wrote down the letters that corresponded with the sound. I was quite impressed. She's also been impressing me with her reading lately. In addition to sight words and other words she knows from memorization, most of her reading is still figuring out the words with the picture, but she totally gets sounding out the words when I tell her to LOOK at the word.

It's pretty awesome. She's pretty awesome. And pretty. ;)


***
We went on vacation last week. We drove from Chicago to (near) Clearwater Florida. The drive down wasn't so fun. Lovie got carsick twice on the first day. What should've taken us 11 hours, took us 17 that first day. But the second day went much smoother. And of course the time spent in Florida was nothing shy of fabulous. Really and truly.

Now I'm generally NOT a sun and hot weather person. In fact, I hate it. But if you can get me right. on. the. ocean. I'm game. And that's what we did. We found a condo to rent that was RIGHT on the water. The view, the price, it was all just too much to pass up. We laid around in the sun and swam in the ocean the majority of the time. We also went on a pirate cruise (which I'd recommend anyone to do- especially if you have kids). On the last day, we left the condo at 10AM (checkout time) and headed to the Clearwater Marine Aquarium... home of Winter the dolphin.

This place was really and truly fabulous, and a great way to spend our last day of vacation. I have never in all my life encountered a place where every single employee was SO nice. And if you've seen the Dolphin Tale movies, you absolutely MUST visit this place with your kids. Worth every penny.


***
Next up is preparing for the holidays and Lovie's birthday (in less than two months #omgholdme). We already know where it's going to be and what we'll be doing, but I do still need to book it. I'm actually super excited about this party as it's not a jumpy house. Not that anything is wrong with jumpy houses, Lovie LOVES them and had her last two parties at them. I just think what we have planned, if pulled off, will be super damn fun and cute and memorable. You only turn five once, right? Why not make it a memorable one?

under the stars and moon

The other day Lovie asked for help on her journal. Our journal. She asked me how to spell some words, how to write the date. She asked for suggestions on what else to write after she completed the first part: 

I love you Mama. 

I love you under the stars and moon.

Other than help her spell You and Under (and that there's an E at the end of Love), she did the rest. (The date in the upper right hand corner is my writing--I was writing upside down, which isn't so easy.)

After she was done writing and drawing pictures of the moon and stars, she asked what else she should write.

I suggested she draw a picture.

She then drew me (left) and her (center), then drew Daddy (right).

Originally she drew us without feet so when I asked about our feet, she added them-- including the toes, which made me chuckle as she deliberately counted out five toes for each of us. : )

I'm so glad I decided to do this journal.

journal writing: the kid edition

While I'm trying super hard not to be too pushy about this, I'm super dang excited about Lovie learning to read and write. She knows how to spell several words and write them. For the most part. She can also figure out what a lot of easy words are by looking at the first letter of the word as well as the the image nearby. She's a smart cookie and I'm confident she'll be a reader and writer in no time...But I'm anxious.

I am. I don't know why exactly, but the idea of her reading and writing excites me so much. I just can't wait for it all to click. I can't wait for her to start thumbing through books. I can't wait for her to write notes unprompted. I just can't wait.

That said, the kid is only 4 (and a half!).

I want her to really enjoy being 4 and 5 and 6 and....

I want her to play and dance and sing and color and paint and fart and giggle and make bubbles when drinking. I want her to retain that innocence as long as she can. I have no desire to rush anything... I'm just super excited about reading and writing.

Enter the Mama and Me journal.

I got the idea via this pin one day while wasting time on Pinterest, and while Lovie's not really a writer and reader quite yet, I thought why not start this? She could draw pictures or get help to write something. Or she could just let it sit until the day came when she could read and write on her own.

One day last week we were talking about letters or reading or something and I mentioned the idea of the journal and how I thought it could be fun to do-- write letters to one another in a journal, just for us, and put them under the other person's pillow when it's their turn. She seemed kind of excited about it, but not horribly so, so I didn't bring it up again. Instead I printed out a cover image for a notebook I already had and started thinking about what I wanted to write and how I wanted to approach it.

