Presence

A few mornings ago, Sam and I were hanging out in one of our favorite coffee shops when we ran into a family friend, the grandmother of several of Sam and Caroline's classmates. She's a sweet lady who lives in the senior housing across the street from us and she helps take care of her grandkids while their mom, a good friend of mine, is at work. We waved to her as she entered and we chatted a bit, more than we usually get to at preschool pickup and drop-off.

During the conversation, she offhandedly asked if my parents were in the area. I told her without really thinking about it that my dad lives in Portland, and that my mom died about two and a half years ago. She gasped and put her hand to her chest and expressed her condolences, and apologized for bringing it up. I found myself comforting her as I thanked her for her sympathies, and assured her that it was ok for me to talk about it, that we talk about Grammy a lot in our house.

Before this encounter, I found myself this last week reading a few of my older posts about my grief right after my mom died, and in the year afterward. The rawness of my emotions is so apparent. My grief was worn on my sleeve and woven like a thread through everything I did, saw, and thought. Each stitch drew blood.

That's changed. The fabric has mostly been sewn, and I live with it now. It's not that I don't miss her or don't think about her. In fact, just a few weeks ago I observed grandparents at story time playing with their obviously beloved granddaughter, and I suddenly had to turn away as unexpected tears stung my eyes. But mostly it's not so immediate and ever-present anymore. It's just a part of my life. In fact, I was rather surprised listening to myself talk to my friend at the coffee shop by my dispassionate accounting of the facts, especially in contrast to her shocked and visceral reaction.

And with that observation came an uncomfortable realization, one that I've had many times over the last two years. My mom didn't really seem present to me, and she hadn't for a long time. One always hears stories about how dead loved ones are somehow "with" the people they left behind. They visit in dreams, or they intervene in some obvious way. And I felt a little angry and cheated that I hadn't had that. She just seemed....not there.

The conversation with my friend continued, and it turned out that she herself had lost her own mother when she was 28, and that day was the anniversary of her death. Even all these years later, the loss obviously still stung. Then, she gave me her phone number and told me she was just across the street, and if I ever needed emergency help with the kids to call her.

And suddenly, I realized how often this sort of thing had been happening.

Earlier this week, I got to talking with the lady who does story time at the same place I observed the grandparents and their granddaughter. She's also older, and she's taken a special interest in Sam over the years we've known her, and especially in the last few months. In talking with her this week we realized that she went to my college many years ago, and we had a much deeper conversation than usual, reliving old memories of the place we both loved. And then, she told me that I ought to bring Sam by her house this summer so she can work on reading with him.

And for the last few months, there has been an older couple who without fail have brought with them to Mass a matchbox car every week from their extensive collection left over from their own kids and given it to Sam with a hug and a chat. When I thank them, they just smile and grasp my hand.

The more I think about it, the more the list of people who have just fallen into my path and want to be involved with my kids and my family grows.

And suddenly I knew. I saw.

Asserting herself wasn't really Mom's style. She almost never talked about herself, instead preferring to listen to other people. If my mom were intervening, it would have been so unlike her to just show up in a dream and announce "Here I am! I'm taking care of you!" What would have been her? To quietly work behind the scenes to make sure that the people she loved were taken care of, and she would never have wanted to take any credit for it.

I was looking completely in the wrong direction. There she was, in the helping hands of neighbors, in the conversations of friends, in the interest of others. And she'd been there for a long time before I'd noticed.

Now I obviously can't prove that. And I'm not really in the business of proof here. I can say for now that this just feels like her.

Someday, though, I'll be able to ask her when I see her face to face. I can almost picture her smiling and coyly answering just as she did in life, "I have my ways."

Decisions

What do you do when the one person whose advice you crave is no longer there to give it?

For the last few weeks, Mark and I have been dealing with an emergent situation with Sam and his school. Perhaps I'll go into details on it later, but the short story is that we've had to decide whether it's the right place for him and if perhaps it's time for a move to another school. Obviously, that's a big decision with consequences on either side. Because of the circumstances it didn't seem that there was a clear good choice, and any choice could have some serious and long-term consequences.

Last week after a long talk with Mark (who let me know that he would go with whatever I thought was best), my eyes welled up with tears and I leaned my head on his shoulder and said, "Since my mom died, I've never wished more that she was here to talk to about this." I missed her so much. I knew she'd have the answers I needed.

