my role model

A few weeks ago, I was asked "Who is your role model? What inspires you about this person?" I was in a bit of a rough place, and feeling let down by a whole lot of people I always thought 'should' be in the position of role modeling. I was set to respond with "It depends on the day" or "I don't have one. I prefer to model myself after attributes rather than people." The truth is, what I wanted to say is that I avoid letting anyone into that position now so they cannot disappoint or hurt me. The question was part of a survey I had to do - it was not optional - and there was no reason to say anything on it that wasn't the absolute truth. But, despite the truth in what I wanted to say, I knew, deep down, that it was temporary; the way that moment in time was shining on me. Or raining on me, I suppose.

I stepped away from my computer and thought about all the people I love, and who love me; my family of the heart, and my kids.Can a role model be a regular person? How could I have forgotten that? How could I have forgotten that the best role models are the ones that are right there, showing themselves - their true selves - in little ways. The people that had hurt me so much hadn't, really. I mean, yes, they did, but in the long run - a year, a decade, even a month down the road - the ways they had disappointed me would be long gone; the hurt healed over into a golden scar, strengthening the once broken parts of my heart. I considered who, really, was a role model to me, and how I could answer the question honestly. Truly honestly. An answer that would hold true in the future (days later, when discussing it, or a decade later, when I reflected on it), as well as the past. Was there anyone? Had I ever really let anyone be a role model? Of course. This is my response:

My dad. He could befriend anyone, in any situation. Along the way, he would find the best in people; everyone was his favorite. And he made that believable. From his example, I have learned that everyone has some gift to share, and I try to remember that, even with unpleasant interactions. His legacy to me is an admiration of the human spirit.

Today is Dad's birthday. Today marks ten years of no Happy Birthday phone calls. No left arm hugs. No coffee in pajamas all morning, until it's time to get dressed so we can have lunch and talk some more. No last glass of wine after lights out. I wish sometimes I had asked him what gift it is that he saw that I had to share. I wish sometimes that I had told him about my hurts, more about my joys, my dreams. I never asked him for real reasons on some things, like why he discouraged me from being a helicopter pilot, or going to the West Coast for college. I know the reasons he told me at the time, but I also know there was more behind it. The truth is, despite all the talking we did, and the love we shared, I didn't want him to know me that well. I was afraid, and I'm only beginning to learn what I was afraid of. The truth is, even as a little girl, I was already broken, and I really didn't want to know, or face, that he was, too, in some way. I didn't want that in common with him. The truth is, he's the reason I stayed. The reason I stayed at home, the reason I stayed in my marriage, the reason I stayed with at least a couple of jobs. I can't (yet) explain how he was, because I don't (yet) have the words. But I now know that to be truth. I love him for it. And I also wish I could talk it out with him, because it only makes so much sense, then it falls off into some realm I don't want to visit alone.

Another one of the questions on that survey was about a desert island:

If you were shipwrecked and stranded on an island without any supplies, fellow humans, etc., what do you do first? Why?
Cry, because I’ve never even considered learning how to build a fire without matches, and I know fire is the best way to protect myself from wild animals, prepare food to eat, and signal for help. Then I would pull myself together and explore. 

At the discussion afterward, we talked about sushi. In another conversation, my therapist said he knew there was something else I would do before I cried, because I am me. He said I would realize and be thankful that I am alive. And it clicked: I'm a survivor. The legacy of admiration for the human spirit is related to being a survivor. Dad taught me to survive. And from that survival, I am learning to thrive.

As I write this, the Morning Doves have returned. Dad used to whistle the Morning Dove's call, and always as a kid, because of the sound, I was convinced they were called Mourning Doves. Hearing them today is a gift from him, from Him. One year they nested in the crook of the tree right outside the window, and the boys and I watched them each day, sitting on eggs and staring at us. I like to think Dad watches over us, but I also hope that's not all he does. I miss him. I love him. And I'm grateful for all he taught me, and even the things he didn't, because they make him all the more real to me. Happy Birthday, Dad. I know you would understand.

always your day

Dear Dad,

More than anything, I wish I could call you and say Happy Birthday. Instead, this keyboard and the phone line in  my heart are all I have. For the past 9 days, I have been wearing my Daddy's Girl necklace, as I do during this 'novena.' Most years I have prayed your rosary every day from the day you died until your birthday. Not this year. I've thought about it, but I had other Dad things on my heart. I've really been missing your hugs, your gaze, your smile. The way you hung your coffee cup from your finger when it was empty, along with the pot, but the conversation was still full. The way you thought nothing of staying in pajamas to talk on Saturday mornings, sometimes into lunch time. I painted my bedroom last weekend, and from time to time wished you were there to help -- mostly with the less fun parts, like the edges and painting around the radiator; the parts you would have gravitated toward. I love doing that stuff you used to do. I'm looking forward to the woodworking projects I have planned in there that would have been your 'things' and that I always wished I could do with you. I still have the dollhouse. Everyone still marvels at the table. You are still here.