I finally wrote the letter yesterday and stuck it under her pillow while she was watching TV after school. My intention was for her to discover it on her own and figure it out but then, out of the blue, while we snuggled on the couch just before bed, she said, "Hey me-member you said you would get a journal to write in and put under my pillow?"

Oh the smile that washed over my face as I nodded and whispered, "Why don't you go look under your pillow now?"

She looked up at me with such glee and ran off to her bedroom where I could hear an exuberant shriek quickly followed by the sound of her feet running against the hardwood floor back toward the living room. I thought her face might break from smiling so much as she handed the book to me and asked me what it said.

I read it to her, of course, and when I was done she immediately demanded I tell her what to write.

I laughed and told her she didn't have to write anything if she didn't want to, that she could even draw a picture. I reiterated that the journal was for whatever we wanted to share with each other. Well, she continued to demand that I tell her how to spell certain words. And when she was all done, about twenty minutes later, she dashed off to my bedroom, demanding I keep my eyes closed (even though she wrote her letter directly on top of me and I already knew what it said: Hi Mama I Love You So Much).

After I put her to bed, I went in my bedroom and opened the book and looked at her writing more closely. Her big smiley happy faces and rounded hearts made my eyes well up. She ran out of room signing her name so she had to put the last letter in front of the first letter, which made me laugh out loud.

I wrote her a little note back and tucked it under her pillow this morning before I left for work. When it's my turn to journal again, I plan on taping this photo of us I took yesterday while watching TV:

(could she look any less interested/exhausted. oh but she's not tired, oh no!!)

I will cherish this book (and hopefully many more to come) for ever and always.

here's one way to publish your own book

The other week we made a cardboard Washing Machine. It's pretty kick ass if I do say so myself.

While we were making the thing, I ended up with several scraps of cardboard box which I gave to Lovie to do with as she pleased. She was excited when I gave the pieces to her but then said, "What do you want me to do with them?"

I told her she could do whatever she wanted--she could color on them, cut them, make play food (cookie), make a book, whatever.

"A book?" She was quite interested.

I folded one of the scrap pieces in half and told her we could put paper inside and that the cardboard would be the outside of the book which she could color and design herself.

This is what happened:

See the squiggly lines in green above the blob? Yeah, that's her "story". She even read the thing to me, flipping the pages and telling me an actual story! It's called "Kashie's Seasons." It's about a girl, Kashie (probably should be spelled Kayshie), who lived Once Upon a Time and who loved going outside and loved the different seasons. One day she got sad though but then she went outside and she was happy again.

Or something.

Seriously though, how awesome is that?! And SO EASY to do (held the paper in there with [pink] tape). She literally "wrote" on each page and drew a corresponding image! I should have her read it to me again so I can "translate" it for the future when she may not be able to read her "writing" because this is one of those things that I will save forever.

a bit of a confession

That's right, I've got a bit of a confession to share. It may not come as a big shock to some people, but it is to me. It's the first time I've felt like this since having Lovie and, well, you can check it all out over at Shell's place:

I'd really love it if you'd visit me there today.

Thanks, Shell for having me.

TILTW 7.13-7.19

*
It's too damn hot.

**
The Library rocks, especially on hot days.

***
Books on CDs for kids are awesome for when you're in the car. At least my kid thinks so.

****
I don't think I could endure one more mosquito bite.

*****
I did a bit of writing this week that I'm pretty damn proud of.

******
To any readers going to BlogHer this year in Chicago... you must try Giordano's pizza. You must. And while I'm not going, I do live in the city so if you have any questions, feel free to hit me up.

TILTW: 7.6-7.12

*
Getting used to a new baby is much harder the first time around.

**
I make for great cushion.

***
I'm really digging Wordpress. When I was pregnant the first time in 2008, I started a blog on Wordpress. The pregnancy and my time on Wordpress didn't last long. I didn't find Wordpress compatible for me. It wasn't easy to find new blogs (maybe it just wasn't as easy as it is now?). And I knew several people on Blogger. I like my finallyMom blog here on Blogger. But I'm finding my voice on Wordpress. And I love it. I love that I can write more freely about stuff other than parenting and my dollface, Lovie. I love that I made the decision to separate the two. Still lots of writing here on finallyMom that may not pertain to parenting/Lovie, but now I can really focus on that at the other place. And Wordpress is just awesome. I love how you get comment notification on the dashboard and that you can reply right there and that if the commenter is on WP, they get notification of the reply. I love that they feature Freshly Pressed pieces from blogs. I love that I can so very easily search for new blogs. It's awesome. I won't move finallyMom there, but I really do love WP.

