It is 7 am and my children are still nestled, all snug in their bed (yes, one bed- apparently, as with puppies, they sleep better when they are laying all over each other), and I am still waiting for anyone else to wake up so we can get this wrapping paper melee going! I have my coffee in hand and my slippers on my feet; I am ready for action. However, since they are not, I have had the chance to think a little about, reflect a little more, and smile a whole lot.
I've been up for nearly an hour- more excited than the kids, I guess- and have spent some time thinking about today, its meaning, this season, and just how fortunate I am to live the life I do with the people I have in my world. Christmas, the holiday season- it is about giving and loving and caring, about helping and smiling and working towards the better good for all. I swear I live the most amazing life, because in my world, with that meaning in mind, the holiday season is year round.
I am amazed at the support from family and friends when I share my kids' accomplishments. I am blown away by the number of people who take the time to recognize us, my children, for being a special part of their lives. We live in a world where we have so many people to fall back on that we will never hit the ground. My children never feel alone or left out, my husband and I never feel helpless or without- we are truly, truly living a golden life surrounded by tremendous people. In our worlds, every day is a gift just waiting to be unwrapped.
Wait, what is that? Could it be the children stirring? I think so! They are up and so my waxing poetic has come to an end. Before I leave for the day, let me thank you- all of you- and Santa, too, for giving me the best present ever - today.
25 December 2012
16 December 2012
The Truth.
This is the first time I have omitted the truth from my children's lives. I just cannot bring myself to do, though I know in my heart I should. I have spoken with them about so many different tragedies- some close, some far, some within their lifetimes, some so long before- but this one, this hurt, well, this one is too close for me to find a way to sit down and talk to them about it.
They watched me cry in Oklahoma City as I walked through the memorial and remembered that day. They cried when I explained the meaning behind the chairs in the Field of Empty Chairs- especially when I asked them who they thought the smaller chairs were meant to represent. They're smart. They knew. And they hurt for those children and those families.
They watched me cry in NYC as we walked around downtown and I stared at the hole in the skyline. We looked at pictures of the towers and talked about what happened. I explained it, showed them pictures of the attack, and told them of the people who lost all hope that day as they lost their lives. As we stood on the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building, they looked down and cried, sobbing at the thought that for some people, jumping from that height was a far better option than facing what was behind them.
We have talked about the space shuttle Challenger and Christa McAulliffe and how that was one of the scariest days of my life, watching that happen live on television, not knowing what it really meant until I saw my teachers break down in tears in front of all of us.
We have talked about Hurricanes Sandy, Ike, Katrina, and Andrew and about the disaster and destruction they brought to the areas they impacted. We have talked about how, for some, recovery was never an option and the only hope for moving on is leaving everything behind. For them the thought of nothing, nothing being left, was despair.
When Uilleam was born we talked about loss of children and of new infants. They hugged me and each other and cried in fear, in hope, and in love for him and for all the little babies born too early and with fate in their way.
When a young boy in our city died of a horrible, yet preventable, illness, we spoke of his loss, his family, their passion for helping to protect others now, and how he will always be remembered as such a young boy. They tear at the thought of his loss and the loss his parents and friends felt and still feel, day after day.
When the tornado hit the nursing home across from their school and destroyed so many homes and buildings last spring, we talked of despair and loss and of fear. Of not knowing. Of not being able to stop it from happening.
There is very little I have kept from them...nothing, really, if you count what I withhold until they ask. Except this time. This one. I cannot do it. I cannot allow my children to feel that they are not safe. I cannot give them that kernel of doubt and darkness that could make them scared to go through the halls alone. I cannot find the courage to speak with them about how one person's horrible decisions have caused so many families' hearts to be broken.
Every day I watch them run in and out of their schools, happy and free and safe in the knowledge that the people there love them, protect them, support them, and would never hurt them. I cannot allow myself to be the one who throws that sliver of suspicion into their conscience, one that would prevent them from continuing to embrace each and every moment as NOW, as LIFE, as LOVE, as FOREVER.
I cannot do this because this time, unlike I every other time, I have no answer for them.
I can explain tornadoes and hurricanes and floods, their infrequencies, statistical improbabilities, and the safeguards we have in place to protect us.
I can explain faulty science and technology, I can explain grown people taking out their rage on other grown people, I can explain being angry at a thing and not a person and how that anger causes you to attack that thing.
I cannot, however, explain how anyone could look at the face of a child of 6 or 7 or 10 and end that smile. I cannot explain how it could have been any of my children and there would have been nothing I could do to stop it from happening. I cannot explain how I could not have kept them safe.
