"Getting older's not been on my plans"

   I'm not that parent. The one who gloats too much, and shows off all the pictures. The parent who relays every detail of their kid to let others know how incredible I think they are. Perhaps it is a flaw. Who knows. And I also pride myself in not being a helicopter parent. I teach and let go. I discipline and let go.    And I thought I would be ready for this: first day of Pre-K. I have been very positive and uplifting and have wanted my son to be extra ready to go to school. We have talked about it for months! I am ready... Or so I thought.  This morning, as white boy was leaving to take them to daycare, he said to Owen, "You can't take Tiger to school tomorrow or he will have to stay in your backpack, so do you want to take him to daycare today?" I thought little of it, but as Owen threw him down on the ground and turned to head out the door, my throat hitched. "Are you sure you don't want to take him today?" He said no. It was a sense of finality.  ...

   By nature, humans will, at one point in their life, ask the question, "For what purpose? Why am I here? What am I meant to do?" Okay, maybe they will ask themselves more than 1 question...but at least around the same theme. "Who am I, and why am I here?" It is built in our very DNA. Growing up, I didn't ask this often. I had a loving family who went with the current. Who I was and why I was here was bound up in my place in my family of 4. I was comfy. I was loved. I was secure. But alas...the question presented itself.   I first asked myself this question walking down the streets of Rome. I was alone, I was 21, and I was lost. I had just finished AmeriCorps and felt like I wanted something, but wasn't sure what that was. I had found my faith, at last, and realized that perhaps I wanted to be a bigger part of the Church collective. I felt meaning to my nothingness. I went home with direction. I graduated from college, finally, and started grad school to be...

  I sat across from my dad at lunch, yesterday, and asked him, "Do you know what tomorrow is?" He said, "Yeah. 1 year." And his eyes grew damp. "I'll never forget walking into that room..." He didn't continue. I didn't ask him to. "I'll never forget the police officer banging on my door at 1130 at night..." I didn't continue. He didn't ask me to.  "This journal was given to me several years ago by my children. I know they wanted me to write down my thoughts to get through the rough times I was going through at the time. I did not start this at that time. Why am I starting it now? Well, I only thought I had been through hell back then, but now I realize I didn't have any idea what heartache was until Aug 15, 2010 -"   This is the beginning of one of my mother's journals. A journal she started a little over a month after Andy died. And she wrote it--to him.  "Dear Mother - Today is the day before Mothe...

     I always wanted my kids to have the "cool" stuffed animal. I wanted them to be the odd one out. So, when Owen was born I bought him a stuffed fried egg, a stuffed ravioli, a cool dragon, and a neat narwhal. Needless to say, he didn't really take to any of those. And he didn't really have a favorite stuffed animal until he turned 1. To this day, we still don't know where he got this thing. It's a nerdy little tiger, with a ribbon bow under its chin, that goes everywhere. In fact, if he leaves him at home on "accident" we say tiger stayed home to take a nap because he was tired.     I don't think Owen realized that his father's favorite animal was the tiger; I think this stuffed animal just showed up around his birthday, and he started asking for it. It seems to me that most kids have some "comfy" habit...sucking thumbs, sucking a pacifier, twirling hair, carrying around a blanket or a stuffy. Owen is no different. Except, it isn...

   It was always an easy gift to get...yellow roses, some wonderful chocolates, a charcuterie assortment, a pedicure for the both us, and time spent together. The time was her favorite. But, this year, no yellow roses, no chocolates, no charcuterie assortment, no pedicure, and most felt...no time spent together.    I can't say I have been looking forward to this day. But, it came anyway. In 37 years, I didn't think I would be motherless so soon in life. It's been 8 months, 37 weeks, 262 days, and 6,294 hours since she left me motherless. Just 2 weeks after Claire was born...she left.    My husband, children, wonderful friends, and father have gone out of their way to make this day a bit more bright. Thinking of me a little more today. Not because I am a mother, but because I no longer have mine.   But lately, when I think about her, I get angry. Not necessarily angry at her-she would have fought tooth and nail to stay, but angry nonetheless. Why? Maybe...

  When I was pregnant with Owen, mom took me, just days before his birth, to get a pedicure. She and I always enjoyed getting our nails and feet done, and this was her treat to me. This time, with Claire, was no different. Mom took me on August 6th to get my "pre-birth" pedicure. I chose a bright pink because bright colours make your skin look more tan.   Mom always said her polish lasted a long time because she didn't wear many closed-toe shoes. Mine didn't. I wear steel-toed boots and closed-toe shoes everyday.    This time is different. I have just a sliver of polish left. The last vintage of the time she and I sat in the massage chairs next to each other talking about how things were going to change with a new baby.    We laughed at the thought of Owen and his new baby sister. We smiled at the thought of me groggily waking each morning getting nothing but a few moments of sleep. We basked in the moments of just being there with each other.   I told...