****
I also am loving Feedly as my new reader (in addition to the reader at WP). Bloglovin is okay but I haven't visited in a while. I don't like having to click on each blog to get the whole story. And on feedly, I don't have to do that; it's very much like the old google reader. The only issue I have with feedly is that it didn't move my blogs over. I had to input each new link which was kind of a pain in the ass. But now that I have most of what I read in my feedly, it's AWESOME.

i hate beer

So I decided to start a new blog. I'm NOT shutting this one down because the world would be so unhappy without Lovie updates and pictures, this I know. Rather, I'll post non-Lovie-related stuff on this other blog called, Other Than Lovie.

It's on Wordpress which I haven't used in like 10 years so ... this could all be very interesting.

Feel free to check it out. Or not.

It will mostly contain writings that don't really have to do with Lovie. I know there's lots of stuff here on Finally Mom that doesn't really pertain to her, but now maybe I can feel more open to my non-Lovie-related writing.

Only time will tell.

Anyway, I submitted a post to the fine folks at Yeah Write via the new blog. It's a little ditty that kind of might explain my disdain for beer.

third time's the (not so) charm(ing)

Emptiness hinders hope.

Suffocates it.

Whiskey alone won’t release her.

So

with thick scars mutating her wrist,

she reaches for the bottle of pills,

slams them into her mouth.

Soon

 

she’d be free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

sibling rivalry

My favorite hiding place was under the front porch of the bungalow on 60^th Court where I was brought to live after being born. It’s been nearly 30 years, 15 moves since living there and I still remember the address, phone number, yellow rotary dial phone stuck to the yellow and black tiled wall in the hallway between the kitchen and dining room, opposite the one and only bathroom in the 3-bedroom home.

And, of course, I remember my secret hiding place under the front porch.

It was my own private little space, my own little club—a club for sad little girls whose parents were divorcing, whose brother and sister (especially) hated her, whose life was crumbling down—that I didn’t really discover until only a couple years before moving. Until it started calling out to me as I walked aimlessly around outside just to get away from the people inside.

It was dark and musty under there. And empty and lonely.  

It was the perfect place for me to hide out and stash my secret box, which included pen and paper, pictures, a lighter.

One of the pictures was that of my whole family with my sister’s face scratched out.

She hated me—my sister. So I scratched her face off in the photo. At least I didn’t burn it with the lighter, right?

No, my mom did that.

She burned the photo and doused it out with water from the kitchen sink when my sister found the damn picture in MY space, MY box, MY club.

We never really did get along. Not before then, certainly not after. It was like she was in this elusive club that she wouldn’t allow me part of or something.

And people wonder why I’m “one and done.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

so many photos, so little time

Late last week I read an article about printing out photos for your children's children. It was a great reminder that just because I may currently have a gazillion more photos of my Lovie than my parents had of all three of their kids combined, doesn't mean that Lovie will get to any of them if I don't get them printed.

I have an ABC book printed with images from Lovie’s first 15 months, as well as another book printed documenting her first year, but that’s it. Every other photo since then sits in my computer. Sure it's all labeled by year and month. Sure looking through the photos in order details her life pretty awesomely well. But. What happens if my computer crashes?

I have nothing other than her first year and a half in print (and a couple of canvases up on the wall).

This needs to change. Soon.

 

For Father's Day I took Taye and my dad out to eat to this Italian joint way out in the burbs. I called up my nephew Jordan to see if he wanted to join us since the restaurant was near where he lived (and since he doesn’t really “do” Father’s Day since he and his dad/my brother haven’t had a relationship since about 2005).

All of us met in the parking lot of the restaurant and when I saw Jordan, a smile immediately erupted on both of our faces. Man, I love that kid.

"I got something for you," I told him getting out of my car while he approached, arms stretched out.

"Yeah?" he asked, sucking on a lip ring. "The time capsule?"