I have spent the weekend yelling at my kids, playing with my kids, talking with my kids, being with my kids. They make me mad, crazy, frustrated, sad, happy beyond my wildest dreams... and I am so damn fortunate to have them here with me at this moment, at this time. I cannot break this spell and tell them that their world is not as safe as they think it is. Maybe one day I can and will, but for today I will let them rest tight in the thoughts that they will always be okay, out of harm's way, and wrapped in my arms.
They watched me cry in Oklahoma City as I walked through the memorial and remembered that day. They cried when I explained the meaning behind the chairs in the Field of Empty Chairs- especially when I asked them who they thought the smaller chairs were meant to represent. They're smart. They knew. And they hurt for those children and those families.
They watched me cry in NYC as we walked around downtown and I stared at the hole in the skyline. We looked at pictures of the towers and talked about what happened. I explained it, showed them pictures of the attack, and told them of the people who lost all hope that day as they lost their lives. As we stood on the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building, they looked down and cried, sobbing at the thought that for some people, jumping from that height was a far better option than facing what was behind them.
We have talked about the space shuttle Challenger and Christa McAulliffe and how that was one of the scariest days of my life, watching that happen live on television, not knowing what it really meant until I saw my teachers break down in tears in front of all of us.
We have talked about Hurricanes Sandy, Ike, Katrina, and Andrew and about the disaster and destruction they brought to the areas they impacted. We have talked about how, for some, recovery was never an option and the only hope for moving on is leaving everything behind. For them the thought of nothing, nothing being left, was despair.
When Uilleam was born we talked about loss of children and of new infants. They hugged me and each other and cried in fear, in hope, and in love for him and for all the little babies born too early and with fate in their way.
When a young boy in our city died of a horrible, yet preventable, illness, we spoke of his loss, his family, their passion for helping to protect others now, and how he will always be remembered as such a young boy. They tear at the thought of his loss and the loss his parents and friends felt and still feel, day after day.
When the tornado hit the nursing home across from their school and destroyed so many homes and buildings last spring, we talked of despair and loss and of fear. Of not knowing. Of not being able to stop it from happening.
There is very little I have kept from them...nothing, really, if you count what I withhold until they ask. Except this time. This one. I cannot do it. I cannot allow my children to feel that they are not safe. I cannot give them that kernel of doubt and darkness that could make them scared to go through the halls alone. I cannot find the courage to speak with them about how one person's horrible decisions have caused so many families' hearts to be broken.
Every day I watch them run in and out of their schools, happy and free and safe in the knowledge that the people there love them, protect them, support them, and would never hurt them. I cannot allow myself to be the one who throws that sliver of suspicion into their conscience, one that would prevent them from continuing to embrace each and every moment as NOW, as LIFE, as LOVE, as FOREVER.
I cannot do this because this time, unlike I every other time, I have no answer for them.
I can explain tornadoes and hurricanes and floods, their infrequencies, statistical improbabilities, and the safeguards we have in place to protect us.
I can explain faulty science and technology, I can explain grown people taking out their rage on other grown people, I can explain being angry at a thing and not a person and how that anger causes you to attack that thing.
I cannot, however, explain how anyone could look at the face of a child of 6 or 7 or 10 and end that smile. I cannot explain how it could have been any of my children and there would have been nothing I could do to stop it from happening. I cannot explain how I could not have kept them safe.
I have spent the weekend yelling at my kids, playing with my kids, talking with my kids, being with my kids. They make me mad, crazy, frustrated, sad, happy beyond my wildest dreams... and I am so damn fortunate to have them here with me at this moment, at this time. I cannot break this spell and tell them that their world is not as safe as they think it is. Maybe one day I can and will, but for today I will let them rest tight in the thoughts that they will always be okay, out of harm's way, and wrapped in my arms.
14 December 2012
I Dare You.
I dare you to go home tonight and complain about the bad reception on your cell phone, the overpriced meat you just bought, or the gas prices that fluctuate between ridiculous and obscene. I dare you to swear about Hamilton leaving the Rangers or the Cowboys' inevitable losses or the cost of milk.
As you open your mouth to complain about your losing bet, your lost keys, your lost contacts, or the losing economy, I want you to close it with the thought of what real loss is. Loss of that little hand. Loss of that little voice. Loss of homework to never be done. Loss of Santa. Loss of wiggly teeth. Loss of little love and little toes and little futures that could have grown so large if only. If only.
