Tag Archive: sappyness

Surprise Renee!!!!!!

Written on February 17, 2010
14 Opinions - Talk to me

In July, on the first night of BlogHer, I met someone I’d never “met” online. I met the lovely Renee, also known as But Why Mommy. After a bit, I found myself sitting across the table from her, at a not so great pizza joint in downtown Chicago. I felt a bit weird because it seemed like I was the only one at the table who didn’t know who she was. The thing that made me feel better, was I didn’t believe she knew who I was either. (Watch, I’ll be wrong about that.) We started talking about our kids. I told her how sad I’d been that morning to leave 10 month old Harrison and how Bailey had been really upset, until Logan had offered her donuts. Yes, my child traded me for a donut. Renee told me all about Bunny, her then three year old; about her love of dinosaurs, how smart she was, how amazing an artist she was at such a young age. When she talked about Bunny, her face lit up. I remember that, even now.

Then I asked her if Bunny was going to be an only child or if they’d have another one day. Renee then said, well we adopted Bunny from China and we’d like to say we’ll one day give her a sibling, but it seems unlikely right now. She told me that they were in the process of adopting a son from Ethiopia, but it seemed like it just might not happen. That the process didn’t seem to progressing at all. That she was unsure if they would continue to move forward or give up. She was sad about that and trying not to be. Trying not to show it. We barely knew each other and I wanted to hug her. I know that feeling, the wanting to expand your family and thinking it will never happen. But all I could say was, oh I really hope it all works out for you. I’d only known the girl for an hour.

That was eight months ago. Eight months is a long time, but also not such a long time. Long enough to make a great friend. Although truthfully, I felt like Renee was a great friend after four days.

Today though, eight months later, my amazing friend is very, very close to bringing her son Lion home. What I mean is, they could literally be going to get him in a few weeks. He is for sure their son. They got that news about ten days ago. Now they just wait for all the paperwork to come in. Then? They go bring their boy home, where he belongs. With Renee and her husband; with his big sister Bunny.

I wanted to do something for my friend. Something big, something amazing. Something to show her how much I love her and how thrilled I am for her. I wanted to throw her a baby shower. Maybe an adoption shower? However, this is the Internet. And? Renee and I live three states away from each other. We have amazing friends, but they are scattered all over the country. It doesn’t make for easy parties. I did the next best thing, I put together an Internet baby shower. There are no brownies, or little cakes, but it has something better than that, tons of friends and love. Which really is more important than little cakes. (Oh how I’d take a little cake right now.)

Anyway…Renee, welcome to your baby shower. **hands over silly hat and little cake** Make yourself comfy, you have a bunch of reading to do today.

I thought about what I could share with you, Renee. What could I possibly tell you that is helpful. I figure I can give you a few pointers on parenting boys. You know from my vast knowledge of the past nearly 17 months. Snort.

1. Boys pee. They pee upwards. This was new for me. Here is my helpful hint. Something I still do to this day. Take a wipe and throw it on the dang thing, the second you open the diaper. Just trust me on this one. Harrison hasn’t peed on me in months, but he still could. It’s something I fully believe to be true.

2. Boys are loud. Not screechy loud like little girls, but volume loud. Very, very loud. Invest in ear plugs.

3. Boys like things that move. Cars, balls, trains, toys that move. They don’t generally care much for toys that don’t do something. Unless it’s tupperware, 100 DVD boxes that can be thrown on the floor or you, when you are sitting. You are a jungle gym. I hope you knew that.

4. Boys are dirty. I have a daughter who is dirty too. Truly, we call her pig pen sometimes. But Harrison is very little and he’s always dirty. Always. I always wonder how he can get dirty playing with his train set in my basement. But he can.

5. Silver wear is a joke. Only give it to him, if you like things chucked at your head. Harrison will eat anything and everything. I do mean everything. But he’s not so big on forks and spoons. He prefers the whole hand as a shovel method.

6. Boys are sweet and cuddly and absolute joys. Parenting a boy, after girls gives me more joy than I could even put into words. I melt each time he gives me that little impish grin. He knows it too, little brat. Ha.

You are a great mom my friend. I have no doubt that Lion is one lucky, amazing little boy. I can’t wait to meet him.

Below is a Mr. Linky. Our friends who had the chance, will be linking posts for you throughout the day. We just wanted you too know that you are loved and that we all love your tiny boy, even though we haven’t met him yet.

ps. I sent you a box. A bit late, but yeah…I’m me. Stuff I said I’d send. Some gifts I bought and a little something for Bunny. Love you sweetie. I could not be more thrilled about you bringing Lion home.

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You know what eight is, right? It’s halfway to sixteen.

Written on December 7, 2009
13 Opinions - Talk to me

My beautiful, smart, sweet, talented, smarty pants with a huge attitude girl. My big, eight year old. My Morgan. Today is your birthday. Today you are eight.

You said those words to me this weekend. The, I’m halfway to sixteen line. Sixteen is big to you. Yes my love, you are; today you are halfway to sixteen.

Can I tell you something though? I am not ready for you to be sixteen. Heck darling, I am not ready for you to be eight yet. I wish I could explain it to you. To the eight year old you. Not the you who will one day receive these letters. There unfortunately is no way I can explain to you how it feels to have an eight year old. Not until you are in my shoes. I can’t make you understand how being eight may seem young to you, but it seems so old too me.

I tried to explain to you how amazing this last year has been with you. How amazing and talented you are. How helpful and kind you are to your siblings. (Mostly. Ha.) How you are one of my three favorite people in this world. How grown up you’ve become.

You laughed at me. Silly mommy you said, being seven took forever. Being eight is better.

You’ve changed a ton this year, my love. You’ve grown. Not just taller, but wiser and more mature. Seven was a phenomenal year for you. For us. This year, we’ve grown much closer than before. In a way, we’ve become sort of friends. It’s been great. You are being mostly challenged in school for the first year ever, which you love. You are being forced to be more responsible at home; something you wanted and needed, but it took me a while to realize. I’m sorry baby, but I may always have to learn through you. You are the first after all.

