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.
One month, plus two days if you want to get all technical. Either way, my tiny boy is one month old. One month and he’s completely changed our lives. Funny how a month can change a family forever.
My tiny boy, my little love, bub, my snorky-snort boy. Harrison has about a zillion names right now. I think this is what happens in the beginning of a life, until you feel like you know that person enough that a nickname seems to stick. Doesn’t really matter, I guess.
I’m having trouble writing this post. I’ve tried to do it several ways and nothing seems to feel right. I don’t feel like I’m doing it enough justice, that I’m sharing with you the wonderfulness that is my son. I don’t feel like I’m eloquent enough, to explain the impact he has made on our lives. The joy he has brought to my entire family. I guess in the end, I need to not worry about it. I have the rest of my life to try and explain it. I’ll just try and tell you how he’s doing and we’ll see where it goes. Deal?
Harrison is 10 pounds and 2 ounces as of last Thursday. He’s kind of a chunker. But not fat (no really, I have a cousin whose son is three weeks older and he’s over 15 pounds. My aunt says you could just roll that baby down the hall), just kinda rolly. He’s starting to get, what we call, chubba wubbas, which is basically fat, eatable thighs and legs. He’s got this amazing little tummy that gets so big when he eats, because he eats so fast that it fills up with air. It doesn’t seem to bother him in the least, he just farts away and then he’s all good. The boy is a pooper and farter to the extreme. Some of you may have read about Her Bad Mother’s Poopocalypse Now post last week. Some of you may have not. Those with weak stomachs maybe shouldn’t. But we had our own version the other day in our friends Escalade. The Escalade that I’m going to have to pay to have professionally cleaned. Because of the poop. The Poopscapde is what we’re calling it. I might have cried, it was that bad (I mean there was poop on almost every inch of the baby, the car seat and um under and around the car seat), but then I remembered HBM’s Poopocalypse Now and I was thinking how lucky I was to have been four minutes from home, not in some random bathroom with no supplies in the middle of nowhere. Lets just stop here. Suffice to say, my son is a pooper.
Harrison can hold his head up by himself, he loves to lay on his stomach and look around at the world. He scored a 9 out of 10 on the baby awareness chart, whatever the hell that means. He’s got these huge intense eyes that follow us everywhere. He is a thinker, you can tell by the way he scrunches his eyebrows and forehead up all the time. I keep telling him, he’s going to have old man wrinkles by the time he’s two if he doesn’t knock it off, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s not big with the smiles, but on Saturday, he laughed. I swear to god, it was the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard in my life. There are few things that sound better to a mother than her babies first laugh and I remember it with all three of mine.
He still is a pretty good sleeper, although we’ve had a few more issues this past week. I think he’s growing, Logan just thinks he likes us or something. Either way, we’re trying to keep him up in the evenings, way longer than he really wants to be up, to try and get him sleeping better at night. It’s worked the past few nights, although he is a dam crabby grouch by 8pm or so, when we finally put him down to sleep. Then he generally wakes up around 11pm to eat and goes back to sleep until around 6:30am. This schedule works out great for us, so we’re going to keep up with it. He’s really up and alert from about 6:30am till maybe 9am and then he sleeps and eats a lot of the day, then about 4:30pm or so, he’s up until I finally take pitty on him and put him down. It’s hard to have him crabby that last hour, but it’s better than him thinking 4am is play time.
He loves to eat. That’s all we really need to say about that. Because honestly the boy loves to eat. He has started playing with the bottle when he’s done and gets a bit ticked off when I finally take it away.
He’s mostly a pleasant baby. He can’t stand to have his diaper changed, but at the same time, he can’t stand to be dirty. It’s a vicious circle, but what can you do. Laugh at him is what I do. I figure he might as well get used to being laughed at; he does have two big sisters you know. Besides this, he rarely cries. But he is super loud when he wants to be.
Morgan absolutely adores him. She wants to hold him all the time. She’s constantly kissing him and talking to him. The only thing she won’t even consider is changing a diaper; possibly because she’s seen her dad get pissed in the face twice. Bailey is just warming up to him. She’s a bit jealous of this boy taking over her long standing baby status. But she’s doing alright with him. She’s very gentle and is just starting to want to hold him all the time too.
Logan and Harrison together warms my heart. I told you all once that I adore making and having babies with the man. It’s so true, but it also comes from watching him with them. Watching him love our son; the best feeling in the world.
Becoming a family of five has been an adjustment. Still is in some ways. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Harrison has completed our little family in a way that I didn’t know was missing. He is an absolute joy. He’s definitely a keeper.
PS. All of these pictures and the ones I posted yesterday we’re taken on Saturday. On my baby’s one month birthday.