"Dammit, no, I'm sorry. I couldn't find it yet but I do have something probably even better."

I opened the hatch to my car and found a big, brown photo album and pulled it out and handed it to him before sifting through other crap to find a second photo album, smaller and gray.

"You gotta promise me something first," I told him. "These are yours. This is your life so these are yours to do with what you want, but please, please don't destroy anything."

Jordan's eye brow rose as he chewed on both of his black lip rings.

I opened the brown album he held and pointed to the green Sharpie writing: May 1992 - 1998. Opposite the writing were three photographs tucked behind clear plastic. All three photos were of Jordan as a newborn.

"Holy shit," he said.

"Yeah," I answered. "This one," I said, opening the gray album I held and pointing to the green Sharpie writing on the inside cover "is from ninety-eight to two thousand."

He looked at me a bit stunned before looking at his girlfriend who smiled at him.

"I've been holding on to them for a while and since I couldn't find the time capsule, I thought I'd give them to you now. But, there's pictures of him in there...”

“I haven't touched these in years so there's pictures of everyone,” I quickly added.

He stood there for a moment flipping through some pages. Pages with photos of him as a baby, a toddler; photos of him with his young, smiling-yet-tired looking parents; photos of people who are no longer alive; photos of some really great times, no matter how ordinary they were then.

“Thank you,” he said giving me a hug. “I didn’t think anything like this existed for me.”

I smiled, “You’re just lucky you were born before I got a digital camera.”

 

Summer: it's just not for me

 

Sweaty boobs smooshed together. 

Air condition on full blast.

Mama’s cranky. 

Lovie’s energy’s infinite.

 

“LESS GO TO DA PARK!”

 

"It’s closed."

 

“I WANNA PLAY WIF DA BIG KIDS!”

 

“I have to pee first.”

It's been a while (again), but I couldn't resist participating in this one from Trifecta.

being an adult sucks ass sometimes.

Monday would've been Oma's 89th birthday. I'd known since she passed two months ago that I'd visit on her birthday. I visited on Mother's Day as well, but the stone wasn't in place as her "end date" hadn't yet been engraved.

Oma purchased the grave site and stone 30-plus years ago when her own parents passed away. She wanted to be in the same cemetery as them and she and my grandfather wanted to be buried next to each other. So purchase a site and stone years before they would pass they did.

I didn't know about any of this till Ota passed away in 2005. That's when I saw that the grave site was wider than most. That's when I noticed the gravestone had both Ota and Oma's names, birth year, and birth city and country already engraved. I'm not sure if Ota's "end date" was already there at his funeral; I just know Oma's wasn't there until just recently.

I've had two months to "get used" to her being gone. It wasn't so bad, truth be told. I'd get waves of emotions, but it just wasn't too bad.

Until Monday.

Until I pulled up to the area where their graves reside.

Until I got out of the car and walked a bit to locate the stone and site.

Until I saw the "end date" under Oma's name.

And that's when I lost it.

I stood at their site for a while, tears streaming down my face and onto my chest, gasping for breath while trying not to scream out loud. I stood there atop the grass and ground above their coffins looking at the engraved stone. The year 2013 under Oma's name wasn't as dirty as the rest of the engraving. Bird poop soiled the stone in a couple areas, quite noticeably in the A in their shared last name. I forgot to bring flowers. Oma loved flowers and I forgot to bring her some. I was pissed at myself. Even though I was constantly told not to get flowers because they'd be removed and tossed when the cemetery closed at night, I still wanted to bring some and I forgot.

Instead there was fucking bird poop on the stone.

Finally I took in a deep breath and exhaled and headed back to the car that held Lovie and Taye. I wanted more time with Oma but, really, what was the point? I can go back another time. Or not. It doesn't really matter. Especially since I forgot the flowers.

"Can we go see doggies now, Mama?" Lovie, barely awake, asked from the back seat.

"Yeah baby," I said putting on my seat belt. "Less go find some dogs."

I let me foot off the brake to coast away and as we were passing their site, Taye asked me to stop for a minute. I could feel him look past me toward their stone from the passenger seat of my car. I just stared ahead and stated, "There's bird poop on the stone."