In one year you have changed from only wanting to discuss Disney tween characters lives, to always wanting to talk about what is going on in the world; what is happening in our family. In one year, you have learned so much. You love to learn. You are constantly telling me something else you need to learn about, something new you want to learn how to do.In one year you changed from a little girl to a big girl. I’m not sure how I let it happen. It sounds silly I know, but this is the age I’d bottle you at, if I could. Most of the time, people say that about babies and toddlers. I do about your sister; nineteen to maybe twenty-three months was amazing with her. But you? I’d bottle you up at this age.

In some ways, I want to hang onto seven. Seven and I got along great. Then again, I said that about six too. Six was such a change from five for us. Seven made our relationship even better. It’s not about the year or the age though, it’s about you. It’s about you getting to a place where you understand life. You like the world more, the more you understand. It makes you happier to not be treated like a baby. You always tell me, mommy, tell me the truth. I do. Sometimes it hurts to tell you the truth, sometimes I’d rather not tell you the truth. But it’s important for you, so I do it as often as possible.

You are a natural born leader. You have dozens of friends. Trust me on this. You literally wanted to invite 32 people to your birthday party next week. You and Mackenzie** are, yet again, have a joint party. Cosmic bowling. Your auntie and I keep wondering how long that will last, the joint parties. Personally, I think it will continue forever, just because then between the two of you, can get away with inviting EVERYONE you know.

We have had a lot of talks about friends lately. About how easy it is for you. How easy it is for Kenzie as well. How it may not be so easy for others. How you and Mackenzie need to be friendly with everyone, even if you aren’t their friends. I know by the time you read this, it won’t matter anymore. By then you will be an adult and you will have found your own way through life. I also know I can only make sure you know right from wrong. At some point I have to trust that you know the difference.

Your favorite show right now is, Jonas. The Jonas Brothers. How I wish they’d go away. Really, when you are over loving these little boys, I am going to forever remind you of how lame they were. Sorry sweetie, but they are horrible. They can’t sing or act. Yet, they seem to be EVERYWHERE. I keep my mouth shut now….okay mostly I keep my mouth shut. Dude, they wear skinny jeans. Boys who can’t sing or act, wearing skinny jeans. Enough said.

You love Playing Majong, probably as much as I love playing Bejeweled. Let’s just call it what it is, an obsession. We are obsessed. We sit on the couch sometimes, side by side, me on my laptop and you on your daddies laptop, playing computer games. Tonight you will open the gift that you have said you wanted all year, an iPod Touch. I wnet back and forth on it, but I know you are ready for it. You are responsible enough and frankly, you’ve earned it this year.

Mario Kart, after an entire year, is still your favorite Wii game. You beg me every day to let you read the Twilight books. I’m not going to give in yet. Maybe when you are nine. Just because you can read and understand it, doesn’t mean you are old enough.

Baby girl, your birth made me the person I am today. You made me a mother. You challenge me every day to be a better one. I could not be more proud of you if I tried. I know eight will be an amazing year for you. Know that whatever happens in life for the next year, you will always have me.

Enjoy being eight, okay? Enjoy each day. One day, I promise you, I’ll let you turn sixteen.

Happy birthday Morgan,

Love mama

**Mackenzie is Morgan’s best friend…since oh say in utero. I call her my niece often, because her parents and I have been friends since we were four years old. Kenzie’s birthday is December 27th.

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Six years tomorrow

Written on October 29, 2009
29 Opinions - Talk to me

He was eight years old when they finally made it to Ellis Island. It had taken them nearly a year to get there. Their journey started in Poland. I believe Krakow, but I’m not 100% sure.**

His grandfather had been talking about leaving for months, years even. Trying to convince the family to come with him. He had money, he could pay everyone’s way. Old crazy man is what they said to him. The German’s won’t come here. If they do, we’ll pay them. Not sure why they believed that would work, but they did.***

The boy was not yet seven when his father was killed. Killed is the nice word. Murdered is more accurate. They were Jews. In Poland. In the late 30’s. He was shot coming out of the temple. He’d been talking to the Rabbi about performing a Bris on his newborn son.

The next week, was when they left. They left at night. Hidden by a friend. A non-Jewish friend. The boy, his mother, his new baby brother and his grandfather, were the only one’s who left. The grandfather had convinced his daughter to leave it all behind. To leave with him, to save her sons.

The friend drove all night. He took them to another friend. After a few more days, they were taken, again at night, to another friend. Sometimes they stayed places weeks, sometimes days. It just depended on where the Germans were in the moment.

When they arrived in France, the grandfather “lost” his passport. A man his age wasn’t allowed passage to America, so he pretended to be his dead son-in-law. It took them a few months to get new papers and then a few more months to get on a ship to America. This was before Internet, hell even before television. The grandfather had tons of money, all on his person (he was a loom builder and a weaver. He wove the money into the lining of all of their clothes) but he wasn’t able to speed up the process.

Upon arriving on Ellis Island, the grandfather once again “lost” his papers. He claimed entry in his own name. Being that he’d already made the trip and was perfectly healthy, he was allowed to stay. They weren’t happy with his age, but they let it go. (whatever. The man lived to be 105 years old.) He changed their last name, left their religion behind and became Americans.

Eight years old. The little boy was eight years old. All innocence he’d previously had was completely gone by then. He’d watched his father get shot and subsequently buried. He’d helped his grandfather and his mother with his baby brother. His baby brother is a whole other story. He was well…now we’d say disabled. Brain damaged is the reality. The doctor who had delivered him and used too much force with the forceps is the story. No idea how valid it is. He was emotionally stuck at three years old, until the day he died at 27.

The little boy was a bit of a schmoozer. He’d learned some tricks on the boat. He’d found his way to get by in life. The bullshit. He was great at it. He could sell you your own mother if he wanted too. Even if he’d never met her. He was hardened by life. By the circumstances beyond his control. Nothing could change that. Not the little house in New Jersey that his mother and grandfather bought. Not the man who came into their lives a year later. The man was a great man, but the little boy was already hardened. He’d seen too much.