We never talked about boys. Your example of who you were to me is all the advice I ever got from you. Since I knew no one could ever be you, or take your place, or calm my heart the way your left arm hugs did, I never tried to find anyone like you. I wish we had. I wish I'd told you about how much that boy in high school broke my heart, again and again. I wish I'd told you how cute I thought that boy at church was, and that it turned out his locker was across the hall from mine. And that he kissed me on my birthday, and was later threatened by that boyfriend. I wish I'd introduced you to the boy in college who had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen, and to his roommates who told me their job was to chaperon and protect me, because they wanted to know that there were girls out there like me. I wish I'd shown you the letters from the boy who wrote me every week when he was at boot camp. I wish you could have told me that all those things meant something; that there were lessons about life, love, hope, myself in all of those things. I wish I'd had the nerve to tell you everything. I wanted to be your little girl forever, and you promised I would be. I wish I'd known that that meant I could share grown up thoughts with you, and still know your love mirroring God's love. I wish you'd told me. I wish I'd asked.

Some days I wish I'd paused on that afternoon 25 years ago when you said to me, "We don't have to do this. We could walk the other way." Nearly every day I've wondered if there was more you wanted to say, or if you really were saying what you thought would touch my heart most. Some days I'm angry you didn't push me; other days I am so incredibly grateful that your encouragement was gentle and constant. Some days I figure by now you'd be a cranky old man, grumbling about chores and noise and things that are out of place. But I know you would be my cranky old man -- the one I would defend to the teeth, love fiercely.

Wishes can't change a damn thing. However, dreams can. I still have dreams, Dad, and I still bounce them off of you from time to time, although sometimes I forget to put you in the loop because they involve things we'd never talked about: boys, faults, fears, and overcoming the same. I still dream of introducing you to my friends. Occasionally it's you that keeps someone at a distance -- I ask myself what you would think of someone (I remember the one and only time I ever heard you say that an acquaintance was never welcome in our home again, and I'm glad you said it, but even more relieved he wasn't my guest.) Most of the time I miss you because you liked everyone, or, more realistically, had a real talent for making everyone think you liked them. I admire that more than I ever would have told you. I always wished I could have that gift. Had I talked with you about it, you would have pointed out that I do, I simply use it the way I use it, not the way you did. Had I talked with you about so many things, they would have been clearer.

Dad, I was afraid of your insights, I think. I was afraid you'd be right, and I'd be hurt by my own lack of experience. I know now, far too late, that is a hurt that you would have soothed in the way only a daddy can: with the love that a daddy has for his Stephania. I'm sorry I didn't know to talk to you. I'm sorry I didn't ask if you wanted to know. I'm sorry I let myself hide this hurt from you. I'm grateful that telling you, even after you've been gone for nine years, feels right. There was a time when your chair seemed like the best connection I had to you, and a few of your shirts, little gifts you'd given me. Today I know that the best connection I have to you is, and will always be, in my heart, in my memories. The rest is just stuff. The gravy is all around me. In the past few months, I've been missing the gravy. Please continue to intercede for me. I need you now more than ever. Remind me again which of my friends I can find you in. And know that your hug still melts my heart, my hand in yours still lifts my spirits. No boy will ever be you to me. Instead of that being a barrier, I'll make that my goal.

I love you, Dad.
I miss you.
Happy Birthday.

Love, Stephania
xo

exactly four weeks

It's February. My favorite month. Always has been. That's a wee bit funny, because my favorite season is fall, but that is what it is. That's me. So many wonderful things packed into such a short month! Actually, I think the fact that it's short is part of the appeal for me. Of course, the month starts with my birthday, and sometimes ends with an extra day (a bonus!), so the in between should be super, right? When I was a kid, we always had a week off in February -- time for me to enjoy all the books I'd gotten for Christmas and my birthday, or to go sledding in the 'forest' next door, or simply wander in the snow making trails when I'd gotten a little older and felt the need.

My dad died in February, and his funeral was on Valentine's Day, so for a time I thought that February would never be the same. At some point, I realized I still liked February, despite that pain and sorrow that still hits me (often when I least expect it) not only this month, but throughout the year. I kept it to myself. Who would understand? Who would believe me? What would happen if I shared? I realize now that if I share, I will be true to myself -- thereby honoring Dad.

So there you have it -- I love February!

Dad's birthday was in February, too, and a lot of really neat people I've met have birthdays that begin with 2. A couple of my very best friends (who also happen to be related to me) were married in February. Our first baby was due in February. There's Candlemas Day, and the Feast of St. Blaise. And there is snow while the days get progressively longer. That's what hit me this morning: the sunlight lasts noticeably longer in February. And that's when I realized I could share.