Then I continued: "I didn't have anything to get it off. And I forgot flowers. I wanted to get flowers for her and I forgot to stop."

"Okay," Taye said.

"I can't believe I forgot the flowers."
"You can go now."

I took my foot off the brake again. Lovie soon closed her eyes to sleep. I drove in silence for several miles.

I'm still pissed I forgot the flowers. And that I didn't have anything to wipe off the damn bird poop. Stupid fucking birds.

Joyville { - Fiction - }

My life began with a funeral. I know it sounds kinda crazy but it’s true.

I grew up in Joyville, a small town where everybody knew everybody. Lemonade stands littered the sidewalks, kids scampered about till any remnants of the sun dissipated, buzzing from the swamp creatures miles away could be heard through the dead of night.

We were oh so joyful in Joyville. It even said so on the small dilapidated sign welcoming you to our town on Highway 1.

And when word spread that Miss Margery on Fourth Street was gonna have herself a third baby? Well, Joyville became even more joyous.

It had been years since a baby was born of Joyville parents and the fact that Miss Margery, mom to 8-year-old Timmy and 6-year-old Carol, was no spring chicken… well, it turned this baby into a celebrity of sorts!  

A huge shower was thrown in the Church’s basement where everyone in Joyville came to celebrate Miss Margery and her new baby. We even had us some pink lemonade, 7UP, and raspberry sherbert mixed up all together in a big punch bowl alongside lots of treats all the ladies brought, and played games to guess how many of them little squares of toilet paper it would take to get around Miss Margery’s big belly. (18 squares if you can believe it!)

But then just before Miss Margery was due to give birth, word spread in Joyville that something was wrong with the baby. It wasn’t moving so much and Miss Margery went to the big city’s hospital one day to get everything checked out.

Word was the baby was going to be retarded or something.

You could feel Joyville’s excitement deflate like a popped balloon. You could see it in everyone’s eyes when you walked to the corner store. Still, nothing would compare to what happened next when, just a week or so after her visit to the big city, Miss Margery and her husband drove back into the big city and came home empty-handed.

And empty-bellied.

The baby died inside Miss Margery.

She didn’t know it was dead till she delivered it.  A girl.  I guess the doctors told her it most likely died shortly after the last visit.

They took pictures of the dead baby they named Gracie, and displayed a picture in a silver frame at the funeral at the end of the week.

I didn’t think much of it at first—the funeral of a dead baby. I was sad, naturally, but I didn’t think the funeral would be a big deal.  

But then I saw the tiny coffin.

And I saw Miss Margery and her husband Jack holding onto each other as if they knew that if either of them let the other go, they’d crumble to the floor.

I saw Timmy and Carol sitting in the church pew, heads practically in their laps.

Everyone had tears in their eyes.

 

It was then that I knew I had to change things. I needed to start living my life because, as they say, life is short.

 

For some it’s shorter than others.

RIP sweet Gracie.

It's been a while since I've linked up with the Yeah Write Speakeasy folks. I've missed fiction. And while I had no intention of linking up with something so damn depressing... that's what happens sometimes, I guess.

trivial

I'm a no-frills type of girl. Always have been. I grew up loving soccer and dreamed of being the first female Pele of the world. But my body didn't agree with my heart and by the time I was 10 or so, I looked to be much older.

Melinda, seven years older, was all girl and loved boys. I don't even know how many times I came home from playing outside to see her underneath a boy on the scratchy green couch in our living room. She wore a lot of makeup and tight jeans, and loved getting attention from those of the opposite sex. She used her big boobs (clearly in the genes) to her advantage.

I found it all quite revolting.

I liked boys. I wanted to play with boys. There may have been a few I thought were cute and wouldn't mind kissing. There may have been a few that I did kiss in the alley during the summer months.

But using my body as a means to get their attention was not something I was interested in at all. Not at 10, not at 20, 30, or 40.

I think it had something to do with the undressing glances I would get from 50-year-old men when I was way too young to feel their eyes on me like that.

It didn't stop me from wearing makeup though, which started around 13 or 14. Eye makeup only. Maybe I was hoping that by highlighting my green eyes, I could get attention away from my chest.

 

As if.