Some of my first memories as a child are of him. They were always around in some ways, but when I was three years old, he cemented our relationship for life. He and my dad were moving my aunt and cousins from California back to Texas. We were a caravan of sorts. My dad in the moving van, my aunt in her car with her kids and dogs and my mom, brothers and I riding with my grandparents. I sat in the front seat on the arm rest (who needs stinking seat belts?) in between my grandparents. We sang the entire way. He found me quite an easy going kid, at least this is what my grandmother told me the other day. I was content to read my books, color and sing with him…for two days straight. The memory that is ingrained in my head is him teaching me a new song, just as we hit the Texas border; I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream. Perfect timing mind you, as Texas was the Dairy Queen capital of the world. When my grandmother made him past the first one, his eyes twinkled as he turned to me and said, lets keep singing until your grandma changes her mind. She did, at the very next town.
I wrote his obituary, it was my contribution to my family last week. I’ll share it here with you. I’ve X’d out certain details and I hope you’ll understand.
Charles left Texas A&M University to join the Army Air Corp in 1942. He served as a pilot in New Guinea during WWII. He served for 28 years in the Air Force before retiring as a Lt. Col. and starting a second career in real estate and general contracting in XXXX, Texas. He served as president of the XXXXX Board of Realtors. As a respected businessman, he was known for his integrity and servant heart.
Charles was a devoted Christian who loved God, his family, his church, and his community. He taught Sunday school and served on committees at almost every duty station and church of which he was a member, spanning a course of almost 50 years.
His civic contributions included building a nursery addition at XXXX Baptist Church, chairman of the remodeling committee at XXXX Baptist Church, fundraising for the Girl Scouts, and remodeling the Maternity Cottage, a home for unwed mothers. Perhaps his greatest contribution to the community was his visionary leadership in facilitating community involvement and a capital fundraising drive for a new women’s shelter for First Step, where he also served as a board member. He donated general contracting services to build this wonderful, upgraded facility, which provides a place of safety and comfort for women and children of this community. As a result of his contributions to First Step Shelter, he was awarded the Texas Man of the Year award.
Charles is survived by his wife, Glena; his five daughters (Am taking out all of the names here, as it was starting to look a bit x rated) and his son; 14 grandchildren; and 13 great-grandchildren; his sisters, Bernice and Charlene; as well as numerous nieces, nephews, and cousins.
He was proceeded in death by his mother and father as well as his six siblings. Charles was a good man, who will be sorely missed.
There will be a formal military salute to honor Charles’ contribution as a military veteran at the graveside.”
Here’s the thing though, this tells you nothing about the man my grandfather truly was. Basic details sure, but not the real man that I knew and adored. Granted this is a long Obit; the final editing took place by committee, headed by the head honcho, my grandma. She wanted it to say so much more, she wanted the world to know what an amazing man she’d married and loved. I’m with her, I want the world to know what an amazing man he was. To tell you all every small detail about him that made me adore him; made my brothers and cousins and I look up to him. That made 295 people show up to his service. But there’s no way to do it, to give him the justice he deserves. I couldn’t do it in his obituary, nor can I do it here. But I will tell you a few things about him, small things, so you can have a taste of what he meant to us. So you can understand how I had to hide in bed for a week.
When we’d visit, he’d take me and my brothers to work with him. He’d pay us to work for him, from like five years old on. Sometimes it was shredding files or filing things to help his secretary. Once he had us move a hole huge stack of bricks forty feet. Brick by brick. Other times we’d wash his and grandma’s cars and he’d pay us in watermelon. He taught us to be hard workers, to do our work right the first time and to appreciate the money we were making. He also taught us to do things for others, because it was the right thing to do, not because we’d get anything back for it.
When I was ten years old, he found out my aunt was being beaten by her husband. He forced her to leave him and turned him into the cops. Then he designed and built a shelter for battered women and children. It’s a state of the art facility on land that he donated. He had the materials donated and found people to donate their time to build it. He furnished it himself and set up a fund to pay the taxes for twenty years.
They had a house on a lake that we spent weeks every summer at. It would be them and a whole group of grandchilden. We swam (in life vests) all day, boated and learned how to play tons of different types of card games. There was this huge hill from the house down to the lake and he used to ride him lawn mower for hours, making the hill grassy for us to roll down. We always worried that he’d roll that lawn mower down the hill and asked him to bring the regular mower up to the house. He always said, no, I’m good on this one…till the day he rolled it into the lake. Thankfully he wasn’t too hurt. But when the doctor asked him, he said, I should have listened to my grandchildren, they told me and I didn’t believe them.
My grandpa was the strong silent type. All he had to do was look at you and nod his head a bit and you stopped doing whatever you weren’t supposed to be doing. He had a presence, anyone who knew him would tell you this. People would always say, oh you’re Chuck’s grandkid? Oh he’s a great man, he helped me out this one time. Because he had, he always helped anyone in need. But give him a baby to hold or a toddler to sing too and his face just lit up. He loved little kids and they always loved him too.
