Sending Good Vibes to a Grieving Mommy

A year ago, this family's profound loss broke my heart:

http://aninchofgray.blogspot.com/2011/10/bridge-one-terrible-night.html?m=1

Another Mommy blogger, and a friend of Anna's family, is requesting that we send Mommy Love to Anna's family by writing Jack's name on your hand and posting a photo of it here.  

http://momastery.com/blog/2012/09/08/jack/

Though I don't know Anna personally, I feel a little piece of my heart was lost that day as well . . .  only a mother can begin to fathom the magnitude of her grief, and I can't help but feel that it could have happened to ANY one of us - there but for the grace of God go I.  So today especially, hug your own children, use the words "I love you," and let's lift Anna up so she knows she is loved, and she is brave, and she is not alone in her pain.  I am reposting the entry I wrote a year ago :

For days I’ve been trying to think of something clever and witty to write about, as I’m hoping to keep up with the blog a little better now that Medium and Large are at school all day.  I’m trying to get Small on a regular nap schedule – mostly because I’m anal and can’t handle it when I don’t have a schedule or a plan.  I hope to be able to write more frequently while he’s napping. 

I could write about Tuesday when we overslept until 6:58, but I still managed to get the boys up to the bus stop by 7:12.  Or I could write about purging my closet of clothes I haven’t worn in years, but which have moved from our townhouse, to Manhattan, to our temporary housing, and finally stopping here in our home.  Or I could put a humorous spin on trying to find a nerdy teenager with no social life so that I can have a babysitter at my beck and call.

The problem is that I keep thinking about Anna Donaldson and her family:

http://vienna.patch.com/articles/blue-ribbons-for-jack

The Donaldson Family, of Vienna, VA lost their 12-year-old son, Jack, in the floods we had last week.

I first heard this story from my former “boss” at JMU, who was a sorority sister to Anna Donaldson.  Then I discovered that, in the it’s-a-small-world department, my across-the-street neighbor was also a sorority sister.  My connection to this woman is six-degrees-of-Kevin-Baconish, but still, her story was brought to my awareness more than once.  Then this morning, a high school friend posted a link to Anna's blog, An Inch of Gray.  I just can’t keep quiet anymore.  So this one’s not funny.

For all the b*tching I sometimes do about mothers who don’t support each other, make other mothers feel bad about their parenting, or try to one-up each other, I must admit that in a time of tragedy, there is a bond between mothers that is almost spiritual.  And I don’t mean spiritual in the religious sense. 

I mean I hope that the heartbreak and grief I feel for this woman whom I have never met will help ease some of her burden, because it pains me to think of her suffering “alone.” 

I know she has a family, and perhaps it seems insensitive for me to imply that NO ONE, not even her husband, feels the grief as tangibly as she does.  I have a notion that collectively, mothers everywhere who are hearing her story are shouldering a bit of her heartbreak. 

When I lost my mother, I remember thinking that I truly understood where the term "broken-hearted" originated.  I literally felt an ache in my heart - a physical pain.  It struck me as surreal that people still went to the grocery store, picked up their mail, filled their cars with gas when my world had fallen apart.  I’ve always said that losing my mother has been the greatest loss of my life, and I am the first to admit that I had a difficult time dealing with my grief.  But here’s the thing: children expect to lose their parents at some point.  Hopefully it won’t be until the parent has lived a full life, but we all accept mortality as the final chapter of life. 

Parents are not emotionally equipped to lose a child.  That’s not how it’s supposed to happen.  

Ten years ago, my girlfriend, The Mormon, lost a child.  Hubby and I hadn’t started our family yet, so while I grieved with my friend, I grieved with her as a friend, not as a mother.  I hurt because my friend was hurting.  It wasn’t until I had Large that I truly understood that having a child is having a part of you live outside your body.  Your child is an appendage that’s not physically attached.  (Sometimes I feel like my kids are the middle finger . . . )

As diligent followers of this blog (hint, hint) you know that I don’t discuss politics or religion.  I believe what I believe, and I don’t need to rationalize it to anyone.  No matter what you believe (or don’t) my simple request is this: pause for just a moment today and send good “Mommy” vibes to Anna Donaldson.  Motherhood is a sorority of its own, and today our Sister needs us. 