He wasn’t a bad person. He didn’t grow up to be a bad man. Just one who was constantly looking for the easy way. The easy money.

He worked so many different jobs and had so many different careers that I couldn’t even begin to name them all. I know he was in the Air Force during Korea. I know he once was a radio jockey for a few years. The rest is hazy. In his early twenties, he met a woman who was a bit older and eventually married her, once he got her pregnant. He left her after seven years of marriage and right after their forth child was born. He was at times a bit abusive. He was a womanizer. He was an occasional drunk. He was the guy who would call his kids, tell them he was coming and leave them sitting on the front porch.

Then I was born. See, that man…the little boy, the man he became; he was my grandfather. My father was his first born and I was his first born grandchild.

With me, he became a new man. A man who made promises and kept them. An involved participant in someone else’s life. A baby-sitter, a playmate, a soft spoken disciplinarian. He was patient and kind and willing to do anything for me. He was open with his love. For me. For my brothers. He took the term grandfather very seriously.

My grandfather had a hard life. When he came to this country he was a boy. But a boy who’d lost all innocence. In me and my brothers (and later, my cousins) I believe he found it again. His innocence. He took us to parks and zoos, he bought us toys and art supplies, he made special desserts just for us, he took us to double feature movies and restaurants where you could color on the table cloth. He always colored and played with us.

Others would tell you another story. His children for one. My grandmother, before she died. They weren’t all able to forgive. I understand that. You make your bed and you have to sleep in it. It is the way of the world. But sometimes a man, a scarred damaged man, gets a chance in a small little girl. And he took it. He took his chance. Every day, I’ll remember him. I know the things other people say about him. But I also know the man he was when he died. A good man. A honorable man. A man who regretted and tried to make amens for his prior life.

One thing he always said to me is this: you have to own up to your mistakes. Apologize and then move on. It’s the only way to live. He was right.

I could tell you only the good things about him. I considered it. In my life, he was a good man. I could tell you a million stories that involve him. I could share all the wonderful things and gloss over the rest. I don’t want to though. Each of us have things in our life we regret, things that make us who we are. I know I do.

If I just told you the wonderful things, I’d leave out the important things that made my grandfather who he was. A piece of him would be missing. That wouldn’t really be honoring him. He always looked at all sides of things and in sharing about him, he’d want me to tell you the whole thing.

Tomorrow my grandfather will have been gone six years. It is partially why I don’t like Halloween anymore. It was forever ruined by one phone call. The initial phone call had come earlier, nine days to be precise. But the day before Halloween, six years ago, I lost one of the most important men in my life.

Grandpa Elliot, I will never forget you. I miss you every day. Love you. -Melissa.


**Getting any details out of any of them was not easy. They didn’t like to talk about it. Any of it.

***My grandpa, his brother, mom and grandfather, were the only family that survived. There wasn’t a ton of family, but the remaining few died in the camps.

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Not so little anymore

Written on October 15, 2009
9 Opinions - Talk to me

I watch her. More often than not, I find myself studying her. Two months shy of eight years old and I very rarely get glimpses of that baby she once was. I look but I just don’t see it anymore. I have to look at the baby girl on my walls, for even a vague resemblance.

Instead when I look at her, I see glimpses of the woman she will become. The little girl of now, is the woman of tomorrow. That’s a tall order as a parent: to raise good adults.

Tall, lanky, a natural athlete. No misspoken words, no more baby belly. She is helpful. God, she is so helpful. She is independent, opinionated, loud; loving, caring and kind. All of this and so much more describes her.

She walks with me these days. Just in the last few months, I’ve noticed this. She walks with me. Not ahead, not lagging behind, not stopping every two seconds to look at something, touch something. No, she walks with me.  We talk about things. Big things. Life things. We talk about the latest Hannah Montana show and who was mean to who on the playground; but we talk about adult things now as well. Sometimes I love it, sometimes I want to go back. It’s hard to explain huge things, bad things to such a small child. Then I remember that she is a child, but she’s become a woman. I won’t lie to her. I just can’t. Plus, she no longer wants me too. She wants truths. She wants to learn. She actively seeks knowledge, constantly.

I don’t have to tell her to look both ways anymore. In a parking lot, she automatically grabs her sisters hand. She keeps her brother from danger…which he easily finds, everywhere we go. She is an amazing big sister, even though she lacks patience with them sometimes.

She walks with confidence. Tall and proud.

She knows what she likes, what she wants and isn’t afraid to tell me. Constantly. However, she tells me, she doesn’t scream it at me anymore. We have gone nearly six weeks without a tantrum over nothing.

She is her own person, now more than ever. She has her own ideas, she knows what she wants to be when she grows.

She is becoming a woman. Slowly but surely. I see it when I look at her.

My baby girl, my first baby love. My big girl. My daughter.

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Nearly a year, but it hurts just the same

Written on September 9, 2009
27 Opinions - Talk to me

Only in the past few weeks have I started looking at his picture in the hallway. It’s right outside of the hallway/girls bathroom and hard to miss. His big smile looking back at me, hasn’t been something I’ve been willing to look at until just recently. Before then, when it happened to catch my eye, he never failed to make me cry. There was just something about that picture. It was too real. Maybe I was still grieving too much. I don’t really know. Now I look at it and grin. Not because it hurts any less today, just because I  miss looking at him.

He had a great smile, my Grandpa did. A smile that could light up a room. He didn’t smile often, he was a serious man. However, when he did, his smile was infectious. The picture on my family wall, is of him and my Grandma, taken when I was about 14 years old. I’m not sure why I have that one up. No, I take that back, I do know why. It’s that smile. He didn’t always smile like that in pictures, in fact he normally didn’t. Grandma once told me that the man taking their photo that day, had told Grandpa a joke.

We talked about him a lot this past weekend, my mom and I. As much as I miss him, she misses him a million times more. He was her father after all. This coming Saturday it will be a year. On Saturday, the man who I adored, the man who I saw as the strongest man in my life, will have been dead an entire year.