I love February. I love that Dad's birthday was in February, and that this year it's Ash Wednesday. I love that I can see the sunlight on the snow in the evening. I love that it's been snowing! I love that usually by the last day of February our forsythia bush is covered in buds, and occasionally the first crocus pops up unexpectedly. I love that February is short and sweet, and that the dates are exactly the same as March, except in Leap Year. I love that when I think about February, I remember the good stuff more than the bad, and that I know before long we will be complaining about something other than cold. The end of the school year suddenly seems possible, close, and the prospect of lazy summer evenings on the porch or by the fire is close to real.

I love this sweet little month. Even when it hurts.

musings

Birthdays make me happy. Doesn't really matter who in my family is celebrating one, they make me happy. From time to time, a friend or acquaintance will tell me that they hate the counting of the passage of time, or that birthdays make them feel bad/sad. I respect that. But birthdays make me happy.

To me, birthdays are great days to look back, to look forward, to live today. My birthdays are about the people in my life. When I look back to grade school, I remember the cupcake days, sharing birthdays with the kids that I spent more time with than with some of my family. Those kids became family to me, in so many ways. I can't think about growing up birthdays without thinking of those classmates. We grew up together, and even now, their presence in my memory continues to shape me.

So many of my birthdays after grade school blur into the regular days of everyday life. There are certain special ones: my first birthday away from home; that year we got engaged; my first as a mom, the first time it fell on Super Bowl weekend. But usually on my birthday I look back at where I've been--or, more specifically, where I've come from. Not just over the past year, but overall. And I look toward where I'm headed, changing direction, dreams, even fears, to a certain extent.

I like best when my birthday falls on a Sunday. I was born on a Sunday, shortly before 9 am. Legend has it that since Dad was lectoring that day at Mass, he sped from the hospital to the church, window down, horn blowing, yelling out the window, "It's a girl!!" Sometimes when he'd tell the story, he'd say that he told everyone in church, too, when he got up to read. Somehow the entire story seemed out of character for him, and yet, I still believe there must be truth. On my birthdays, I also remember and ponder the births of each of our children. Everyone loves to see a new baby, and when that new baby is to be a part of your life for the rest of your life, there is definitely a part of you that wants to scream out about the wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, joy of joys that has just been placed in your arms. Despite the pain in the neck I know I was as a kid, as a teen, I like to remember that my first breath brought that kind of delight.

This birthday has been wonderful. Low key. Nothing super unusual about it. No special presents or cake. Kind of a normal day with an extra little smile in my heart all day long. Just what my soul needed. And when I look back on it, I'll certainly remember how beautiful the day was, how wonderfully warm from my own special joy.

merci

My story:

While researching the life and time of St. Therese for a book club discussion of The Story of a Soul, I came across a novena. All my life, I had heard of novenas, but it wasn't until recently that I knew what a novena is.* At the bottom of the page, the instructions said to say the novena, and after nine days, St Therese "will present you with a rose!" By now, I not only realize the metaphorical nature of answered prayers, I've come to embrace it, although at times I still miss the subtleties. Knowing that with prayer, there is nothing to lose, and wondering just what the rose could possibly be, I jumped in. Or, rather, planned when to begin.

The last thing I wanted to do was lose count, so I decided to start on a Monday, and to make the prayer my usual morning offering, at my desk, at work. I tucked the prayer into my bag. On the selected Monday, I pulled the paper out, started the prayer (which is below), and stopped short when I got to the part where I was to add my special intention. I had completely forgotten I would need to pray the novena for something! After some quick thinking, I determined that my offering would be for a couple I had been asked to pray for. I was just about finished with St Therese's little book, and didn't feel as though there was anything I needed for myself, or for my family. She spent a lifetime praying for others she had never seen or met. I was so inspired.

Each morning, I would say the prayer, read my minute meditation, and continue with my day. I remembered to take the paper home with me for the weekend, and only almost forgot to say the prayer on Saturday. Tuesday was the last day, but I said the prayer one last time on Wednesday, just in case. And I felt such peace. I hoped that the people for whom I'd been praying could feel blessings, warmth, love. There was also a very distinct feeling that perhaps just having finished, and feeling refreshed by the exercise was itself the rose.

Then it happened.

Thursday was our son's birthday. I woke happy with memories of his life with us, and especially of the day he was born: a beautiful, perfect spring day. We spent the morning with friends, enjoying the weather, their son and daughter playing with our two sons, and then going out to an early lunch so the kids could nap. I napped, too, and woke with a tightness I'd never felt before. The family we'd spent the morning with had long before agreed to keep our boys when the baby was born, so we called, and headed back over. In the hospital, the doctor told us how happy he was that the baby was polite enough to wait until he'd taught his son to ride a bike before making his appearance. (He is still very polite!) Although I think of that family often, we haven't seen them in years--the kids went to different schools, they had different interests, time and life got in the way.