*Anna's friend Glennon writes a blog called Momastery.  Her most recent entry, simply called "Anna," is a powerful post in which she reminds us that one doesn't stop being a Mother when your child leaves the earth.

Medium, Small, Large

And finally, my boys.  I LOVE them with every ounce of my being.  They drive me absoultely insane sometimes, but I am thankful every day for their sweet smiles.

Parking Lot Etiquette

I believe in Karma. 

I totally believe what goes around comes around. 

Back when I was teaching, I had a “personality” conflict with a woman with whom I was coaching.  I didn’t like hers. 

She was everything I wasn’t, and I will admit that if I had been a bit more mature I would have handled the situation differently, but I was 22.  Since I was just starting out and I had no money, I was living at home.  I would come home from work every day in tears because of some conflict we had had.  My mom would tell me to buck up and that “she’d get hers.” 

She was the head coach, so when the powers that be decided that one of us had to go, I resigned.  (My choice was to resign or be fired, truth be told.)  I certainly didn’t want this situation following me my entire career, so I took the easy way out.  When we met with the administration, however, I held my head high and I conducted myself with dignity and integrity while she acted like a teenager on too little sleep and too much speed and made a complete idiot out of herself.  Even though I was humiliated by having to quit, I felt that I had won in the eyes of my superiors.  They had been backed into a corner, and I have never blamed them for their decision.

Karma, of course, doesn’t always work out.  I can’t explain why my mother had to suffer from Cancer, or why any parent would lose a child, or why good people must struggle; but in the day-to-day monotony, I believe that the energy we put out into the universe matters.

I was enjoying a much-needed and infrequent day to myself while Hubby took the boys out for a bit.  I went to the mall.  The mall!  Not the little one up the street – the big one with the fancy stores!  Monday was Labor Day, however, so the mall was crowded.  I circled and circled in my Swagger Wagon until I found a parking spot that was being vacated.

I put my turn signal on, which we ALL KNOW is the universal indication that Im’ma take that spot.  It’s mine.  I’ll have it. 

Y’all know where I’m going with this, right? 

The driver backed out of the spot just as a sedan packed with eager shoppers came around the corner.  Surely she’s going to notice me and my polite turn signal and keep on truckin’ down the aisle. 

Even the driver backing up realized what was going down.  As he was halfway out of the spot, he stopped his car and honked at the sedan.  She ignored him and pulled into the spot.

Oh, hayl no.

Generally I am not a confrontational person, but some things are so vital to the continuation of humanity that one cannot stand by and let the injustice take place.  I stayed right where I was . . . signal a-blinkin’, and rolled down my window in preparation of politely reminding the sedan owner that ONE DOES NOT steal a parking spot for which someone is waiting. 

Before she could get out of her car, however, the backer-upper stopped his car, put it in park, got out of his car, and approached the sedan.  He knocked on the window and said something quietly to the passengers.  As he walked away he said, “they didn’t see you,” and he returned to his car.

“You rock,” I replied.

The sedan backed out of the spot, and as she drove by me she said, “I’m so sorry . . . I thought you were leaving.”

All that for an $18 shirt I could have bought online.  

My Phone Call from Jail

Last night, as we were drifting off to sleep, Hubby and I got into a deep discussion.

Politics, you ask?  Religion, perhaps?

No, we were discussing whom we would use as our one and only phone call if either of us ever ends up in jail.

Hypothetically, of course. 

You see, I’m pretty sure Hubby would call his oldest brother, the Cluer (called such because he tried to use “cluer” in a Scrabble game and I challenged him because I don’t think there’s a term to describe one who clues.)  Years ago, when Hubby passed the CPA exam after studying diligently for months instead of taking me to the movies/dinner/drinks, the first person he called was his brother. 

Instead of calling the love of his life, the woman who encouraged him endlessly, believed in his abilities, and sang his praises to anyone who asked about his whereabouts, he called his brother. 

His most recent excuse is that “we were barely dating then.”

Um, it was 1998.  We had been dating for four years.  I’m sorry, but if you’ve seen my in my skivvies and/or hot rollers, WE’RE DATING. 

Furthermore, I find it odd that Hubby would propose marriage later that same year to someone with whom he apparently only had a casual relationship.

. . . but I don’t hold grudges. 

Ahem.