But I was on my own.

I spent a few days mulling over the various ramifications of each path. I would be moving him in the middle of the year away from friends he'd been in school with in some cases for years, and to a new environment with new kids, and then we'd do it all over again when he started kindergarten. And there wasn't just Sam to consider, there was also Caroline. She is in the 3 year old class at the same school, and is doing well there. It wasn't fair to move her, too, if she was happy there. And how would Sam feel about seeing her get dropped off twice a week at his old school, and seeing his old teachers?

Then, on Wednesday I went to choir practice where I saw my friend, K. K has had dealings with the same school over a similar situation. Her reaction was a pretty uncharacteristically strong one: "That's bull*&#*! Sam's a great kid, you are great parents. Don't let this make you think otherwise." K knows us and Sam pretty well, and is the mother of a somewhat high-maintenance boy herself, so I take her opinion pretty seriously. She went on to tell me that there was still one spot left at the school her son is doing very well at, she wouldn't pressure me and was happy to just listen if I needed to vent, she knew that there were lots of drawbacks and benefits to whatever we decided, and that she knew we were great parents who would make the best decision for Sam. Also, had I thought about talking to Mrs. B, the principal at the school we planned to send Sam to next year? I might find that helpful.

So, I called Mrs. B. She sings with the choir at church on occasion, and she and I are on good terms. She picked up on the first ring, and I went through the list of concerns that the school had regarding Sam. She laughed.

"Oh, man!" she sighed. "Boys just DO NOT belong in our school system, do they? Have you thought about switching schools?" She went on to describe some of the challenges she had with her own high-maintenance son who is now grown and how she felt they made her a better principal. She pointed out with a smile in her voice that she had her eye on Sam at Mass last weekend, and she had a feeling they'd be good friends next year. And I laughed, too. I didn't feel put on the spot or like a failure acknowledging that Sam might spend some time at her office. Her tone conveyed that this was a part of her job that she really enjoyed - helping kids who were a little "more" figure out how they fit into a classroom environment, that she was on my side in helping me as a parent figure all of this out. When I pointed out that I was working on developing the skills to help him, she said,

"Oh, Kate. You already HAVE the skills to help him. You're just finding them. God would not have given you a child with this temperament if he didn't also give you the skills to help him. I firmly believe that."

Breath out.

I hung up the phone with a huge weight off my shoulders. Somehow, in spite of feeling lost and overwhelmed, I had been able to find a way to people who could listen, offer advice, and support my and Mark's parenting. I wasn't as alone as I thought I was.

I thought about all the advice I'd gotten. The old school, with their recommendation that we take Sam to intensive, long-term counseling for what they believed were emotional issues. Our therapist from this summer, who told us after spending several hours with Sam and listening to us that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him, and focused on helping us as parents develop some better skills for helping him. The Sunday school teachers who have approached us and told us how much they enjoy having Sam in class, how he is unusually observant, curious and spiritual. K and Mrs. B's observations and advice. My own instincts, telling me that I wasn't being blind to my own child's challenges, that Sam was in a negative cycle with his teachers at the old school and the issues he seemed to be having were, in fact, a result of him being at a place at which he was no longer thriving, and that taking him to therapy for something that wasn't wrong might make it worse.

So, we've started the process of switching Sam to a different school, and as of today I'm working on tying up some loose ends - mainly, visiting the new school and getting Sam's buy-in, and talking to the old school about our decision in an adult enough fashion that I can feel comfortable keeping Caroline there for the rest of the year. So, you know, just little things. Gulp.

And in thinking about this today, I realized something. If my mom had been around to talk to, I might have fallen into a familiar and easy trap: I could have just taken her advice and done what she thought I should do, because that was often what I ended up doing. After all, she was usually right. Instead, I had to seek out and weigh advice from others, something I'm not usually comfortable with. I had to decide on my own who to give the most weight to based on instinct and past history. I had to trust my mothering gut. I might have reached the same conclusion as I would have if I took Mom's advice, but this time it was MY decision.

And in the end, that is perhaps the greatest gift she could have given me: the realization that I can do this, and I'm not as alone as I thought.