Similarly, my godparents, with whom I have always felt close, have always lived far away from me. My godmother's sister, however, attends the same church that we do, and I have been seeing her fairly often in the past few months. When she went to visit her sister, I sent her with a note and some pictures, as a surprise. My godmother and I used to be prolific pen pals--she guiding me more than she'll ever know through the bumps and switchbacks of growing up. Life, travel, small children (my own and her grandchildren), and all kinds of other little things got in the way of sharing the long, newsy pages we used to share. I miss it. She sends cards, without fail, for each of the boys' birthdays (including the 'big boy!').

Back to the birthday on Thursday. The card in the mailbox also contained a rose-petal pink envelope, with the most lovely note, addressed to me. I wept as I read it; both for the words it contained, and for the memories wrapped in love and joy brought back as I recognized her wit and turn of phrase. I bloomed, and agreed with all those who say that the world has lost something in the quick send/receive of email and text communication. Yet, in typical Stephanie fashion, I did not recognize the rose in my hand. (Hit me over the head, Lord! is my usual prayer!)

After dinner, instead of cake, we went to the fro-yo cafe we like. As I started to explain to Mom how it all worked (a salad bar of sundae toppings, basically), I happened to look up and see.......the woman who had cared for our boys while our birthday boy was born. She may have been surprised at the hug I gave her without even thinking about the years since the last one, but I knew immediately that she was, in fact, my rose. The first thing she said to me was that she thinks of us from time to time, and I was so excited to tell her that I had been thinking about her that very day--most of the day, in fact--and that we were celebrating that very same day, 15 years ago. We chatted--me forgetting that the boys' fro-yo would be melting--and parted ways both feeling lighthearted. As I topped my coconut and dutch chocolate with yumminess, I thanked St Therese, and said another little prayer for my special couple.

How could I be so sure, immediately, of my rose when I hadn't even realized about the note? (as soon as we walked back in the house that night, I put together those pieces) Because the church that family attended way back when was St Theresa of the Infant Jesus--the Little Flower herself. God must have told her to hit me over the head.

O Little Therese of the Child Jesus,
Please pick a rose for me
From the heavenly gardens
And send it to me
As a message of love.
O little flower of Jesus,
Ask God today to grant the favors
I now place with confidence
In your hands.
(Mention your specific requests)
St. Therese,
help me to always believe,
As you did,
In God's great love for me,
So that I might imitate your
"Little Way" each day. Amen


*A novena, according to The free dictionary, is a recitation of prayers and devotions for a special purpose during nine consecutive days.There is also a Flying Novena, which Mother Theresa used in emergencies. Another story, another time.

a missing birthday

Today was Dad's birthday. In emailing with a couple of my siblings, and talking with Guy, I've discovered that this anniversary week has been a particularly tough one for the general "us." Most of the anniversary milestones I've experienced have been more joyful, amazing or awe-inspiring than sorrowful, so I was quite unprepared for this. The first anniversary of our wedding, and the boys' first birthdays were all amazing milestones that almost came as a surprise, as in, "How could this time have passed so quickly already?" Then at five years, we would look back at the major changes we had gone through as a couple, as parents, or as children. This week's retrospection is still painful, still sharper than I could have imagined, though not as constant or throbbing; still an ache like a pebble in my shoe that sometimes works its way into the tip of my shoe so I might almost forget it's there, then suddenly gets jarred loose by a certain step or change of direction. After five years, I would think I would feel different, although I really am not sure why: on my fifth wedding anniversary, I felt like myself, only the changes in my life were shared with someone; as each of the boys turned 5, I marvelled at their development from infancy, and rejoiced that they had some level of autonomy, of independence, their own personalities, but I didn't feel "different."

Why the expectation today? I wish I knew.

Lately, we've been talking about the future, about careers, and goals and such, partly as a result of an assignment at work, and partly because it's been a while since we reassessed and reevaluated together. It's been interesting, because I've been remembering long forgotten talks I had with Dad. While Guy knew that I had always wanted to be a helicopter pilot, he never knew that I had considered being a social worker or a psychologist. I'm not exactly sure where those ideas came from back when I was 17, as I had no experience with any of those occupations! But never once did Dad question the notions; rather, he and I would rationally discuss the pros and cons, the practical and the wild. He wanted what was best for me, but he also wanted me to be fulfilled--something that is a bit more elusive than happiness, I think.

