Look. I don't care if you're OSHA HAZWOPER-certified or the most meticulous person on Earth...your house is not child-proof. Children have a way of manufacturing their own danger.
My toddler turned our floor into a slip-n-slide today. And there were no caution signs.
If I weren't me and this wasn't my life, I wouldn't believe all of the mundanely ridiculous things that happen to me either.
But it did. And they do.
I'm an attentive Mom. I really am.
And my toddler knows it.
So she lurks in waiting... until I'm momentarily distracted by another task. Sometimes she even sends me on the aforementioned tasks. I'm onto her tactics now, though:
Norah: *signs ASL sign for "eat" and then "please"*
Me: Of course, sweetheart! Would you like Mommy to make you some oatmeal?"
Norah: *smiles and repeats "oatmeal" while deviously planning to get into my diaperbag*
Me: *watches my child walk back over to the couch and pretend to be interested in her coloring book... mischief managed... and goes back to preparing oatmeal*
Yeah... it takes like a minute and a half--maybe two. The water was already heated from my morning cup of tea. But in that minute-and-a-half, she snuck over to the church diaper bag, expertly unzipped it, retrieved my hand lotion, opened the lid, and emptied the bottle's contents all over herself, the floor, the couch, and her sister's toes. In less than two minutes. HOW?!
She realized her mistake and walked over to the stove to grab the towel while I was mixing the oats in her bowl. I smiled at her, assuming that she spilled a little of the water she was drinking and was taking the initiative to wipe up the droplets--reassured that she was behaving herself and added another 20 seconds to my mental timer for checking in. I didn't notice that she was half-covered in Eucerin dermatologist-approved 24-hour-hydration cream... until I heard the all-too-dreaded "wOooOoooo! uh oh!" coming from around the corner.
In trying to wipe up her mess, she inadvertently coated the livingroom walkway in about 4 different kinds of oil from the lotion and was sliding around on her butt across the floor like she was at a waterpark while her baby sister giggled up a storm in her jumper with freshly-lotionized toes wriggling--losing her balance with each jump attempt.
So... that's where we're at so far today.
I'm a good Mom though... I promise.
...and the oatmeal was blueberry in case you were wondering. I had to reheat it by the time the "Slickening of 2023" was handled though. And I'm currently in the market for a combination zipper-padlock for the diaperbag... and a new bottle of purse-sized hand lotion. Bonus points if it has a childproof cap.
My takeaway?
Jesus isn't only for Sundays. I need Him every waking moment of every single day... and even the sleeping ones, too.
"I am the true grapevine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and He prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more. You have already been pruned and purified by the message I have given you. Remain in Me, and I will remain in you. For a branch cannot produce fruit if it is severed from the vine, and you cannot be fruitful unless you remain in Me."
--John 15:1-4 (NLT)
Dear love,
Do you know why I get so caught up looking at you sometimes?
It's because I don't always see you the way the mirror does. Sometimes I glance over and see the version of you that first showed me what it meant to love someone.
I see 10-year-old you and it makes me feel like 9-year-old me... back before life got complicated and relationships hurt.
I look over and see a memory... a silly little candle wish on a homemade banana cake that I'd marry you someday. The first birthday wish I ever remember making. It was you.
And there you are.
I can't help but to still be amazed by it all... you're my wish come true.
Dear Mom,
I didn't make Easter baskets this year. I didn't want to. The girls already have so much--so many lovely things... we've truly all been blessed in so many ways.
Aria even said to tell the Easter Bunny that he can skip over our house so that he has extra to share with other kids who might need the surprises more. You'd have been proud. I was.
She added that she didn't think Norah Jane would mind either since she's "too little to eat candy and doesn't have any teeth yet".
Speaking of the baby, I know there have been a lot of changes since she was born--and although the older two understand the need to share their time with me, I still want to make sure they know that their importance doesn't diminish... their place in my life isn't any less prominent because there's one more to share my triply-expanded heart with.