I picked up my kids from school today- SO. DAMN. LUCKY. THAT. I. CAN.- and thought about where and who I'd be if I lived 1700 miles north west in a little town outside of Newton. I cry. I cry for them and cry for me and cry for my babies and cry for a world where someone so young can think of no other recourse for his angst and wrongs than to destroy all the hope he can see in others. I cry for those parents. I cry for those children who will never see tomorrow. I cry for the people who have to wake up each day from now on, knowing that the one safe place in their children's lives- aside from their parents arms- was NOT. I cry because no matter how much I hurt, I will never know what they feel and who THEY are becoming...and I cry because there are those who will try to turn in this into some political agenda instead of treating it with the sacred respect, love, and sympathy it deserves.
If you are one of those and I know you, then run with it. Say it. Make this about guns and Republicans, Democrats and educational codes. I have seen enough comments today from people so far removed that I know that thoughts will very likely head there shortly, if they're not there already. We each have our own way of working through what we don't understand, I guess.
As for me, I will continue to cry and hurt for those parents, those families, and that community. I will continue to be grateful for the fact that I can hold my children for one more day. I will continue to remind myself that there is nothing - NOTHING- in the world more important than those little bodies who rely upon me for their worlds...and I will cry knowing that there are some parents who no longer will be leaned upon and who will suffer that gaping wound forever without even having had one last kiss, one last hug, one last lost tooth, one last spelling test, one last shoelace to tie, one last good-bye.
As you open your mouth to complain about your losing bet, your lost keys, your lost contacts, or the losing economy, I want you to close it with the thought of what real loss is. Loss of that little hand. Loss of that little voice. Loss of homework to never be done. Loss of Santa. Loss of wiggly teeth. Loss of little love and little toes and little futures that could have grown so large if only. If only.
I picked up my kids from school today- SO. DAMN. LUCKY. THAT. I. CAN.- and thought about where and who I'd be if I lived 1700 miles north west in a little town outside of Newton. I cry. I cry for them and cry for me and cry for my babies and cry for a world where someone so young can think of no other recourse for his angst and wrongs than to destroy all the hope he can see in others. I cry for those parents. I cry for those children who will never see tomorrow. I cry for the people who have to wake up each day from now on, knowing that the one safe place in their children's lives- aside from their parents arms- was NOT. I cry because no matter how much I hurt, I will never know what they feel and who THEY are becoming...and I cry because there are those who will try to turn in this into some political agenda instead of treating it with the sacred respect, love, and sympathy it deserves.
If you are one of those and I know you, then run with it. Say it. Make this about guns and Republicans, Democrats and educational codes. I have seen enough comments today from people so far removed that I know that thoughts will very likely head there shortly, if they're not there already. We each have our own way of working through what we don't understand, I guess.
As for me, I will continue to cry and hurt for those parents, those families, and that community. I will continue to be grateful for the fact that I can hold my children for one more day. I will continue to remind myself that there is nothing - NOTHING- in the world more important than those little bodies who rely upon me for their worlds...and I will cry knowing that there are some parents who no longer will be leaned upon and who will suffer that gaping wound forever without even having had one last kiss, one last hug, one last lost tooth, one last spelling test, one last shoelace to tie, one last good-bye.
03 December 2012
Going to the Vet Isn't Always a Round-Trip Visit.*
DAYS TWENTY-NINE & THIRTY - 29 - 30 November 2012...and EVERY DAY
It's easy to forget to stop and breathe sometimes, to stop and think, to stop. Our worlds go round and round, there are decisions to be made, items to be checked off of lists, lawns to be mowed, laundry to be done, races to run, and the next thing you know it is 5 years later and you're grayer, thicker, and nowhere closer to being "done" than you thought you would be.
I tried, I really did, to finish the TDoT that I started on 1 November. I even sat in bed Friday night chastising myself for not having the energy to get up and finish, to give my thanks for those last two days of November. I mean, really, what's another 10 minutes if it means being grateful for what I have? Sleep won out, however, and Thursday's and Friday's call to thanks were left unanswered. As much as I carried that guilt until now, I am actually kind of grateful that I didn't finish then, as, after the weekend I had, I am in a much better position to sit back and truly be thankful for all the precious gifts in my world.
In no particular order of importance as ALL are important to me. This list is not all-inclusive at all, either, it is simply the thoughts that have been in my head for the last few days:
1) I am so thankful to have gotten to watch my baby girl - pup take her last breaths and know that we made the right decision. This past Saturday we had to say good-by to Aiko because there was no good ending to her world otherwise. She licked my hand all the way to the vet, nuzzled close while we waited for the doc, and then rested her paws on my lap and her head on my chest while Dr. Doherty prepared her. She looked at me the entire time, and I at her, and I knew from the weight of her head on my abdomen that it was over for her. She wasn't afraid, she was at peace. I questioned my own strength while I waited, unsure of whether or not I could do it; she, however, never questioned me, my strength, or my decision.