I hope he knows how fulfilled I am today. I know he is in heaven watching over us, but I often wonder how much he can influence what happens, the "luck," the breaks, the doors and windows. Each time I look to the night sky and see Venus before any other star, I know his love is there, magnificent and shining through God's glory. And every time I see a streak of color in the sky, hear an unexpected bird call, or make that ridiculous hiccup noise he always made (and which I was never afflicted with until 4 years and 11 months ago!), I know he is ever present, and telling me something. Mostly "Slow down and enjoy. Chat and savor the coffee. See as many sides as you can." I remember him as dedicated, committed to whatever goal he set, and I find myself falling short at times. And yet, I do feel fulfilled--in the moment. I know there is more for me, and I plan to seek it out, to work toward my dreams, no matter how oddball they may seem. Somewhere out there is just the right spot for me; I know without a doubt because I have found one of those spots now. Like a cultivated flower, though, I will outgrow my current milieu, and need to be transplanted. Until then, I intend to soak up whatever nutrients I can, reach for the sun, stretch my very cells.

And occasionally water my roots with my own tears.

lessons along the way

Sitting at a swim meet today, on my birthday, halfway between wishing I was somewhere else, and unable to imagine any other plans for the day. Texting with our oldest, away at college, he joked that he didn't know what I meant in reference to the flow of the meet. I told him that someday I hoped to be able to forget just how long they can feel, these days in the bleachers at a natatorium. I don't mean it, of course; if we are not by a pool on a winter (or summer!) Saturday morning, listening to the rhythmic splash of various strokes, and the whistle and "boop!" of the start, then something strange and awful must have transpired in our lives. My husband gives of himself for this sport that saved his life, and I truly am grateful that the pool and a swim team brought us together, too (though I have, from time to time, forgotten that amazing detail).

Watching him work is a treat: he loves what he is doing, and is so very good at it. Today, I rejoiced to be able to see him cheering for our youngest, wishing I could have been on deck to cheer like that when he was a kid swimming. I see him now, talking to a swimmer about her race, and I see how he is able to apply all that he has learned in a lifetime of pool time. We've worked with so many coaches in all this time, most of them good, some pretty bad, and a few, truly great. The good and great ones will always be a part of our lives, the rest will continue to haunt us, I'm sure.

Try as I might, I have not developed a passion for the sport. A love and an appreciation, most definitely, but for too long, I tried too hard. It brought a hardness to my spirit, and derision to our lives. Neither of us really wanted to accept that loving my family was enough to love being here on a day like today. Learning that lesson has made such a huge difference. Once again, I feel like I did at those early meets, when I was falling in love with more than just a man; I was falling in love with his life, as well. Sharing this aspect of his life brings me joy, and when that's what's going on, it is enough.

"I wish you enough" is the blessing I pass along. When life and love are enough, the heart is at peace, joy can thrive, and laughter fills the soul. I have enough, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

It's a birthday day in our house today. The day couldn't be much more different from that day 16 years ago when we welcomed our second son. Today is chilly and damp; sweats and socks in the summer weather. That day was hot and sticky--I can still feel it!--and we had been strawberry picking over the weekend. It was a Tuesday, a solid week before my due date, and I was determined that the strawberries would not go to waste, so we were standing in a stinking hot kitchen stirring jam on the stove when I started to think I might be having contractions. We were going to finish that jam, though, dagnabit, so we sweated it out, me thinking these contractions were not so bad, considering their frequency, and Guy asking if we should get moving and just forget about the jam.

Have you ever made jam? Just leaving it without cleaning up the mess is really not an option. I had ruined a batch the year before, and remember still the rock hard glob that I spent days chipping out of the pot. Our firstborn had been induced, so we really had no idea what to expect when it came to labor that was not closely monitored and administered, lying in a hospital bed.

Once the jam was finished, and the pot washed, I had been having 7 minute contractions for about an hour, Jonathan had been picked up, and we headed to the hospital, where I labored f-o-r-e-v-e-r because we had gotten there too early. No wonder I thought the contractions were no big deal--they weren't! Eventually, they developed into something (what a difference!) and, after much frustration of women who came in after us leaving before us, I pushed twice and out came our big-headed baby boy! All 9lbs, 10oz of him. I remember being so excited for his brother to meet him, and just as excited to not be pregnant any more in that heat! I also remember the nurses telling us that they did not have diapers big enough for him in the nursery--they had to go up to pediatrics to find some--and the little bit of panic I felt wondering if he would fit in the clothes we brought to take him home in! (He almost fit in those pajamas. He wore them just the one time!)

In the years that have followed, he has put me through just about every emotion and every frustration nameable, and many that are not. He has the ability to make me crazy raging mad, as well as to touch my heart so deeply I smile, cry and melt all at once. He is at times one of the most mature people I know (yes, "people," not "kids"), and at other times such a baby. He makes me crazy. He makes me laugh. He makes me cry, despite my best efforts. He makes me proud. He embarrasses me. I love him dearly, though there really are times when I don't like him much.