I remember the little notes you'd leave for Jenn, Tris, and I with "token gifts" as you'd call them... and how you always seemed to know how to make a single item mean so much more than any room filled with presents ever could. A musical snow globe... a stuffed giraffe plush that could fit into the palm of my hand... a hand-written letter, or a simple candy cane ornament.
It was your heart... the love woven into every aspect of you being our Mom.
I thought about it, but I didn't make any Easter baskets this year. Instead, I purchased 2 empty books with delicately decorated pages and penned a letter in each--hopefully the first of many.
The girls are growing up so fast and I never want to miss out on our time together... you've taught me how precious it truly is... and how fleeting.
I still cherish our letters to each other, me and you... except now, tears accompany the smiles as I read.I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
It's almost been 4 months since you left and although I haven't been writing as much, I haven't been thinking about you any less... and your absence hasn't been hurting any less either. I think it actually aches more the closer it gets to the baby being here... because you're not. And you were so excited about her making her debut on/around your birthday, too. I hope she does... wouldn't that be something?
You already know what she looks like, don't you? What color her hair will be... her eyes... the curve of her smile... will she be happy? I worry that all of the sadness I've felt with her growing inside of me... all of the missing you... somehow makes her sad too... like she'll be less content because of my mourning or that my grief passes through to her just like the nutrients from the foods that I eat. I don't want to give her anything but joy.
I know it sounds silly, but you always understood my thoughts when no one else could make any sense of them. I miss that. So many of our family members and friends have been reaching out with kindness, love, and encouragement the past months... they're so wonderful and I feel like I must be so ungrateful sometimes because despite everyone's best efforts, there's still that heartbreaking ache in my life without you. It's always there. I just want my Mom back.
I still try to call you. I've still even gone to message you one time when Dad was signed into your account to change your cover photo for you. It didn't even occur to me that it wasn't you... as if my mind hadn't processed the full extent of loss yet, or that my heart's acknowledgment reverted back to temporary subconscious denial somehow.
I know it's comforting for him to see your memories. He needs that. But it still hasn't sunk in... the past tense of it all. The realization that all of the memories that I have of you are all of the ones I will ever have. I wish we made more. I went to change my ringtone today... to a calmer one... and as I was going down the list, the tracks automatically start playing a preview of the clip... Jordan Smith's version of "Chandelier" from The Voice started chiming out and I absolutely broke down remembering the time we listened to that song on repeat for probably about three days or so, driving Dad a little bit crazy... but it was our thing.
I’m gonna swing from the chandelier From the chandelier I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist Like it doesn’t exist I’m gonna fly like a bird through the night Feel my tears as they dry I’m gonna swing from the chandelier From the chandelier But I’m holding on for dear life Won’t look down, won’t open my eyes Keep my glass full until morning light ‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight Help me, I’m holding on for dear life Won’t look down, won’t open my eyes Keep my glass full until morning light ‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight, on for tonight
We joked about how silly it would look to have people swinging from chandeliers and added it to our bucket lists... to swing from chandeliers while singing "Chandelier"... so I turned it into a ringtone for you, but it was eventually replaced by "The Goldbergs" theme song... our show.
The girls walked into the room as I sat there next to the pile of clean laundry I meant to fold, sobbing over the song playing... they knew I was crying because I miss you... they miss you too... so much.
"It's okay, Mom... we know you miss her. We miss Nonnie too."
I know that you felt bad about the past year... not feeling well enough to do as much as you wanted to with them, or take them to as many places as you'd have liked... I know you worried about the way they'd remember their time with you... but you shouldn't have.
Those girls adore you and remember so many wonderful thoughts, jokes, snuggles, and lessons you shared with them. We really were so blessed to have you in our lives... I just ache for the impossibility of more time with you on this side of forever.
I miss you, Mom. We all do.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
I broke down last night when Trissy surprised me with a few special gifts you had been working on together specifically for the night before our wedding... including another Montgomery Moose... like the one you sent with me to school in first grade because you couldn't be there and I was nervous... like the very same one we tucked into your casket with you less than two months ago so you wouldn't be scared about being alone.