2) I am glad that I can run. I hate it, it hates me, but I can do it. I can do better than what I've done and my body doesn't fight me...this is more than so many can say and I am truly fortunate.
3) I am so glad to have the opportunity to learn not only from the strength of others but also from their mistakes. I am not perfect and never will be; however, I do try hard every day to work towards it so that someday I may even be halfway there. I learn from those I admire, those I respect, those I love, those I am disgusted by, those who scare me, those who are. Every person has the power to impact our lives for the better, if only we are able to see how to learn from what they can share. There are days when I am far from the person I would like to be; I look to what I've learned to pull me back and help me up.
4) My family means the world to me. No matter how angry, frustrated, aggravated, upset with them I am, I wouldn't have my life without them, couldn't imagine it without them.
What it comes down to is this, folks- I have in my world people I love, lessons I've learned, a home I can die in, and the strength of all those who've touched my life. Thirty days just isn't enough time to credit everyone and everything for allowing me the life I am so fortunate to live. However, it is the day to day that makes it all worthwhile and if we don't stop to think each day about something, anything, that we have dear in our worlds, then what is the point? When we lose sight of what makes our lives feel whole, we stop being whole and instead become angry and lost. I may get angry (one of the drawbacks to Italian and Irish genes, I guess), but most of all I am thankful to no longer live angry. I am whole and am so grateful to be able to be.
*The Art of Racing in the Rain- Garth Stein
It's easy to forget to stop and breathe sometimes, to stop and think, to stop. Our worlds go round and round, there are decisions to be made, items to be checked off of lists, lawns to be mowed, laundry to be done, races to run, and the next thing you know it is 5 years later and you're grayer, thicker, and nowhere closer to being "done" than you thought you would be.
I tried, I really did, to finish the TDoT that I started on 1 November. I even sat in bed Friday night chastising myself for not having the energy to get up and finish, to give my thanks for those last two days of November. I mean, really, what's another 10 minutes if it means being grateful for what I have? Sleep won out, however, and Thursday's and Friday's call to thanks were left unanswered. As much as I carried that guilt until now, I am actually kind of grateful that I didn't finish then, as, after the weekend I had, I am in a much better position to sit back and truly be thankful for all the precious gifts in my world.
In no particular order of importance as ALL are important to me. This list is not all-inclusive at all, either, it is simply the thoughts that have been in my head for the last few days:
1) I am so thankful to have gotten to watch my baby girl - pup take her last breaths and know that we made the right decision. This past Saturday we had to say good-by to Aiko because there was no good ending to her world otherwise. She licked my hand all the way to the vet, nuzzled close while we waited for the doc, and then rested her paws on my lap and her head on my chest while Dr. Doherty prepared her. She looked at me the entire time, and I at her, and I knew from the weight of her head on my abdomen that it was over for her. She wasn't afraid, she was at peace. I questioned my own strength while I waited, unsure of whether or not I could do it; she, however, never questioned me, my strength, or my decision.
2) I am glad that I can run. I hate it, it hates me, but I can do it. I can do better than what I've done and my body doesn't fight me...this is more than so many can say and I am truly fortunate.
3) I am so glad to have the opportunity to learn not only from the strength of others but also from their mistakes. I am not perfect and never will be; however, I do try hard every day to work towards it so that someday I may even be halfway there. I learn from those I admire, those I respect, those I love, those I am disgusted by, those who scare me, those who are. Every person has the power to impact our lives for the better, if only we are able to see how to learn from what they can share. There are days when I am far from the person I would like to be; I look to what I've learned to pull me back and help me up.
4) My family means the world to me. No matter how angry, frustrated, aggravated, upset with them I am, I wouldn't have my life without them, couldn't imagine it without them.
What it comes down to is this, folks- I have in my world people I love, lessons I've learned, a home I can die in, and the strength of all those who've touched my life. Thirty days just isn't enough time to credit everyone and everything for allowing me the life I am so fortunate to live. However, it is the day to day that makes it all worthwhile and if we don't stop to think each day about something, anything, that we have dear in our worlds, then what is the point? When we lose sight of what makes our lives feel whole, we stop being whole and instead become angry and lost. I may get angry (one of the drawbacks to Italian and Irish genes, I guess), but most of all I am thankful to no longer live angry. I am whole and am so grateful to be able to be.
*The Art of Racing in the Rain- Garth Stein
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