Yeah, you do

“You KNEW I had to pick up the lunchboxes!” She screamed at me as she stomped off.  Her anger was immediate and all-consuming.  I had asked her why it takes her a full ten minutes after the bell rings to meet us in the [now freezing cold] school yard.

She knows she must wait at the street, so there she was, pouting, when I caught up to her.  “Ummm, yeah.  I just wanted to point out it was cold and Nathan and I are waiting for you out here, so maybe you could talk me through what your getting ready routine looks like, so we could find a solution.”

At this point, she throws herself on the ground and starts sobbing.  She will be 7 in January.  “Okay, well.  It’s cold and this is unnecessary.  Please get up so we can walk home.  We can talk where it’s warm.” Again, she stomps off ahead of us.

When we’re home and both reasonably calm, I ask her why she threw a tantrum like a toddler on the way home from school.  “Because you KNEW ABOUT THE LUNCHBOXES!” And it starts all over again.

Next morning, I am the first one to the kitchen.  I get out a big bowl, my pan, and all the ingredients for pancakes.  I make five “mixes” at a time, with the dry ingredients only, to make the next four times I make pancakes or waffles easier.  This was a mix morning.  So everything is out, I’m spread out over the entire counter.

My spouse comes down with the kids, and he literally reaches around me and my mixing mess to get to the cupboard.  He grabs cereal bowls to get the kids started on breakfast.

“I’m MAKING pancakes!” My anger was immediate and all-consuming.  He had just motioned to get our children breakfast.

I looked at him with my oh-so-expertly-crafted WTF look, and he put the cereal bowls back and said, “I didn’t notice.  GEEZ.” And he walked away.  Together but separate, we finished our morning routine and got the kids off to school.

When he got home from dropping them off, when we were both reasonably calm, he talked to me about getting so mad about something so mundane.  “But you had to REACH AROUND me to get the bowls! I’ve been making pancakes that same way for over a YEAR!”

He told me I should listen to myself sometime.  I threw myself on the bed and started sobbing.  I will be 36 ½ in January.

How, exactly, do we handle it when we are raising true smaller versions of ourselves? When that little cherubic face scowls at me and stomps and cries, I know she learned it all from me.  How, exactly, do I help her manage her emotions when I clearly am barely holding onto my own?

For me, I value communication over all else.  When she got home from school, I wrapped her up in a huge hug, picked her up (43lb first-graders are awesome), and we snuggled in my bed.  I am indescribably happy to have the cuddle gene in common with her as well.  “I’m so sorry we fought yesterday. Daddy helped me realize I act the very same way.”

“Yeah, you do,” she responded simply.  So much smarter than me. More honest.

“We can both try to do better, can’t we?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I love you a lot.  You’re my favorite girl.”

“You’re my favorite mommy. I love you a lot, too.”

We feel deep, both the anger and the love, so I think that’ll last me a lifetime, taking the good with the bad.

If you want something done right

I have a lot to say about this first week of October.  I have a lot to feel as well.  It’s almost comforting to me that everyone else is sad and upset, too, because this week marks the one year anniversary of my mom’s death. I was sad and upset already.  I remain so every day.  It’s also cold and rainy here, so you know, that’s always good.

When someone you love dies, the memories are really strong. I can tell you what I was wearing when my dad died 21 years ago.  And what was on the tv in the hospice family room. Technology is making the memories of my mom’s death just last year extra vibrant, extra painful. Facebook Memories, usually one of my favorite features, is showing me this week in pictures.  You won’t see evidence of my mom’s last week on Facebook, because she was super private and gave us specific No Facebook rules, but I see the posts I made and the things we were doing, and I know what else was going on.  Pictures of my family at a college hockey game are innocuous in their posed adorableness, but I know that just before we left for that game, my kids said goodbye to their grandma for the last time.  By the end of the week, my Memories will be flooded with condolences, as if it’s happening all over again.

She died on October 6, 2016, so the “actual date” is still coming up.  But the entire week was like one long day to me, which unfolded into one long year. Or short year.  It’s really hard to say.  It flew by in a blink, but only because it feels like yesterday.  I feel like I lost a year of my life, and yet, no year has ever changed my life more.

When I gave the eulogy at my mom’s memorial, people told me I was so brave. “I could never have done that,” echoed over and over.  It was a compliment, yet also a little offensive. As if perhaps my level of sadness wasn’t low enough to be overcome with emotion.  It helped to have many years experience as a public speaker, but that’s beside the point.  People thought I was sweet and strong, but really only those who know me best know why I really wanted to give my mom’s eulogy: I didn’t want someone else to fuck it up.