For as wonderful as today is... and for as happy as I am... it also still hurts.
I'll tell you more about everything later... 4 o'clock waits for no one.
I bet you'll be beautiful, too. I can't wait.
I miss you, Mom.
We all do. So much.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
Dad called me today. He said that he’d been on the phone with one of your specialists. Dr. Lisa. She stressed that there was nothing any of us could’ve done differently. He wanted to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault that you’re gone. As he’s tried to do many times. My sisters have, too. I hear the words and I understand what they mean. “It wasn’t your fault. There wasn’t a thing you could’ve done or been differently to prevent her death.” I tell myself too. But it’s not that easy, is it? Denial can function in reverse. I hear the words and sentiments… but I’m stuck inside my own head. It gets dark in there sometimes. “She’s gone from us because you failed.”
I know it’s not what you want to hear. I know it’s not what you want for me. I know that you would be taking my hand right now—tears in your own eyes—pleading for me not to ever think this way for even a moment. But I also know that you understand.
I can’t pass a mirror without noticing. The scars haven’t faded completely from the catheter that was installed with hopes of collecting pieces of me that would save you. Even when the wounds vanish, I’ll still know. Whenever my fingertips glide across my neckline to adjust a clasp or chain, they graze the two shallow divots near my right collar bone where hope once lived. Evidence of effort, marks of love, traces of failure. Don’t cry, Mom…
The last time I reached to hug you before your eyes closed was the night the hospital kicked visitors out because the pandemic reached the city, and everyone was in a panic. The transplant was only halfway through—my part wasn’t even over yet.
The last video I have of us together captured a melancholy, but hopeful “goodbye” … forcing back tears trying to be strong for you while you forced back tears to be strong for us. I didn’t know it was the last time our voices would occupy the same space. “Don’t worry—I’ll see you again soon, Mom. I love you.”
The last time you saw me, I was wearing a mask, but not even a mask could hide the pain in my eyes… not from you. Months later and just a few rooms from the left, I saw you for the last time—but you couldn’t see me. You wouldn’t open your eyes again. “It wasn’t meant to be.” We didn’t know.
I should have ripped the mask from my face back in March and held you tighter. I should have smiled another memory for you, so the room didn’t feel as lonely, cold, and empty without us there. I should have refused to leave your side… I should have said or done more of something—anything… but I didn’t. Instead, I left. Just like they told us to do. I didn’t know any better… none of us did. I know people will say none of it would have made a difference. They want to be reassuring. “You did all that you could.” And they’re probably right. I hear the words—trust me, I hear them. And I know they should compute. But grief doesn’t always make sense. In fact, it rarely ever does. But I’m new at this.
Everyone says it’s a process, but it feels more like a Möbius strip… I can’t pass a mirror without being reminded… without it all replaying in my mind… the strip tightening into a noose. “Focus on the good memories… she will always be in your heart.” I see the words. I identify the sentiment. They want to reassure, and I want to believe. I know you’re in a better place now, Mom, but I’ve found myself in a worse one without you… it gets dark in there sometimes.
I forever miss you.
Love always,
“Pookie”
A photo still of the last video I have of my Mom and me together.
This. Song. Will Always. Always. Make me cry. I remember my Mom talking about it and verbally imagining if that’s what it’s like… and now she knows. And I miss her.
Dear Mom,
I drank tea from your mug today. Well… my mug. But I still consider it yours.
I woke up a bit early this morning—with just enough time to try to clear my head before it was time to wake the girls and get them ready for the day. I tried to make tea the way you always did. “Nonnie Tea” (coined lovingly as such by Aria around 2017… before that, it was always just “hot tea the way Mom always makes it”)…but I didn’t have any Lipton tea bags, so I tried to improvise with a generic sort. It didn’t taste the same… not even from your mug… well, my mug… but I still consider it yours.