So we’ve established that Hubby’s phone call from jail would be to his brother, and naturally Hubby assumed my one-and-only phone call would be to him.

See?  Look!  Cute outfits . . .

“I’m not making any phone calls,” I announced.

“What?  You have to.”

“Well, I might order a pizza or something,” I responded, “but I’m not calling you to come get me.”

“You can’t order pizza from jail.”  Because, you know, he knows all about what’s allowed and what’s not.  Pfffft . . .

“I’m not calling anyone.  Are you kidding?  Three meals a day that I don’t have to cook, a bed I don’t have to share, and lots and lots of quiet time.”  It sounds lovely, no?  Maybe Martha could come back and we could knit stuff.  Or I could get my law degree!

“How would you pass your time?” he asked, no doubt because now he’s worried I’m gonna go shoplift or something.

“Give me my Kindle, my blanket, and my teddy bear and I’d be a happy girl."

“I’m pretty sure they’re not going to let you take your Kindle.  Besides, aren’t you worried you’ll become Big Bertha’s b*tch?”

“Um, I’m pretty sure if I have to share a cell with someone, I’D be the Big Bertha of the two of us.  Give me a nice Meth addict and leave me the heck alone.”

You’ve all had this SAME conversation at some point, right?

Now who do I speak to about the dress code, because I’ll wear orange if I must, but I’m NOT wearing horizontal stripes.

The Angels are Singing: it's Back to School Time!

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!  I’ve been singing it all week!  We had a great summer and I enjoyed having the boys home – I loved sleeping in late, staying in pj’s until noon, and splashing at the pool. 

But it was time.

I have neither the physical nor the mental stamina to entertain and stimulate 3 children any longer.  God bless the homeschooling mom . . . I don’t know how you protect yourself from rocking-back-and-forth smooshy brain.  I couldn’t do it.  We love each other a little more if we spend approximately 7 hours apart per day.

For those of you lamenting, “where did the summer go?”  I’ll tell you:

 

One of Mommy's FAVORITEST things to do:
take all three kids to the tire place!

• It went to the dentist
• It went to countless movies and ate many a bucket of popcorn
• It went to basketball camp
• It went to Dinosaurland in White Post, VA
• It got a new basketball hoop
• It went to the pool
• It saw a Washington Nationals game
• It baked cookies
• It saw a Baltimore Orioles game
• It got new tires for the Swagger Wagon
• It saw two Richmond Flying Squirrels games
• It built forts out of blankets and pillows
• It survived a storm that may or may not have been a tornado
• It visited Uncle Chris and Aunt Kathy and our new baby cousin, Maya
• It had eye surgery
• It went to Vacation Bible School
• It constructed Lego masterpieces
• It went to the county fair
• It paid a visit to Patient First
• It went on bike rides
• It saw the Demolition Derby and the Rodeo
• It went to a National Symphony Orchestra concert at Wolf Trap
• It went to baseball practice
• It watched The Muppets and/or Cars EVERY day
• It cleaned and purged closets
• It went to Hershey Park
• It had several sleepovers
• It went to Granny and Papa’s



It's hard work sitting in the seat while
Mommy pedals all over the 'hood.

• It went to Sesame Place

 I'm tired.  You kids enjoy gettin’ your Learn on.  Mommy’s gonna take a nap.

Verbal Vomit

I made a small purchase yesterday, and the total came to $6.30.  I pulled out my wallet so that I could pay in cash, which never happens to me.  I rarely have cash and use my credit card for everything.  This is Hubby’s way of tracking my purchases.  He thinks I don’t know this.  I do.  We spent the first ten years of our marriage arguing about why I never document my purchases in the check register, and so now the credit card company does it for me.  Everybody wins.

When I prepared to pay for my items, I pulled out a wad o’ cash. 

I could have paid the $6.30, said thank you, and been on my way . . . but NO.  I felt the need to explain.

“We just went to Hershey Park last weekend.  That’s why I have all this cash,” I said.

The saleswoman smiled, probably a bit taken aback by my verbal spewage.

“I just didn’t want you to think I’m a drug dealer,” I continued.

Awkward smile.

“Or a stripper,” I chuckled as I folded my singles.

Please, make it stop.

“You know, we stay-at-home moms have to make some money somewhere!”

I should not be allowed to wander alone in the wild.