My first real memories of my childhood are from a trip when I was three years old. I remember my brothers being born and visiting them in the hospital and I was only two then. But my real solid memories are of this trip. My dad and Grandpa helped move my Aunt and Cousins to Texas from California. My dad drove the moving truck, my Aunt her car and my grandpa drove his car with my Grandma, my mom, my brothers and I. I sat on the hump. Can you imagine letting your three year old sit in the front seat, much less the hump in between the drivers and passengers seats? Me neither. It did have a seat belt though.

I sat on the hump and sang with Grandpa for 1300 miles. Truly, I did. Until the day he stopped talking, which was about a year before he died, he told me this story ever time I saw him. From then on, he and I had a great relationship.

I miss him. I miss him more than I can even tell you. He was a major player in my life. He had more influence than my dad ever did, on my life. It hurts to think about him most days. It still doesn’t seem real. He’s been gone, a few weeks longer that Harrison has been alive. He never met Harrison. As sick as he was, as bad off as he was in that last year, I’m not even sure it registered that there was going to be a Harrison. That makes me sad. Grandpa loved all the babies. He loved kids. Heck, he had six of them. He adored his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren. He’d of adored Harrison. In a lot of ways, Harrison is a lot like him. Very serious little dude, he is.

I nearly named Harrison after him. I would have if he’d been born a few months later. At the time, I just couldn’t see saying Grandpa’s name every single day. Plus, H’s name really fits him.

A year has passed. Now he’s gone. But he’s not forgotten. He and my Grandma’s death, left a hole in this family. Our grief is still huge. My girls still tell me on a regular basis, I’m sad because I miss my great grandma and great grandpa. Me too, my babies, me too.

To you Grandpa, loved and never forgotten. Love, me

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Just a few birthdays out of a lifetime

Written on September 4, 2009
19 Opinions - Talk to me

September 7th, 1994-

First day of my freshman year, third period English is when I first met him. Tall, gangly, wild hair, handsome. When I saw him, I leaned over to my best friend and said, I’ve got dibs on that one. He walked in late so our teacher made him tell the class about himself. Name’s Logan, just moved here from Denver, goal in life is to learn to surf. Oh and today’s my birthday.

She sat him right next to me. He’d not even fully sat down when I handed him a note. I’m Issa, wanna ditch with my friends and I after lunch? I’ll teach you to surf.  A big smile and a nod was his response.

I taught him to surf that day. I also gave him shit for the entire afternoon when he told me he’d lied. His birthday was actually the 5th. It was just something to say, she put me on the spot was his response to me.

There was something about him. It was like I’d known him forever, even though we’d just met. He was the nicest, sweetest, funniest guy I’d ever met. We dated from that day forward.

September 5th, 1998 –

At the beach in Santa Monica, sitting on the swings at midnight. We’d spent the day together. We’d had dinner with his family, cake with mine and coffee later on with friends. What else would make this the perfect birthday, I asked him? Not sure anything could top it, he said. Hmm, what if I asked you to marry me, I asked?

Are you serious?

Yes, I am. I am dead serious. Logan, will you marry me?

You know it’s supposed to be the guy who asks the girl to marry him right?  I had it all planned.

We’ll that’s fine, you can do that. But answer me first. Will you marry me?

Of course I will. I’ve wanted to marry you from the day we met.

*The rest of this story has been edited, because this is a family blog. Please feel free to think what you’d like. Actually don’t, that’s gross. Forget I said anything. About a month later he proposed to me.

September 5th, 2001 -

Laying in bed, after having a huge birthday dinner with family and friends. He’d spent all day go-carting with our brothers, while I purchased every single baby pink outfit in the world. What do you think she’ll look like, he said as he patted my belly? We’d just found out Morgan would be a girl.

I don’t know. I hope she’s tall and athletic like you, I said. I hope she has the shape of my eyes, but your nose and mouth for sure. And your mother’s ability to cook, I added.

With your sense of humor and kindness, he said. We both laughed at the thought of her coming out a mini chef.

I just want her to be happy, he says to me. I don’t care what she does in life, just promise me we’ll raise her to be happy. We will love, we will. I swear to you. We’ll make sure she has a great life. That’s my birthday promise to you.

Can I ask you for another birthday gift, he asks me, right before I fall asleep. Of course honey, what? I’d like her middle name to be Elise, after my cousin. We can name her Maya* like you want, it’s a beautiful name. But instead of Olivia, as her middle name, I’d like to honor my cousin. Can we do that?

Yes babe. We can. Maya Elise it is.

*Yes, this is Morgan’s real name. Shrug. Elise was Logan’s cousin who died from cancer when she was seven years old. He was nine when she died.

September 5th, 2008 –

On this day, every year, for as long as we’ve been together, I send my mother in law a gift. I call her and thank her for giving me the greatest gift in the world, for giving me her son. Because she raised one of the best men I know and she deserves to be told what an amazing job she did.

September 2nd, 2009 -

Late Wednesday night, in bed.

Me: I’m sorry my plans for your birthday didn’t work out so well.

Him: Meh, it’s okay. You know?

Me: Babe, it’s your 30th freaking birthday, it’s supposed to be HUGE. I’ve kind of failed on the HUGE part.

Him: I’d rather be here with our moms and our babies and celebrate that way. If I’d had the choice, I’d of said that.

Me: Hmm, I guess I didn’t really ask you what you wanted did I?

Him: No, not really. It’s okay. I wouldn’t have minded two days away with you. This is just better. It’s like the universe intervened for me.

Me: I’m sorry.

Him: Don’t be my love. Don’t be. One birthday request?

Me: Of course, anything you want. Within reason, I add…because I saw that evil glint in his eye. LOL.

Him: On my birthday, I’d like us to have a sleepover with the kids. One night only, but all my babies in one room.

Me: Okay. That I can do. And hey, it’s even free. It’ll be crowded you know?

Him: Crowded is good sometimes.