Scar

I have a scar on my chest that's about an inch long. I got it when I was in about the 1st grade when I was running from a friend and decided to hide behind a door and surprise her. I got gashed across the chest by the little thingy sticking out of the door by the doorknob, and, being a kid, I didn't apply a band-aid and went swimming. Bingo, scar.

I look at it now and it always strikes me as a little comical. That part of my body is now a good 2 feet above that part of the door now, and the yoga pose I'd have to do to get them together would probably put me in traction. But there it is.

Does one ever really outgrow something that scars you, or does it just grow along with you? Maybe it surprises you after the pain has passed, or even makes you laugh to think about how it would be impossible for it to ever happen again exactly that way. Life goes on, you grow up, maybe absentmindedly run your fingers over it on occasion just to remind yourself that it's a part of you.

I guess that's how life is sometimes.

Where was I?

I'm not really sure what I'm going to type here, but I am totally certain that the 5 entries I managed this year is completely lame. I was a little busy, to be fair. Did I mention I did two triathlons and a handful of 5ks? And didn't die? I also shepherded procurement for the Choral Arts auction while singing in the season, held down my new church job, trained like a maniac, and chased an increasingly mobile toddler around the house. Incidentally, I started drinking coffee again. That might be related.

Maybe much of what kept me away from here for so long was that this is very much associated with my mom for me, and there was a lot of grief deposited here for many months. I didn't really want to go revisit that. Plus, it's so much easier to be witty and avoid my feelings in small 140-character-or-less snippets on The Facebook.

But a lot has changed for me since March. Physically, I feel stronger and more confident than I ever have before in my life. I went from screaming silently underwater at my own bubbles in waist-deep water to completing several open water swims this summer, complete with weeds in the swimsuit, fish flitting underneath me, and boat wake in the middle of Lake Washington. I ran an entire 5k in about 37 minutes, and will be running my first 10k at the start of the new year. I saw my dad and my brother tear up when I crossed the finish line at the Skoggins Valley Tri on my birthday in September, and convinced them to do the Olympic distance with me as a team next year.

Emotionally, I'm better. Probably typically, I didn't really realize what bad shape I was in until I looked back at how I was feeling in the months after Mom died. I found myself this fall completely dreading the winter in a way I never have before, and when I really thought about why, I realized how severely depressed I had been last year at that time, and how I was dreading the increasing dark. As a side note, I got my vitamin D checked and it was severely low. It's amazing, though, what some vitamin therapy will do!

I find myself now being constantly reminded of her, but not in the ponderous, over-reaching ways of this time last year. I spend a lot of time thinking about and noticing things that would have made her laugh, things I would have called and told her about randomly throughout the day. And I still tell her, and I still talk to her about them.

Anyway, I don't want this to just be about my mom, although I don't want it to NOT be, either. I've taken on a new challenge for the new year: training for a half-marathon. If you had asked me two years ago if it was even possible for me to think about, I would have snorted with laughter, and then hid just in case you were serious. Now, running has become my sanity. When I have a good run, I am zoned, fluid, steady, almost drooling with relaxation. Every part of my body works together in perfect balance. I told Mark, it's like I turn into some sort of running zombie. Miiiiiiiiiles.....miiiiiiiiiiles......

We'll see what the new year brings.

Caroline turns one

So typical for the second child. Here it is, two days after her birthday, and I'm finally getting around to posting about it! I am at the moment typing while Sam is engrossed in his Geotrax movie (poor guy has a cold and a fever), and Caroline happily entertaines herself on the floor with a Nerf ball. She's regularly standing up on her own now and we've glimpsed a step or two, but nothing dramatic. She's a very careful little girl - so unlike her brother - and always tests, watches, observes, thinks about...and then she finally tries it. I'm convinced that one day she'll just up and walk across the room.

On the day of her birthday, I woke up early to go for a swim and had some time to reflect while driving in the cold to the pool. I had a lot to digest regarding Caroline's first year.

I was thinking about how gentle Caroline's entry into the world was, how unobtrusive. It was hesitant, too, waiting for just the right moment. She faked me out regularly for about two weeks before she finally decided to come, and even then she took a little break to let me watch Grey's Anatomy the evening I was in labor. Just like her...careful, observant, even thoughtful in a way one wouldn't normally think a baby could be.