Through the years I've had stages when I’d be all about wearing eye makeup to wearing none. Currently I'm in a no-makeup stage which started when Oma’s health started to decline. And now with these allergies kicking my ass and then some, it's still best to go without.

I probably look like hell to a lot of people. I'm fat (really). I'm short. I don't wear makeup. My clothes are years and years old. I rarely get a professional haircut. And my dark brown hair is being overruled with silver.

 

 

I'm sure people look at me and think, "Oh there's another one who's let herself go."

But I’m OK with that. I am. It’s so much easier not to give a shit what others think—especially about my appearance. There’s much bigger fish to fry than whether or not I’m wearing the latest trend.

 

Really, who fucking cares?

And as for the hair? It’s been a long road, but I’ve come to love my silvers. And good thing, too. Otherwise, I may have taken offense to this drawing Lovie made of me the other day.

 

 

It’s official. I’m a blue haired.

Food Addiction

Trying not to topple over

while crouching underneath the table to hide

(despite being all alone in the house),

the paranoid, oversized woman

licks honey married with melted butter from her warm biscuits.

 

 

 

 

~ linking these 33 words up with Trifecta ~

and i'm not even PMSing

Unwrapping the foil makes me happy.

Giddy.

Pulling down the paper sides makes me salivate.

Foolish.

Resting the silkiness between my thumb and middle fingers makes me impatient.

Gluttonous.

Popping it into my mouth makes me calm.

Peaceful.

Being deliberate about allowing the sweet and salty to melt into all my senses… Well, that’s just down right electrifying.

come to momma!

Orgasmic.





linking this bad boy up with the fine folks at Trifecta.

if i say it enough i might believe it

“She’s got nobody else,” Taye said to me. “We’re all she has now.”

 “Yeah, I know.”

 

yeah ... no.

 

Melinda* is seven years older than me. I was the last one born and Marco is between us. Melinda was never fond of kids. She was sure to tell me this every chance she had: “You’re the reason I don’t like kids.”

It’s not entirely her fault she felt this way. I probably would too if I were forced to constantly babysit my younger siblings; Mama and Papa just put too much responsibility onto her. I get that now.

We were never close.

Never.

I tried so many times. And then I just gave up. Wasn’t that long ago when I gave up either, but I did. I kind of stopped caring. Then she got divorced for a second time, and now she lives alone and her drunk of a daughter won’t allow Melinda to see her grandbaby. I know it hurts her. I know she’s human despite not acting like one for so many years. I know it’s all a façade—her strength. I know, deep down, she’s still a little girl in many ways.

But it’s so hard for me to care.

 

I hosted a baby shower for my BFF/cousin last weekend. Melinda showed up an hour late. She stayed well into the evening despite everyone else leaving hours before her. It was very odd to have her sit there in my home without any other family there besides Taye and Lovie. It was even more odd to watch Lovie latch on to Melinda…something I’ve yearned for Lovie for so long—a real relationship with her aunt. When she finally left (when it was time to get Lovie into bed) I made mention to Taye how weird it was for me to have Melinda there so long after the shower had ended.

“She probably has nothing else to do.”

 

“Oh I know, but it’s still weird.”

 

Yesterday Melinda showed up to Lovie’s dance recital after claiming she wouldn’t make it. She showed up, she gave Lovie hugs and kisses after her recital, and then when Lovie saw the flowers in Melinda’s car (intended for our mom for Mother’s Day) and excitedly thought they were for her, Melinda gave the flowers to the tiny dancer with a chuckle and a smile.

We all went to lunch afterward to celebrate Mother’s Day and Lovie’s first dance show. It was a really lovely day. At one point Melinda was walking back to the table and Lovie ran up to her and hugged her legs. I smiled. Melinda held Lovie’s head to her to bring her in closer. Melinda smiled, too.

It was weird though...She’s all alone. She has two adult children, one 13-year-old, and a granddaughter. None of whom she saw yesterday. On Mother’s Day.

How sad is that?

And yet, it’s hard for me to care too much.

A part of me hopes that this is the thing that will bring us closer, but I just don’t know.

And.

I just don’t care.





*Melinda is not her real name

 

a month later

It happens in the strangest places at the strangest times. This morning, for instance, I was in the shower when I thought about it: Oma's last breaths.