Me: Okay then. Birthday wish granted. Do I still have to make you a cake and buy you a gift?

Him: Only if you want one next year for your birthday.

Me: Point taken. Guess I’ll be buying making a cake tomorrow.

*I got so lucky. I don’t know what I did to deserve this man, but I’m glad I have him. Whose 30th birthday wish is to let the kids sleep in their room? He doesn’t want a party, he didn’t really want to go away for the weekend, he just wants a weekend with his family. There’s nothing better than that.

Happy 30th birthday tomorrow babe. I promise to wait at least a month week day to mention that you are now older than me.

Love, me

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The scent of a memory

Written on June 16, 2009
13 Opinions - Talk to me

Even over the smell of the food, I smelled him as he walked in the door. You don’t think you will ever forget the smell of a man once they are gone forever, but sadly one day you do. Until it walks into a restaurant and gets in line behind you. I breathed deeply twice. I bit my lip to stop the tears, as I turned around to see who it was that smelled like that.

He was probably about 70 years old. Little bit shrunken, like older people get. Nice looking guy, glasses, old guy cap on his head. But that smell, he smelled just like my grandpa. I just smiled at him and turned back around. The baby cooed at him once, possibly waved, as it is his favorite thing to do. I am pretty sure he said something to Harrison, but I couldn’t tell you what.

I wish I could have asked him what cologne he used. Wouldn’t have mattered though, as I know it was a combination of things. His Cologne, Zest soap, Listerine, Certs breath mints. Grandpa; he smelled like grandpa.

************

Where are we going this week, he’d ask me. Where do you think silly, I’d say. Let me guess? How about Paulie’s, you know Paul would love to see you? No grandpa, no Mexican food, Hamburger Hamlet. Oh how could I have not known that, he’d say, sighing.

Every other Tuesday night for two years, that was my dinner choice. Every time, we had the same conversation. Their hamburgers and fries were to die for, their shakes couldn’t be beat; but best yet, they let you draw on the table. At five years old, there is nothing better than drawing on the table while on a date with your grandpa.

You know, Melissa Annie, he’d say; one day you are going to want to go to a real restaurant and then I will be the one wanting to draw on the table and we always have to come here.

Grandpa, even when I am eighty-ninety-two years old, I will always want to come here.

************

I was six, maybe seven the first time I got fresh with him. You better watch it girl, or I will snatch you bald headed. He growled a bit as he said it. I apologized instantly and he was fine after that.

What that exactly meant, I never knew. But he said it too all of the grandchildren when they got smart mouthed or said or did something rude. What I did know was I didn’t want to know what it meant.

I heard someone else say that their grandfather used to say that. Not sure where I was, nor who said it, but it didn’t bother me. I bet their grandfather didn’t growl when he said it.

*************

At ten, he taught me how to shift the gears in his car when he was driving. As I got better at it, he’d say every time I got into his car, you shifting or am I? Well that was a silly question to ask a ten year old. I always shifted. He’d tell me when and I got to where I could do it without even looking.

At twelve, he took me into a school parking lot on a Sunday and let me have my first attempt at driving. You tell your dad about this and I’ll snatch you bald headed, he’d say.

Grandpa if I told dad about this, he’d make you stop. I want to drive, this is between you and me.

Not many twelve year old children can say they know how to drive a stick shift.

************

In the summer, when I was fourteen, I ran away from home. I tried to go to Mexico with some friends. We had parental issues, or so we thought in the moment. Everything would be better in Mexico. At the border, they made us call someone to come and get us and I called grandpa. He drove the two and a half hours to get us. Let us have it too, how dumb we were, how badly it could have ended, how disappointed he was in me. That last one hurt the most.

He told us all that you can’t run away from small problems and you shouldn’t run away from the big ones. Told us our secret was safe with him this time, but next time he’d not be so nice. I never forgot his disappointment that day.

**********

At sixteen, I made an off handed comment about the AC not working great in my bedroom. I came home the next day from school and he was installing a ceiling fan in my bedroom. My mom just shook her head at me and said, I wish I had someone who would drop everything for me like this.

*********

From him, I get my love of good red wine, fresh seafood and great salsa; the joy of storytelling, reading a good book, the love of movies and the ability to cut a person down with my words. That last one, he could have kept.

**********

He told me stories about flying in the Korean war. He told me about growing up with his brother Paul, how Paul never matured past the age of three, even though he lived to be twenty-seven. He told me about the mistakes he made in parenting when my dad and his siblings were kids. He told me about working as a radio guy back in the early sixties. Told me about his granddad, who took them (his daughter and grandchildren: my grandpa and his baby brother Paul who were six and one at the time) and escaped Poland right before it was invaded by the Germans. He told me how much I reminded him of his mom; my great-grandma Annie.

************

The best compliment I ever got in my life was from him. I can’t share it, it’s too sentimental, but I never forgot it and I never will.

***********

He was a grouchy old guy, but he always had time for me. When email was new, he and I both had an email account. I used to get emails that had “Yippee, Squeee, Happy” as the subject. That was how much he loved email. It was a joyous event for him each time.

***********

He’s a grouchy, pain in the ass curmudgeon and I’m never speaking to him again, I said to my dad on the phone. I was 18 years old and had just had the worst lunch date in my life with Grandpa. I’d told him that Logan and I were getting married and he spent the next half hour telling me how I shouldn’t do that, I’d forever regret it; before I finally got up and left the restaurant.

I called him an old fool as I left and told him he was not welcome at my wedding. And Daddy, I mean it, he’s not welcome. I was seething as I said this to my dad.

Oh you don’t mean that, honey. You are angry, you have every right to be angry, but you have to see his side of view.

No, I can’t. He’s wrong about me and he’s wrong about Logan. I am not mom, Logan is not you. We won’t wake up and regret this one day. If I’m wrong and we do, then whatever.

I know that and you know that, but grandpa doesn’t. Time will change things. Don’t worry about it Melissa, he’ll come around.

I am not rushing into this. I love this man, he is my soul mate.