You know the one. The blatantly fraternal replacement for my favorite mug. The teddy bear one that you gave me. It was matte stone-fired and rustic looking with three thick bands of subtle earthy gradient… smooth to the touch—as if worn and weathered, not from glaze. I would have thought that it was made by an ancient tribe had it not been for the circular applique blended into the surface with a plush teddy bear drawn on top. Quaint. Classic. Sturdy. I loved it.
You let me take to school when I was in 6th grade… the first year Jenn was out of the house and I felt like I didn’t have my biggest sister in my life much anymore. In English class, we were allowed to keep a mug in the cabinet for when we would have hot chocolate days.
That was also the year that I wore your old hand-knit (or at least it appeared as such) gaudy sweater to school every day. I didn’t care about my reputation. That year brought a heavy weight of transition—switching churches, my oldest sister leaving home, you and Dad working all of those extra hours with me ‘stuck’ at home with Tris—who wasn’t exactly the nicest to me at the time (overstatement). [Thankfully, we usually get along much better now.] It was just a lot. When you’re a kid, you don’t really understand the “why” behind the decisions your parents make. I didn’t understand then. I do now, though.
Fast-forward a bunch of years… I heard you in the kitchen washing dishes… presumably dancing around to Van Morrison’s “Whenever God Shines His Light” … or another one of your favorites… when mid-chorus, there was a shatter. And perhaps an uttered expletive… or a sound-alike expletive—it was anyone’s guess, but only you know. To my horror, my favorite mug… the teddy bear one… the one you said looked like “Pookie Bear” from Garfield (and therefore, reminded you of me) … there it lie in a scattered heap of barely-recognizable shards. The mug that got me through the complexities of 6th grade and all subsequent heartbreak up until that point. Unrepairable.
It’s strange how moments that seemed vibrantly pinnacle back then tend to pale over the years… as others that might have seemed trivial step into the foreground. Ages ago, it was about the mug. Now, it’s about the look of remorse on your face after something so special to me was broken. I still remember it.
You offered one of your favorite cups to me as a replacement. That was always your way though… giving the best of yourself to try to heal the brokenness in the lives of those you love.
So, I drank tea from your mug today… and although it didn’t taste the same, I still felt your warmth and the way you always sacrificed the best of yourself to mend the brokenness in us.
I miss you terribly.
Love always,
“Pookie”
My Mom’s favorite song to dance and sing to while she was washing the dishes. This is the song from the memory.
I learned a very important lesson from my 5-year-old daughter this morning as we waited for the bus.
She handed me a string bracelet that she had made. It had one purple strand, one pink strand, and was held together by a single folded-up piece of clear tape (it even had a few dust-fuzzies stuck on the adhesive). The beads she had chosen for the special gift spelled out: “B” “O” “X”—except the “B” was going the wrong way…endearing kindergarten style.
She smiled proudly when she handed it to me, and said, “Mommy, I made this for you!”
“Oooh! It says, ‘box’… is this because of all of the unpacking we’ve been doing lately?”
She paused, looked at me as though I was missing the point completely, and corrected me with, “No. That’s not what it means. It’s ‘be hugs and kisses’ because you always try to make people feel better.”
[Thankfully, she hasn't witnessed the times when my words have been hurtful to others too... that's not to say they don't exist.]
My eyes filled with tears as the bus drove away. It astounds me how children say fleetingly simple things with such an echoingly profound figurative truth… and they don’t even realize it.
“Be hugs and kisses…”
It’s easy to go through the day gathering grudges to hold onto indefinitely.
With our words alone, we are often quick to be insult, to be scrutiny, to be reprimand, or to be bitterness.
Society judges relentlessly already.
We’re all fighting battles of varying degrees. Sometimes, even though it’s easier to get upset or to lash out—we could change someone else’s day just by offering kindness instead… a smile… some understanding… or patience… by letting the things we say ‘be hugs and kisses’ instead of cuts and bruises (myself included).
Kaleidoscopic Grace 