I thought about how her infancy will always be tied to losing my mom. Her birth was the very last time my mom would come up to Seattle to visit, although I didn't know it at the time. When she was 5 months, she was a model car passenger and guest on a last family trip to Sunriver. I love looking at the picture our friend Pam took of me laughing with Mom while nursing Caroline. She was so remarkably flexible during our trips up and down I-5 during the fall, and a solid anchor for me to my family when Mom died in October. What is truly amazing, though, is that she has managed to both keep me human and sane during a time in childrens' lives that most parents report feeling exactly the opposite. How this happened, how I was sent the perfect baby for the perfect moment, is nothing short of a miracle to me.

So, Caroline, while I drove to swim and turned all of this over in my head, I saw that the sunrise was coming over the horizon and tinting the scant clouds pink, and the cherry blossoms were just beginning to peek out from their places on the trees. And I realized that every year on your birthday I will remember how no matter how dark and long the winter, spring is coming. There may be a few more cold snaps and surprises, but it's coming just as sure as those blossoms will eventually become flowers. Babies always grow, things always change, trees always bloom, hearts always heal. You have helped me realize that this year. I don't know what I would have done without you.

Warning shot

I don't know if this just applies to me, but I find that when I'm in the middle of something intense, I don't see the big picture. Ok, now that I write that, it sounds totally normal. But I'm trying to forgive myself for it.

Caroline had her 9 month checkup on Friday, and, apart from being happy, healthy and smiley, she actually lost weight from her 6 month appointment. She dropped from the 75th to the 25th percentile in 3 months. Our doc didn't seem too concerned because she is otherwise thriving and just wants her back for a weigh-in next month, but I can't stop beating myself up about it.

Yes, I had noticed that she was fussy, and refusing solid food on many occasions. While frantically running up and down the I-5 corridor and back and forth between various hotel rooms and my parents' house, I would frantically nurse her before running off, then forget to even bring solid food to offer on our many restaurant meals. Our store of frozen baby food ran low, and I relied on store-bought fruits, with very little variety or calories. I figured she would nurse more, and usually she did. She also still sleeps right next to me, with an open buffet all night long if she chooses to partake.

She was teething, I thought, or her cold was affecting her, or she was just "off" because of all the travel. What scares me is that it never even crossed my mind to think about this even further. And really, I'm trying to not beat myself up about this. But, this is exactly what I'd feared would happen in my dark moments...that my grief would eclipse the needs of my children. There it was, writ large on the baby scale. And I didn't even notice it was happening.

Right after the appointment, I went to the Ballard Market and bought ingredients to make up a plethora of healthy, filling, yummy food for her. The moment I walked in the store, no fewer than three people cooed at her, how cute she was, how good. I walked over to the bulk food section and started discreetly bawling. She is good, she is so cute, and I hadn't been taking care of her. Not only that, but I realized I was desperately missing calling my mom, something I did after every doctor appointment. This was the first time I couldn't. I also realized that while I so badly wanted her reassurance about all of this, the very fact that she was gone was the reason the situation existed. Somewhere in a parallel universe existed a baby who had been well fed and nursed, who wasn't under a tremendous amount of stress over the physical and emotional absence of her mother, and who had a grandmother who would be answering the phone to hear about how much she'd gained and grown, and how enchanted the doctor had been with her in every way.

I was so angry.

And then, I gathered myself and my purchases up, went home, and cooked like a fiend. I made rice and lentils cooked in broth and blended, sweet potatoes, avocado, yogurt and bananas...I cooked and blended until almost all the produce was gone, and the freezer was full. I still don't feel completely better. But Caroline is smiling, and eating, and shoving apple and pear pieces in her mouth, devouring a half-cup of plain yogurt in a go, and smacking her lips for more lentils. All I have to do is take out the Cheerio box and she grunts and waves her arms in her seat. She gets all the food I can possibly offer her, and nurses whenever she wants. This is all much, much better. But the warning shot grazed a little too close.

All Saints Day

This space has been empty for a long time. What does one write after one's mother has died? There's everything to say, and nothing to say. I told Mark last night that I feel like somewhere in my soul there's a deep, dark pit with my mom's name somewhere in the bottom, and I keep walking to the edge and peering in, then skittering away. Someday, I may fall in. But by then, it's possible that the hole will have filled a bit with dirt and time, and the fall won't be as great. Maybe it will fill completely, and I'll never fall. But the scar of the hole will always be there.