More than anything, I hope I have done right by him. I hope I have been the momma he needed when he was small, and the momma he needs now. Sometimes I see him do things, or hear him say things that just make me cringe, and I wonder if I have failed in some way. Those are the days I want to go back in time and hold him in my arms again--but then I remember that he was never much of a snuggler, and I chuckle at the memory. He always was a great hugger, though, and still is, when I ask.

Happy birthday, Henry Lou. I love you. So very much.

18 february 2012

Dear Dad,
Been thinking about you and your red sneakers lately. Guess I'm wishing we could go for a walk, the way we always did before the boys were born. Thinking about it now, I wonder why we stopped taking those day trips and walking around looking at stuff--and looking for a great ice cream or fro-yo shop. You had such a knack for finding them! Nowadays, I would think you had Googled them before we left, but there was nothing but your good nose, and maybe some work connection that had visited before. Today, I'm wishing we could do that again. My guys don't see ice cream as a treat so much; rather, to them it's a staple. Sorry about that. I still remember, though.

Anyway, with Jonathan's college search, I find myself remembering our discussions from my own days debating my options. This morning, at Drew's Confirmation breakfast Mass, Msgr King encouraged the parents and sponsors to allow and encourage our confirmandi to make life decisions; to learn who they are, to make mistakes, to cry, to rejoice, and to grow into the adults they are destined to be. I had a wonderful example in you. Although, looking back, there is a part of me that wishes you and Mom and my teachers had just flat out told me what to do, I do appreciate that you left my college choices to me. I remember the late night talks we'd have in the kitchen, discussing the relative merits of fields of study as diverse as Social Work and International Law, the reasons Hotel/Restaurant Management was perfect for me, and then, of course, why Hotel/Restaurant Management was so not me, so clearly I should change my major to Recreation and Leisure Management. And after that, why it made such perfect sense for me to leave school with an AS, and go back in two years or so to get a Bachelor's in Secondary Education, so I could be an English teacher. There are times when I wish I could have told you that I wish fewer people had told me I had the talents and intelligence to be whatever I wanted to be. I don't know if I ever told you that my real dream was to go to SUNY Purchase and study dance. God only knows what I had planned to do with the rest of my life, but not having the nerve to audition has been the only real regret I've ever had. I doubt that I told you, because I'm fairly certain you would have gladly taken me, and waited outside the door, and given me one of those wonderful left-arm hugs before I even had a chance to change my shoes. We're trying to be as open-minded and supportive of Jonathan. It's scary and exciting all at once, and I wish you were here to reassure us, to give us pointers. To offer one of those hugs that had a way of making everything okay.

We're slowly working on some of those house projects I'd hoped you would be able to help with. The boys have pulled up that hideous carpet, and we just need to decide what we'll do with the floor now. The chimney still need to be tiled, and I was just looking at the ceiling today and remembering how devoted you were to breaking off each and every one of the 'stalagtites' in the bathroom and the front bedrooms when we moved in. They do--still--look far better than they had, and I thank you for it every time I look up at them. The kitchen is the next thing on the agenda, I think, and every time I think about it, I picture you, Guy and Ryan debating who should be the first to break through the wall to the outside. Sometimes, I look around and think that you would have helped get some project or other done faster, but then I remember that even if you had moved here, you'd be busy, too. You'd have made a life here, and many of the projects would have taken a backseat to life--just like they do now. And I smile with relief. We're doing okay; the best we can with what we have, as far as time and money. It'll all be okay.

So, in a nutshell, I guess I want to make sure you know that we're doing well. I'm doing okay. There are ups and downs, and times when I get angry, confused, frustrated, lonely, but there are more times when I see the blessings in my life: the boys (including Guy), our home, our jobs, our friends and families. Life is really good. It would be better if you were here, but we--I--have to make the most of what we have today. What could have been is fine to think about now and then, but it's only made up. Realness helps to make what could be possible. That's my focus. Thank you for giving me the strength to be me; for encouraging me to make my own life happen. That helped me to find the people I need when I find myself faltering. I love you. I miss you with all my heart--often. But now, it's more often a gentle tug, and feels almost 'right.'

Have a piece of cake for me, and I'll do the same.
Happy Birthday!
Love,
Stephania
xoxo

the day before

Tomorrow is Dad's birthday. I wonder, sometimes, if that is the appropriate thing to say. From time to time, I have said that February 18th would have been his birthday, but if you want to know the truth (and I do), it will always be his birthday to me. I digress...

For as long as I can remember, I have written something to Dad for his birthday: notes, cards, sometimes long, newsy letters. That winter he died is the only time I didn't, and it didn't feel right at all. Of course, what I was doing instead, what the six of us were doing, was chucking huge chunks of frozen snow at the ground, trying to clear the driveway. We threw them, and I screamed with all my might. I was so angry at the stupid, freaking snow, and the stupid, freaking universe, that I threw the biggest, sharpest anvils of ice and snow as hard as I possibly could. It helped. That day. Again, I digress....