I know. I support you in this and one day your grandfather will too. Just remember you are his first grandchild and the only granddaughter. (At the time this was true, although two years later, my Aunt and Uncle gave him is sixth grandchild, the second granddaughter.) To him, you are like his child. One that he did right by. One that he didn’t make the mistakes with that he made with us.

Dad, you are my father, not him.

Dad just sighed and tried to calm me down. He swore it’d go away, that in a few days I’d forget it.

I never did though. The things he said and the things I said changed our relationship from that day forward. He didn’t know me like I thought he did, if he’d say those things to me. I always loved him, but our relationship was never the same. I never really let him know me again.

************

Then came the call. July 2003. Grandpa’s been in an accident, my brother said. In those words my heart stopped for an instant. He was coming home from Aunt K’s and he got hit by a semi-truck. He’s in the middle of nowhere Oregon. Dad is on his way up there now.

The semi didn’t kill him. He got so lucky that day. A few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and some bruising from the seat belt. But the scans they did of his abdomen looked off. They thought they saw something in his liver. The doc told him to go home and have his primary care physician do an MRI.

He put it off, going in. He never liked doctors. Didn’t like enclosed spaces, since he’d been hidden in a trunk off and on for days as a child, when they escaped from Poland. Eventually my dad made him go see the doc. Mid-August maybe.

Stage four. Colon cancer. By the time they find colon cancer, it has generally spread to all of your organs. It was in his liver, his pancreas, his lungs. Nothing they could do except send him home with a script for pain meds and the number for hospice. Three to six months if you are lucky.

**********

October 20th was the last time I talked to him. He was doing okay, better than expected. He still got up and left the house every day. Still went to my uncles shop and gave everyone hell. Still went to his favorite restaurants and flirted with the waitresses.

We all had plans for Sunday brunch. We’d started doing it again every week, just like when I was a small kid, since his diagnosis.

Out of the blue, my phone rings. For a second I didn’t realize it was him. The cancer had gotten into his stomach, so he had stomach acid that was damaging his vocal cords and his esophagus. His voice was changed, a strangers voice.

I am so proud of you, of the woman you’ve become, he said. I want you to always know that. To remember this forever, that I’ve always loved you. That I’ve been proud of you since the second you were born. I need you to know that I’m sorry for doubting your and Logan’s love.

I know grandpa, I told him. it’s okay. You don’t have to do this now. I will see you in three days. We can talk then.

I was busy with Morgan in that moment. Trying to get her to stop climbing the walls, to take a nap, something. The day to day stuff with a 22 moth old child.

No Melissa he said, you never know how much time is left. I may be unable to talk by Sunday. I want you to know this now, just in case. I need you to know that I love you and I love Logan and I adore that spitfire of a girl you gave me as a great-grandchild.

Okay then. Well I love you too grandpa I said. I’ve been proud to be your granddaughter my entire life. And Grandpa, I’m sorry too. I was a young fool. Not about marrying Logan, but in thinking that your opinion didn’t matter. In not listening and explaining and instead going all defensive.

I love you baby girl, was the last thing he said.

*******

The next day my uncle found him on the floor of his apartment, unconscious. He never again gained consciousness. The last nine days of his life were spent on a vent in the ICU at UCLA Medical Center. He passed away October 30, 2003.

********

I remember all of this and a million other things while eating my dinner. Who knew one smell could bring it all back? The sadness has passed in some ways. Five and a half years does that too you. You are supposed to lose your grandparents, it is the natural progression of life. Doesn’t make it easy when it happens, but you know it is going to happen. He was my first. I’ve lost the other three since then. The sadness of the two I lost last year is too fresh. When I think of them, I only remember the end.

But with him, I remember the laughs. The dates. The movie marathons. The trip to Vegas in his RV, with my dad and brothers when I was five. Week trips to the Grand Canyon. Days spent looking at boats in the Marina, looking at animals at the zoo, exploring Grifith Park. The letters I have from my weeks spent at summer camp; letters full of jokes and stories about home. The man who taught me to tie a cherry string with my tongue at four years old. The curmudgeon who I respected and loved more than most people.

One smell and it all comes back. The smell of a memory.

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Guest Post: When two worlds colide

Written on May 15, 2009
1 Opinion - Talk to me

Today’s Guest is from Stacey at AnyMommy. Stacey, for those of you who have never been to her site, is capable of making me (and most anybody) laugh and cry in the same sentence. (Read below, or read any of her posts and you will understand.) Also, she wins the best Tweet award for the month: “Most embar Seattle moment: Waiter: Ma’am, 4 u, a coke? sprite? Me: No, I’d like huge top shelf margarita. Blank look. Me: Is the bar closed?“ For those of you who don’t know her, she is like 32 million weeks pregnant.

She’s a beautiful writer and friend. I tell her that she’s a great writer, because she is, all the time. My only compliant about her is she posts really early in the morning and I NEVER wake up early enough to get any points. Because yes, her posts have points too. I keep thinking if I tell her enough times what a great writer she is, she might float me a free couple of points. But so far, it ain’t workin.

But this post below is awesome and I’m blessed to be able to share it with you all. I have a post coming next week. With real words and all that jazz. I have more guests post coming too, but I am feeling the urge to write. Please be patient with me, while I find myself again. I hope you guys enjoy these guest posts, because I am loving them.

Different Worlds

She walks toward me quickly, with a huge smile, and hugs me tightly, “Oh, I knew you’d be here. I’ve been reading your blog. I think it’s wonderful that you’re walking for Maddie.”

I am thrown off balance, stiff and awkward in my disorientation. The field is swept by a constant cold wind, but bright with sunshine. The purple balloons tied to my triple stroller dance crazily. My kids happily eat free doughnuts provided by the March of Dimes, their cheeks sticky and chapped red by the wind. She turns to them, her warmth and enthusiasm prick at my heart. “And here are Ess and Gee and Cue,” she rattles off their names without hesitation. “They are gorgeous!”