When I flunked seventh grade on purpose (to see if I could, a story for another day), my mom made me call and explain it to him. I was so sure of what I’d done until I had to explain it to him, then it just seemed immature and idiotic. He told me he was disappointed, that if I’d wanted to make a point about our education system, there were better ways to do it; that he expected me to right this wrong. I did and I’ve never done something quite so stupid, just to see if I could. I never disappointed the man again.
A week and a half ago, hospice gave my grandmother a week to live. The nurse asked her if there was anything they could do for her. She said, not thinking it was possible, I’d like to see my husband one more time. The nurse went down to the nursing facility and brought him to see her. They laid, side by side, in hospital beds and held hands. She said good by to him, that she’d see him on the other side. He said, don’t worry my love, I’ll be holding the door open for you. More words than he’d said since Thanksgiving of last year. He died the next night. They had a love affair like one you see in the movies. Second marriage for both, but they’d been married for almost fifty-seven years.
I love a Brad Paisley song, Waiting on a Woman. Well that was them, he waited on her for years. On Friday, just before he passed my mom held the phone up to his ear; I told him, Grandpa, I’m sure there is a park bench outside the gates of Heaven, you can wait for Grandma there.
Some people flit about the world, never making a difference, only thinking about themselves. My grandfather was not that man. He spent his entire life trying to make this world a better place. A giving, caring, selfless man; a man I will always miss, has left this earth. There is a big hole in my heart.
29 years ago toady a baby was born. A big (seriously 9.7 pounds) chubby adorable bald baby with one piece of black hair on the top of his head. I have been told he looked like a mini Homer Simpson, just cuter. When I met this boy he was a gangly but still dam cute fourteen year old brat. He walked into my freshmen English class and I fell instantly in love. Lucky for me, the teacher sat him right next to me. We proceeded to flirt for an entire 55 minutes, then I promptly asked him if he wanted to ditch with me and my friends and go to the beach. Yes, of course, he said. The rest is history. By the end of the week, this boy and I were dating. Later, we’d marry and then we’d live happily ever after.
hahahha…I always wanted to write that last line. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.
I’ve loved this man, for as far back as I can remember. I don’t remember when it hit me that I loved him, but it wasn’t too long after we met. I’ve loved him through good times and bad, through heartaches and joy. I’ve never fallen out of love with him, but every once in a while, I fall more in love with him. When I watch him cuddle on the couch with our girls, or pick one of them up and carry them into someplace just so he can hold them, even though they can walk; I love him more. Last night when my brother called in a panic because he was $300 short on his rent, and my husband said, wire him the money, but wire him a cushion too, I fell more in love with him. When he talks to our unborn son and gets all teary eyed when he says he can’t wait to hold him, I fall more in love. I look at him and I can picture him walking our girls down the isle one day, teaching our son to drive, sitting with me on the front porch when we’re old, talking about the good ole days. It’s something I have been thinking about lately, how much I adore my husband. Something about having a baby, a son, has made me realize how grateful I am. I hope our son is just like him, I pray our son is just like him. Nothing would make me happier.
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.
We’ve had a hard year and a half, but it’s starting to get back to normal. There are great things happening right now and also some sad things, but I know we’ll be okay. He took care of me when I needed him….he took care of us all and I can never thank him enough for the way he did it. All I can do is pray I never fall apart like that again. But I know he’d hold the pieces together anyway. I know I’d do the same for him.
Yesterday or the day before Logan said something about us saving the baby stuff this time, saving it for the next baby. The next baby, I said? You’re crazy man, you keep that thing away from me, is what I said to him. But really, there will probably be one more. Because honestly, I adore making and having babies with the man.
Anyhow….to my love, my heart, the father of my children: Happy birthday. Dude, you’re older than me for the next 8 months. I win….haha.
The way my husband holds Morgan’s hands in his, walking across the parking lot, with each finger intertwined.
The way Bailey climbed in between my mom and I on the couch tonight, took one of each of our hands and made it where all three of us were holding hands.
My mom touching my belly, telling her grandson bedtime stories; kissing him and telling him goodnight.
Morgan climbing up into Bailey’s bed at night, saying, I think I’ll just sleep with sissy, so she’s not scared.
My girls, giggling and whispering for twenty minutes, before they finally fall asleep.
My friends calling my mom a cheat at Pictonary, telling her that no one can be that good.
My husband, telling me that if this baby is a girl, he wouldn’t really mind. And if it’s not, we should have one more.
The smell of home made food; the love of family; and the laughter of friends, I hope I always remember it all.
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