When I was little, I wrote simply, "I love you, Daddy." As I got older, I wrote things like, "With love from your favorite dancing daughter," or "Your favorite daughter with a birthday in February." Dad had favorites, and everyone was one. Until Anna and Mattie were born, Chrissy was his favorite granddaughter, and afterwards, she was his favorite granddaughter in all of New York State. (Anna and Mattie lived in New Zealand, then Minnesota.) I was his favorite Stephania. He'd always find something, even if it was "You're my favorite dog named Spot." On anyone else, it might come across as being condescending, or conciliatory, but he pulled it off with a magical combination of love and humor. I loved that, and I try to keep it up with my own kids, my nieces, nephews, and other loved ones. Mostly because it makes me think of him whenever I say, "You're my favorite Bubba." And also when the reply is, "You're my favorite Momma."

Later, when I was in college, and beyond, living far away from home, birthday cards were the ideal opportunity to fill him and Mom in on what was going on. I'd sign the card, and then fill the rest of the space with news, anecdotes, questions, invitations and usually stuff it with pictures or clippings. I never was at a loss for what to say, and it never really mattered if I got a response. It was good to share.

After he died, when we were cleaning out his desk, we discovered all those cards and letters. Every one that each of us had ever sent him--and also the ones from his sisters, and from Gramma Katie--were stored in a drawer. Through the tears that streamed down my cheeks, I remembered times when I'd go down to "visit" him in his space in the basement where his desk and chair were, where his workbench was, and all his tools, and he'd be looking through the contents of that drawer. I never knew, nor did I ask, what he was looking at. When we saw the cards, letters, and even pictures--photos and drawings--in that drawer, I knew, without a doubt, that he was looking at love; soothing his soul. I sorted the items as best I could, tied them with ribbon, and returned them to the senders. I still have mine, tucked in a nook in my sewing room. And like him, I keep most of the notes and cards the boys and Guy give me. I don't take them out, but they aren't yet far away. Someday, I might need them.

The past couple of years, I've written words to him as Notes on Facebook. And today I find myself pulled to the words I want to share. Trouble is, it's so hard. With all my heart, I believe he is with me all the time--in my family, my children, my husband, my friends, even--and yet he's just not here. On his birthday, I miss him most of all.

I thought I was doing okay today. I thought this year was going to be different; a little less caustic (because that's what the sorrow is: it burns my heart), and then I read a post and a comment on Facebook. A friend I "met" through a friend said that after four years, "it still cuts straight to the heart." Occasionally, we commiserate on having lost our Daddys, but when a friend of hers said that now she is "in a place of real understanding...." I completely fell apart. That's what hits me hardest, I think, grown women who miss their Daddys. That's what brings it back to me--every one of my scars bleeds fresh, and I just want to crawl up in his lap again.

So there will be words for Dad. But not right now. And as I write them, sitting in his chair at my computer, I will imagine him reading them--again and again.

happy new year

January 1, 2012

I don't make New Year's resolutions.

That's not to say that I am against self-improvement, or new beginnings, or any of those things. Or that I shy away from them. Rather, I prefer to make life changing decisions when I am in the middle of my living, instead of in that gloriously lazy time between Christmas and New Year's Day. During that week, whether we have travelled for the holidays or not, there is far less for me to think about and do than at any other time during the year. The preparations for Christmas are finished; there's no school schedule to work around; practice schedules are modified or non-existent. The only obligations I really have are self-imposed, and as a naturally lazy person, are admittedly easy, if they exist at all.

I do take a little of that time to think about how I'd like to see the coming year shape up. There are things I'd like to accomplish, and dreams I'd like to see come true, but I know myself, and if I make promises to change my life while I'm being all fat and lazy, I will only disappoint myself. Instead, I wait a while. Besides, as soon as Christmas wrappings are cleaned up, I need to start thinking about finding just the right thing for my husband for our January anniversary. , and then I like to take some time to get excited about my birthday in February. (Looking forward like that gets me through the darktime of winter, which takes a toll on me!)

After my birthday, during that month of many birthdays, but not much else, I start to think about what I want to promise myself. In the years when I've made fitness goals, that's worked very well for me, as most of the 'Resolution Runners' have given up their treadmills and weight machines by then, leaving room for those who have stronger resolve, or more concrete goals. (There is, after all, a great difference between those who make a resolution to "get more exercise" and those who set a goal to "lose x# of pounds," "run x miles a week," or "fit into this again." The latter are far better company at the gym, and more successful, from what I've seen.)