For the most part, I'm really OK with everything. She was 88. She lived a long life. She loved her life when she was a small child. She loved her family more than anything. She lived through hell many times over. She survived so many revolting obstacles. And she did it all with a smile on her face. Almost always.

So really, I'm OK she's gone. Because she wasn't living at the end. She was just a pile of skin and bones. Literally. It was so incredibly difficult to see her there at the end. I spent the first part of this year with a headache nearly every single day because thinking about seeing her like that or actually seeing her like that, made me ill. I prayed for her death. And I'm not a pray-er. But I prayed and I asked you to pray.

So for that I'm really OK she's gone.

But then. Every once in a while I get this wave of sadness. Debilitating sadness. Like a tidal wave crushing me. It doesn't last too long, but it's there. In that moment it's there and for that moment I feel like I can't breathe. I feel like I have to remind myself that she's the one who is gone and I need to keep breathing.



"Are you excited to see Grandma on Saturday?" I asked Lovie this morning as we talked about how today is Thursday and tomorrow, Friday, is when she can bring something to school for show-and-tell, and then it will be Saturday when Grandma will come over for a baby shower I'm hosting.

"Yeah and Oma too?"

"No, baby. Only Grandma."



Mother's Day is going to be a bit rough I suspect. As will her birthday (end of May). But I know it all will get a bit easier. I won't ever forget. If I'm lucky, Lovie won't either. But it will get easier. The crushing sensation will subside. I suspect.

a reminder of sorts to get the time capsule out of storage

We lived in the upper level of a blue Victorian home. My big brother Marco* had the smallest bedroom, allowing room for only his full size bed and a small dresser tucked inside a tiny closet. My nephew Jordan* had the bedroom through the kitchen and the bathroom. Literally, the only way into Jordan’s bedroom was through both the kitchen and bathroom. Pretty strange set up but Jordan was six at the time so it didn’t faze him too much. I got the biggest bedroom with a huge walk-in closet and large windows overlooking the neighboring white church.

It was our second apartment together since Marco divorced Jordan’s mom two years prior, and I got the big bedroom because I was paying part of the rent and taking care of Jordan while Marco worked the overnight shift.

My life was all about Jordan and Marco. Especially Jordan. I wanted to do whatever I could to provide him normalcy after his parents split. It was something I promised I would do after my own parents split 18 years prior. I was working a “going nowhere fast” job and playing Mom when I was home.

Basically, I was a 26-year-old single girl with no life outside of her 6-year-old nephew.

Around the holidays I did everything I could to make them special for Jordan. For his birthday, I made sure to always be present to celebrate. When he had field trips or some sort of school event that allowed for parent interaction, I was always there. Every soccer game, home or away, I was there. Every time he came home from a visit with him mom, I was always there.   

And I did it all because of his love. His spirit. His innocence.

I would come home after a shit day at a shit job and all I would want to do is crawl into the dark closet with a blanket and a pint of chocolate-peanut butter ice cream. I’d salivate thinking about my lover (ice cream) during the long drive from work to home. Parking my car next to Marco’s, I knew that he and Jordan were inside and I knew, pretty instantly, my lover would have to wait. I’d go into the house and as I closed the door and hung up my coat wanting to be somewhere else hanging up my coat, I’d hear the scampering of feet across the living room floor upstairs. Jordan would rush toward the hallway and top of the stairs, shouting “Auntie Chris!” with so much glee.

I’d smile. Always.

I’d climb the stairs and upon getting to the top, Jordan would leap into my arms and we’d hug.

And every time this happened, I knew it was all worth it. My lack of a personal life, of friendships and/or romance was worth it. Because this boy, this sweet growing boy was happy. In a time when he could be miserable because of the games his parents played, he was happy.

And he made me happy.

And he soon became the reason I wanted to become a Mom with such a fever it burned inside of me for the next 10 years.

Jordan and Lovie, 4/1/13

 

Tomorrow that boy will be 21.

And despite a pretty crappy hand in life dealt to him, the boy man is still pretty happy and manages to make me and mine happy, too.

 

 

 

 

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*Marco & Jordan are not their real names.