Yup.  The truth is out.  I just didn’t trust anyone else to do it. A real detriment to my personality, I am unabashedly a believer in “if you want something done right, you need to do it yourself.” My mom was a pretty amazing woman, but not in an obvious way. And we all loved each other very much, but again, not in an obvious way. Eulogy cliches simply would not work for my mom. A stranger wouldn’t do it justice, that’s for sure.  And even her siblings and closest friends had the potential to say something to piss me off.  Oh, yeah, that’s right.  This decision was all about me. My sister approved and also got to read the finished product beforehand, but mostly, I didn’t want someone ruining that day for me.  Because it was fucking hard enough already.  I had to honor my mom with words I knew to be true.  Words I thought she would appreciate and admire.

So, because you’re all sad and upset anyway, here are those words, unedited, despite my desire a year later to do so.

Thank you for being here with us to celebrate our mom. I’m Karen’s younger daughter, Emily.  When I told my sister, Leslie, that I wanted to speak if I was able, she wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it through without breaking down.  To which I replied, “Challenge accepted.” However, she does have a strong history of being right, so I have a poised and elegant understudy waiting at the ready.

I have unfortunately been to many funerals in my life. And so often, an obituary or a eulogy is filled with all the things the person did in their life.  Clubs they belonged to. Places they volunteered. Professional associations and memberships.  Achievements and awards.  But I don’t think those things really matter all that much, because a lot of people never DO any of that, and yet still, they are wonderful people.

Then when I was driving home on Thursday, I was struggling to stay awake, let alone concentrate on driving instead of crying. So, I pulled over to plug in my favorite audio book: Wayne Dyer’s Inner Wisdom.  I quote him constantly, obnoxiously even, because his words are very inspirational and almost always relevant, and he didn’t let me down last week.  He said,

“We cannot be defined by the things we DO in life.  If that were the case, we’d be called human doings.  They would’ve come up with that.  But no.  We are called human BEINGS. Because our self-worth is not determined by that which we do, but by who we are.  By what we feel and think.  Because if you are what you do, then when you don’t, you ain’t!”

Mom doesn’t DO anything anymore, but that doesn’t mean she has lost her worth.  It’s not the doing that matters, but the being.  The being gets to live on forever. So, I want to tell you who we believed our mom to be. 

First and foremost, she was very independent. And not just since our dad died. Always. She always worked.  She always did things her own way on her own time.  She never had a list of things we needed to do for her, because she always just figured it out herself.  We could stop by her house and she would’ve completely rearranged a room, repainted, new wallpaper, ripped out the carpet and bought rugs.  Things you assume most people would ask for help in doing. Les and I both left her house knowing 100% how to take care of ourselves.  And others. 

Because her independence didn’t make her an island.  She was also a caretaker.  Her little sisters, Kathy and Mary, can tell you endless stories of times their big sister helped them out.  I can tell you the stories of all the times she’s helped me out. She was happy, always, to help, but the key was: you had to ask.  She was not a swooper.  Not an overbearing grandmother who showed up at my house every day to judge my parenting.  Because SHE was independent, it was kind of like she assumed everyone else was, too.

When we were growing up, she didn’t really tell us not to do things.  She relied on the natural consequences.  She didn’t ground us for staying out late or sneaking out windows.  She didn’t make us feel small or say “I told you so,” when we needed her help dealing with those natural consequences. She didn’t tell us where to go to school or even IF we should go to school.  She didn’t tell us how to plan our weddings. When Leslie moved out of state, did she tell her to stay? No.  Did she guilt-trip her into staying? Not at all. She shared no opinion other than enthusiasm for her new opportunity.  And that is how it always was.  She showed up when you asked her to.  She shared nothing but praise. 

She was also very loving and very loyal.  But in this strong, stoic way that I could never relate to.  Leslie got all those genes in the first go-round.  My mom and my sister had this lovely understanding of mutual fierce love and loyalty, but they never had to talk about it or show it. Me, I needed them both to hug me and pat my head and tell me they love me. But they both only show their vulnerability when they relate to animals.  The world would stop for a dog or a cat in need. Those two could start their own shelter with the strays and rescues they’ve taken in.  I’m so lucky to be the sister who gets to keep a strong role model in my life (who no longer lives out of state, praise Jesus).

I would be remiss not to mention Mom’s incredible intelligence and passion for learning.  These were the genes I got.  We shared a love of literature and words, Scrabble and crosswords, conversations and writing. Scrabble was just what we did.  Grandkids are napping? Scrabble. Waiting for the tow truck on the side of the road? Travel Scrabble. I would finish a book and immediately hand it off to her.  She would do the same. I always thought one day we could write a book together.  My advice, friends, is never wait for “one day” to come.