“Thank you. It’s great to see you here.” I don’t know her name and my brain is in a tail-spin panic. I should know it, we aren’t friends exactly, but our kids went to the same co-op school in different years. We’ve chatted a lot at book club meetings. Also, she’s lovely and I really enjoy talking to her. I should know her name in such a way that asking is not an option. It’s more than just being poor at names, or being a social ditz, it’s that some where deep down I feel I should know her the way she knows me, that I’ve failed some how.

I know she has a daughter a little older than my three-year-olds. I know her little girl was born prematurely and struggled to live for weeks. I can’t remember her daughter’s name either. She told the whole story at a quiet restaurant table with just three or four of us left after a book club meeting. That was maybe six months ago and I haven’t seen her since.

She has seen me, though, here in my other world, where the mirror sometimes only lets people look in at me, as though I sit under a barren light at an interrogation table, gazing at my own reflection while those on the outside watch my movements for clues.

“I loved your last post, the one where you think about Cue at the pool while you’re rocking him. It touched my heart.”

“Thank you so much,” I answer. “I love writing that blog, it means a lot to me that people read it.” I want to say so much more, I want my three restless children and the windy field to melt away for a few minutes. I want to take her hands and lead her to a little table and buy her a coffee. I want to ask her, tell me, please tell me, what do you think about when you rock your little girl to sleep? But, the walk is about to start and the rest of my team is waving at me from the other side of the open space and all three of my kids are asking me something and someone is asking her a question because she wears a volunteer t-shirt. So, I give her another quick hug and surreptitiously wipe the strange, inappropriate tears from my eyes.

“See you later.”

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Not the mother I thought I’d be….

Written on March 10, 2009
8 Opinions - Talk to me

Eight years ago, Logan and I decided to stop using birth control and see what happened. We had grand ideas about being parents. We’d been married two years, we were both on our second to last year of college, we owned a condo and we were ready. Ready to be parents. Ready to change our lives forever and make a family. Really if you think about it, or well, if we think about it, it was an excuse to have lots of unprotected sex. Lots.

More than that though, I always knew I wanted to be a mother. From a very young age, I knew I wanted kids. We argued about how many we’d have, but we both knew we wanted kids.

I’m not exactly sure we thought it would happen so soon; the getting pregnant part. They say a year at the very least when you’ve been on the pill for a while. “They” are morons, whoever they are. I was pregnant within a month.

We planned and organized as we got ready for our baby. Our baby girl who we were so thrilled to be pregnant with. We painted our second bedroom, bought little onesies and sockies, baby proofed our entire condo and went through a name book, name by name. We dreamed big dreams. For her and for us. For our family, the little family we were creating. Huge dreams about what she’d be like. I don’t think this is so out there, I bet there are tons of first time mothers who dream about what their children will be like. We hope for the best and pray for the amazing. We envision perfect lives for them. Lives without fear, hatred, uncertainty or loss. Lives that are full of sunshine and flowers.

I had an idea about what kind of a mom I’d be. That, I’d be spontaneous, fun and never impatient. I didn’t believe being a parent would be all sunshine and roses, but I had a bit of a skewed idea of motherhood. I wouldn’t be big on bedtimes, schedules could be made up as we went along and I’d never force my kid to eat when they didn’t want too. If the food of choice was hot dogs, I’d go with it. The things Logan and I would do with said child, danced in my head. We wanted to travel the world, take our baby with us. Travel the US, see everything and anything. Just get in the car and go. I had great plans for the way my child would be, as well.

Then I was handed this teeny baby. And she was teeny, having been born a month early. She was also nothing like what we’d imagined. Not at all. Don’t get me wrong, she was ours and she was perfect in our eyes. Our beautiful baby girl. God we adored her from the second she came into the world.

She was also great birth control, for tons of other people. Morgan is the kid that makes people go, maybe we’ll start with a fish. She was a screamer, from pretty much birth on. She had colic so bad that we literally had to massage her stomach after every time she ate. She wouldn’t breast feed, so I gave up within a week. It was okay, because I was open to whatever, but also because I needed to be able to give her to other people to feed. She had to be held at all times, non-stop. But only a certain way, which changed often. She wanted her way, all the time, from a very young age. She was a good sleeper at night, I will give her that. She started sleeping though the night at six weeks. She wasn’t a good napper. She was not an easy baby, nor an easy toddler. In fact, nothing about her was or is easy.

My grandiose plans went right out the window. Our ideas of traveling the world with her as a baby, were dashed by the second day of her life. Morgan, even now at, seven and a half years old, is a child that needs a strict schedule. Bedtimes are a must, meals need to be at the same times, changes from the schedule must be explained over and over, for it to go off okay. Even then, it doesn’t always work out for her. She has trouble with transitions, change, deviations from the way she knows it to be. Or wants it to be. We talk about what will happen in her day tomorrow at dinner every night. Over the past few years it has shrunk to: this is the basic plan type of a thing. It used to include great detail: you will wake up, you will eat breakfast, you will get dressed; a full timeline of her day. It wasn’t for us, it was for her. We did it because she needed it.

This is just how my daughter is. It’s a part of her, a part of her that frustrates me to no end some days. I also love it about her. She has changed my views of the world. She has shaped the mother I became. If Bailey had been born first, or even Harrison; I’d be a different mother than I am today. I might be that mother that I thought I’d become. The care free mom.

I am not that mother. I am not the mother I thought I’d be. I am a better mother than I would have been. I know this to be true. I have the rest of my life to travel the world, to see the sites, to live moment to moment. I may not be the mother that I wanted to be. However, I am the mother they need me to be. A mother with rules, who enforces bedtimes, a mother who makes them read half an hour out loud a night, one who makes them eat vegetables and brush their teeth. I don’t make up elaborate art projects, nor do I cook from scratch. But I’ve found people who will do that stuff with them. I am not as patient as I thought I’d be….but I’m more patient than my mom was with us, so that’s an improvement.