I've felt it already in the last couple of weeks since she left. Taking a picture of Sam, and suddenly realizing that I'll never show it to her, or Caroline cruising along the couch, and thinking about how she'll never see her walk. It's so easy to get caught up in the unfairness of it all. But is this what I'm supposed to do? Is this how grief is? All the books make you think that it's one long linear process, but now that I'm in it, I don't know at any given moment where I am in it, and what's next. I've already had so many surprises, good and bad, to believe any more in what to expect. I thought, for instance, that I would be sad, but mostly relieved when she finally died - mostly happy that she's finally free from pain. And there are those thoughts. But the overwhelming sadness that I've felt...I was totally unprepared for it. I was also unprepared for how grateful I was during the time leading up to the funeral to be busy and rock-solid, providing strength for others, even enjoying all of the old friends who came to her service. But now that life has returned somewhat to normal, I'm a little adrift. I think I just need to accept this feeling for now.

Funny how my kids have provided the most guidance on this strange path. Leading up to mom's death, both seemed edgy, unsettled. I prepared myself for the onslaught of emotion after it finally happened, and I told Sam about it, holding him in bed in the morning of October 20th. The amazing thing, though, is that it's almost as if a weight has been lifted from Sam. It's easy to forget sometimes that he's three, and three-year-olds like tangible, understandable, definite things, even if those things are negative and undesirable. Grammy has died. He went to the funeral and sat quietly and peacefully all the way through it, perhaps grateful that, finally, this was something permanent that he can understand, not the iffy, mommy-might-go-to-Portland-this-weekend, something-might-happen-to-Grammy-soon land he's been living in for the past year. He's talked about her a lot, easily slipping into the past tense that I have so much trouble with. And, blessedly, he's been liberal with the I-love-yous, the hugs, and the snuggles. My little man knows how much I need them right now, I think. Caroline, too, has become more settled, happy to be back in her routine, settling back into easy, milky smiles and grateful to be in my arms. And I think this is how my mom would want this to be happening with them.

I know it gets easier. The hole beckons, and I let myself look a little bit at a time, knowing that I have to manage this so I can still mother my kids and be a decent wife. The sucker punches to my gut when I think about how she no longer exists in this world will lessen, the ache when I look at pictures of her eventually will soften, too. This will all pass. But God, I miss her.

Fall

Today I am feeling: A little wistful, a little nostalgic. Today is my birthday. And as birthdays go, it’s just sort of what one would expect of a thirty-something birthday. On the whole much better than last year’s, when I was down in Portland on my own with Sam while my mom was in the hospital and Mark had to return to Seattle to go to work. It was a sad, lonely, exhausting time.

I’ve always loved the fall for lots of reasons, my birthday being one of them. It was always the start of something new - the start of the school year, a new city, a new job. It’s when I got married and moved across the country, it’s when I found out I was pregnant with Sam. I think of myself as an optimistic person, so these changes were always looked forward to. But, looking back, there was plenty of heartache to go along with some of those changes, heartache I didn’t always see coming. Now that I’m older, I think I’m better at acknowledging those possibilities, although I like to think I haven’t lost my essential positive outlook.

As I type this, it is looking extremely likely that I will be losing my mom soon. On good days, I am able to look at this as a change that I and our family will ultimately be able to deal with. On bad ones, I wait until the kids are asleep and cry, thinking about all of the grandmother things that both my mom and my kids are going to miss out on. In lots of ways, they already have. I know that if she was well, I would have received about a week ago a package of carefully and individually wrapped little gifts that she would have pulled together while out and about (Whenever I’d ask her where she got something, she always replied enigmatically, “Oh, I have my places...”). Right about now, she’d be sending Sam something unique and special to celebrate his start of school.

I remember when I got married we put together little copper cookie cutters with cookie recipes to give to guests at the reception. I printed out and tied the recipes onto the cutters myself. I remember my mom saying that when my child went to school for the first time, we’d pull these out and tie them with a pretty bow to give to his teacher. The thought seemed so far away and unreal...having a child, that child being old enough to go to school.

Next time I’m home, I’ll be pulling those cutters out of the bottom drawer in the kitchen and taking them back home to tie with something from my own ribbon collection.