Finally, something we all shared, was a love of laughter.  Our family didn’t play practical jokes or engage in rude and stupid humor.  Both of our parents were soaked through with sarcasm and quick wit.  So much so that Les and I had no chance of avoiding it.  We can so easily think of zingers and one-liners, it has gotten us both into trouble. Just last week, less than 12 hours before she died, when she could hardly speak, she was rolling her eyes and winking at Les from across the room, because it took two night aides and two sets of instructions to set up a cot for me to sleep in.  

One thing we know for sure about our mom is that she was very private.  She was never the type of person to brag, she didn’t like to be the center of attention.  And if you called her, she was always happier talking about what was going on with other people than with herself.  In the last few weeks, however, she shared some stories with us that we had never heard before and we know there are many, many more.  Leslie and I are very eager to hear any stories you have about our mom (and our dad, too, for that matter).  We have provided journals on some of the tables for you to use this evening, as well as cards with an email address for you to share with us when you think of something on your drive home. 

Every time we left the house from as young as we can remember up until last week, Mom said the same four words as we left, “Have fun.  Be careful.”  It was never lost on us that the fun came before the careful.  To close, then, I implore you to have fun and be careful, but to Mom, who has gone where trouble never does, I simply say, “Have fun.” Thank you. 

It’s just better

Three months ago we moved into my childhood home.  Deciding to pack up and move eighty miles to the south was relatively easy.  Sure we made a list of pros and cons, but I think we would both admit we knew pretty soon after the seed was planted that this was the right choice for our family. My hometown is his college town (and mine, for that matter), so he had also lived here for many years.  It’s where we first met, of course, and later got married.  We have friends and family here.  We are getting to “start over” without actually having to “start over.”

The one thing that made us nervous in the months between the decision to move and the actual move was work.  Because we were giving up our large mortgage, if Patrick lost his job, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. He would find work here. It was only after we were completely certain we were moving that he told his boss his plans.  I waited on the edge of my seat at home.  Worst case scenario: they fired him on the spot.  Very unlikely, but we had to consider it. Best case scenario: they let him keep his job and work from home.

Because my spouse is smart, kind, funny, loyal, and damn good at his job, we were awarded the best case scenario.  Well, almost the best.  He drives the 100 miles to work once a week.  The other six days a week, we are together.  He has an office with a door that closes, but after ten years of marriage, we spend more of our time together than apart.

Both in the months leading up to and following our big move, everyone asks about the town, the house (which we are remodeling), the kids, the dogs.  But I honestly feel like the biggest change has been adjusting to this new work situation. I love my spouse.  A lot.  Fire of a thousand suns and all that.  But now, he is home with me during the day, and it has taken some adjusting.  It continues to require compromise and patience, from both of us. Overall, however, it is so much better than before.

With zero input or approval from him, here are the best things about both of us working from home:

  1. Obviously, no commute. Our last home was a 35-45 minute commute each way, every day, worse in poor weather, road construction, or a freeway backup. Often one or both of our kids would only see him for an hour a day.
  2. He takes his breaks with us. At the office, he would go for a walk, go to a coworker’s office to chat, and go out to lunch with his friends.  Now, we are his co-workers (kinda, you get the idea).  He walks the kids to school in the morning. He takes a break when our son comes home from preschool to ask him about his day; he does the same three hours later when our daughter gets home. He takes the dogs and our son for a walk almost every lunch hour after eating. He has time to play outside with the kids before suppertime (before, we’d often have to start eating without him in order to still be in bed on time).
  3. He can help me with my work (read: my computer) if I need him. Previously, he could maybe take a phone call at work and try to troubleshoot with me, but now I get the real thing. He can also do things like flip the laundry if I’m at the store or at an appointment.
  4. Four mornings a week, both the kids are at school.
  5. While his office does have a door, I’m allowed to open it if I need something (like my coat from the closet because this house is much smaller than our last and now our coat closet is the office/guest room/tv room’s closet). I’m puffed with pride when I see him there at his desk, four monitors ablaze with science.  His modesty will tell you otherwise, but he has a unique and important job.
  6. Along those same lines, if I am in the dining room working and all else is quiet, I can hear him behind that closed door, talking all science-y and business-y. I was only privy to what he shared with me before, and now I can observe him in his element.  Everyone should get to see and hear the loves of their lives doing what they are so good at.
  7. It’s just better. It’s easier.  It’s healthier.  It’s economical and environmentally friendly.

Working from home is not available to everyone.  It’s also not a lifestyle for everyone.  But if it’s possible for you, I highly recommend it.

My spouse and I are certain we will one day look back on this move as the pivotal moment in our lives.  What it has already afforded us in making our lives better is more time together.  Of course we’re also saving a lot of money, but time is so much more valuable.  “Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.”  Carl Sandburg knew his stuff.