I can be spontaneous; the fun mom, who can let rules go for a night. I can run around and play at the park with them, pretending to be a fairy princess; build complex mazes out of pillows on my floor, to avoid the hot lava monster. I can let them go wild in a candy store every now and again. But the next day, I become mom again. Their mom. Morgan, Bailey and Harrison’s mom.

I may not be the mom I thought I’d be, but I’d not give up the mom I am to them in a heart beat. It’s the thing I’m most proud of in this world.

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Inheritance

Written on January 15, 2009
7 Opinions - Talk to me

Inheritance is an interesting word. To some it means the money or items you receive when someone passes away. I guess this might even be the technical definition of the word. For me it’s more than that. Inheritance to me, is the things I have in me, because of them, the ones who are gone. The people who touched my life, helped shape me into the woman I am today. The people I loved, who are no longer here.

In the last five years, I have lost all four of my grandparents. I know I’m blessed to have known them at all, to have had them in my life. I have been told this many times and I know it to be true. It doesn’t help the sadness in losing someone, but it is a correct statement.

My grandpa (dad’s dad) has been gone the longest. He passed away the day before Halloween, five years ago. From him I inherited the ability to distinguish a liar from a truth teller. It’s all in the eyes he’d tell me. People look away when they are lying. They look you in the eye when they are telling the truth and it’s not hurtful. When they are telling you the truth and it’s hurtful to you, they look at your nose or their own hands. This is why he was such a good poker player, he could figure out someones tell, in seconds. Always look people in the eyes, he told me; then they know you care about what they are saying.

He used to take me on dates. Just me and him. Sometimes we went to the movies, sometimes out to dinner, occasionally to places like the zoo; but just us. He did it with my brothers (and later, my cousins) as well, but always as a one on one thing. This is something I do with my kids. Not all the time, but often enough. It always made me feel special and I can tell my girls feel that way too.

From him, I also am the biggest food and wine snob. I know what I like and how I like it and I’m not afraid to tell anyone. Good food is something I am willing to spend my money on.

My grandma (dad’s mom) died almost three years ago. My daughter Bailey (Bailey is not her real name) is named after her. As a Jew, she held the belief that one should not be named after someone who is living. I did it anyway. I told her, this is my daughter and I’m naming her after you. She’s as stubborn as you are and I am not religious and you really aren’t either. Besides, you’re dying anyway, so it’s not going to take away from your longevity. Might seem callous to some people, but she laughed and laughed.

Bucking the system, that was her and it’s what I got from her as well. She was born in Russia and her family came to America when she was a baby. One of the reasons they came here, was my grandma had a bad heart; she wasn’t supposed to live to see her first birthday. In Russia in the 1930’s, as a Jew, they were not going to get the best medical care for her. They had the money, but you know: Jew. So, they came to America in hopes of saving their daughter. When they got here, the doctors told her parents, she won’t live to see two. Then it was five, then ten, then twenty. They don’t know why she was still alive. Her heart was defected, it should have stopped by then. It wasn’t fixable. At twenty, when she was still alive, the UCLA medical center studied her. She is actually in some of their training videos that students still see to this day. When she married my grandpa, they told her not to ever get pregnant, she’d not live to see the baby born. She had four kids, in a seven year time span.

She was a fighter. She did what everyone told her not to do. She was a nurse and later worked for the draft board in LA; in a time where few women worked. She divorced my grandpa when she found out he wasn’t faithful, when my dad was ten years old; in a time when divorce was not at all common. She made it to seventy-five years old. Like, I said, she was a fighter.

My other grandparents, my moms parents, have both passed in the last four months. They died thirteen weeks, to the day, apart. I have just begun to realize how big of a loss this is. I tried to call her the other day. Harrison rolled over, like all the way over (and over) for the first time and I wanted to call and tell her. I let it ring once, before I remembered that she wasn’t there to pick up the line. I can’t make myself take the number out of my phone yet. Soon, but not yet.

Grandpa was a hard worker, he had the attitude that when you do something, you should do it right the first time, so you don’t have to re-do things. You should always be willing to work. Laziness was not a word that was in his vocabulary. That and he always was doing something. Always working on some new project, something to challenge himself. He was career Air Force and then when he retired, he went into his own business. Created a second business for himself. This is where my feeling of un-settledness comes from. Because I have those same qualities in me. And they are great qualities, I just need to figure out what to do with them right now.

He was a helpful, kind person: he’d help anyone in need. I get this from him too. Sometimes, well often, I wish I could do more. In time, I will.

I also inherited his insomnia. This is one quality, I wish I could return to sender.

For my grandma, no one was more important than her family. She took care of everyone. No one who walked in her door was unwelcome, nor went unfed.

She taught us all at a very young age to play games. Card games, board games, puzzles. Might have been her way to not have to entertain us, but there isn’t a grandchild of hers, who doesn’t enjoy playing games.

My grandma was a funny woman. She was raised as an only child and went on and had six children. She was a prude; which I’m not. But it did always make me laugh. She was the woman who handed my mother (the fifth girl, by the way) the pamphlet from a tampon box at eleven years old. Read this, she said and tell me when you need them. That was it, the big talk. Once when my brother got up to pee at dinner, she chastised him for not going to a bathroom farther away from the table. He was seven years old. But bodily functions don’t exist. At least that was her theory.

She was a little stuck in her ways; which I try so hard not too be, but I know in some ways, I completely am. She was good with money, which I did get from her. Luckily too, because some of her children really didn’t. She was very organized with her way of thinking, although you couldn’t always tell it by the way she was. I am this way too. You couldn’t tell it by my house, or my life, but I am an organized person. I know what appointments are next week, or next month. I know my kids shot schedule and the days off of school for the remainder of the year. I remember all of my many cousins birthdays and middle names. I always know exactly what I need to get at the grocery store. But I don’t have any of this written down. It’s all in my head.

I had all four of them around me in different ways, for my entire life. They helped me become a decent person. The gifts they left me, are ones I will cherish always. Hopefully I can pass them onto my children. Gifts that are more important than money in the bank or stuff in my house. My real inheritance.

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