And when I make the promises, I only make three at the most. Otherwise, how can I remember what it is I wanted to work on? Having fewer goals makes it easier for me to adjust them as needed, too, instead of abandoning an idea when it gets tough, or if it becomes clear that I've set my sights too high or too low than is reasonable. I want to challenge myself, but sometimes one year is not enough time to accomplish a change. Last February, I decided to pare down my stash of fabric. I was starting to get discouraged by about May, when I had not sewn anything at all, and decided I would need to re-evaluate: should I just dispose of smaller pieces? Drop them in the Community Aid box? Hold on to them some more and worry more about the larger pieces? As I gave myself time to consider this, I found a great book, One Yard Wonders, which gave me some fantastic ideas! I passed the late spring, summer, and into the Christmas season whipping up one small project after another. When my dryer was broken during a damp week in the summer, I even made a shirt to wear to work the next day so I could wait to hang clothes on the line--and then made a duplicate for a friend because she liked it so much! My stash is still pretty large, but getting more manageable. And it's become a habit...

Making these changes a habit is the ultimate goal for me, and that's the biggest reason I keep the list small. I can't make one thing a habit if I'm always thinking about all the other things on my list. As a result, my list also tends to have goals that are either very related, or so unrelated so as not to seem to belong together. It's my system, and it works for me. That's what matters.

It's inevitable, though, someone will ask what resolutions I've made. Depending on who asks, my answer varies from the honest to goodness truth about why I haven't made any, to a simple, "None," to the ironic: "To care less," (referring to a joke between me and my friend, Beth, that we sometimes wish we stressed more over the dumb little things like chipped nail polish so we wouldn't stress so much about big stuff, like jobs and bills) or "To bathe more" (referring to the fact that I would really like to soak in the tub and read for hours at a time on a daily basis, even though that's far from practical). I don't ask others. Anyone who shares with me, and asks for my support with them, will get it, but unless they are shared with me voluntarily, I don't see where it's my business. I do share my goals with others when I need to, but only with those whose support I can count on.

As always, I'm working on me; hoping to improve who I am as a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, employee, neighbor, stranger. And along the way, I hope to help improve our home, our community, our school, and in some small way, our world. Currently, one scrap of fabric at a time.....

Happy birthday to you!!

Twice, I started writing about my son's birthday today. How hard could that be, anyway?

I'll tell you how hard. Jonathan is a great kid. Actually, that's not true, because he is hardly a "kid" anymore. As his mother, it's sometimes hard to see him as an almost adult. Yet when I hear his coaches say that he is a "fine young man," I still see the schoolboy that we would say that about. I frequently step back and look at him, trying to see the person others see. Sometimes it's possible, other times, not so much. Then again, sometimes he behaves like that schoolboy!

I took the day off work today, but he's on the football team, which started pre-season practice yesterday. Between his two practices today, he will work at the pool. Normally, we celebrate with a meal of the birthday person's choice, cake, ice cream, the whole deal. This morning when he left, I asked what--and when!--he'd like to eat today. "I'll text you," he said. We might see him before dark tonight. Next year, he may already be at college on his birthday, celebrating with new friends that are really still strangers. How quickly time has passed!

As I have mentioned, I always wanted to be a Mom. When Jonathan was born, I remember wondering just what I'd gotten myself into. Babies are tough to work with, and can be so stressful to live with! I loved him to pieces, but sometimes thought I was crazy to have ever wanted this for my life. It was frustrating that a "great day" was one in which I had managed to shower, dress and brush my teeth in the nine hours that Guy was gone. "It'll get easier," so many people kept telling me, but the truth is, it never gets easier, just different. There is so much to think about; so much to remember on any given day. Being a Mom is harder work than anything else I've ever done, and I can't imagine not having it as my true occupation; my calling.

I've talked about wanting to see results; to finish projects and let them go. At the same time, I would trade nothing about this Mom job. I do see the results of my work: the man Jonathan is becoming, and his brothers, too. And I see the woman I am ever evolving into, in many ways because of them. My kids as "projects"--a concept that many will most certainly find offensive, but it's just a word. They are individuals, of course, and in all honesty, I have very little to do with who they are, yet our influence indeed has molded them. True projects, I learned in writing two papers a month for two years, often take on a personality of their own and determine their own direction, no matter how hard you try to control the outcome. I love that about everything I work on, and especially about the boys. Jonathan has not arrived at a point I expected, or even would have wanted him to; instead, we have traveled a crazy path together to arrive at a really amazing place.

See what I mean? There are no words that adequately fit this day. Everything just misses. What's so important about birthdays and the people that we love that makes words not enough? Or is it just that the simple words can say so much? Words like:

Happy Birthday, Jonathan!

I love you!

Thank you for being my son.

I'm so proud of you.

I can't wait to see what's next.

Those are the things that really say everything about this Mom job, and about Jonathan being my "prototype." Thankfully, I think Guy and Jonathan know what I'm talking about. This job, the projects we work on, is based on love, and with that comes joy, pain, sorrow, hope, happiness, laughter--everything I could ever want out of life. It's all about the gravy.