The Year In Review

So, I was thinking about all the things that have happened in the past year. I was remembering where we were this time last year, all of us scattered to the wind, peddling as fast as we could. I was feeling grateful that I could remember so much of what the year was like. So many of my first 28 years got lost after Betty was born. I still have large gaping holes from my youth. Jim, my best friend for the last 38 years, is often called upon to fill in my gaps, reminding me of all the things I can no longer recall. If he didn't bear witness, often all is lost. My friends, with love, tell me what my life was like when my mind fails me. With arms open and lots of patience, they gently remind me of facts, people and places that have remained buried deep within the dusty recesses of my brain.
This time last year, Mike and I were covered in drywall dust and mortar.We hadn't put the house on the market and giant questions without answers were all we had.
Our eldest son hit a rough patch that drove him back to us, he feeling failed and broken. I watched my son, as he came back to us thin, pale and feeling as if the whole world was against him. I saw him tonight, pink, happy, fuller in the face than he has been in years, newly employed, back in school.
Our eldest child graduated from college. She had spent time with us this past summer while we lived in Apartmentistan, squeezing every minute out of every day so she could earn the degree she has made so many sacrifices for.Now she works out of town, but plans to move home, but not for very long.
Our youngest boy made a mistake that now follows him around like a stray dog. He is fighting his way out of a mess he never saw coming.He is turning the corner to adulthood, seeing things no person his age should see, seeing things nobody of any age should really see, but with the support of his family he will get through.
Our youngest child, is in college after having graduated from high school. She passed her first semester while working, growing and figuring what is important to her as a person.
Our "adopted" son is moving out, with our blessings and the promise he will visit when he can.
Mike is getting prepared to face challenges in a new job. We watched the demise of the company he has worked for over 26 years. Hard choices had to be made in order to preserve all the sacrifices he has made over the last several decades. Once again we have an enormous amount of questions with very few answers.
Me, well, I recently started my own new job. A new column in a newspaper here in the place we call home. I am working on several books simultaneously due to my inordinate need to keep moving forward. "Moving forward", an ironic turn of phrase considering how many U Hauls were rented and how many times we packed and unpacked our entire lives.

I have always told my kids,"The only thing you can truly count on is change". Never in all of my years has that been as true as it is now.

I dread anyone who asks, "What have you been up to?" Immediately my head begins to swim as I fight to find some shred of a pat answer that will make that question go away. It isn't so much that I don't want to answer it, but rather because so much has happened I fear I may overwhelm them. I, myself, feel overwhelmed at the answer, so surely their head will explode.
We live in what Mike and I call the clown car. If the door is open, people come spilling out in every direction. As we continue to purge some of the 10 pounds of crap that we no longer want to stuff in our 5 pound bag, I find myself drifting further and further away from the life we had when the kids were young. It is bittersweet, this change our family is going through. The metamorphosis of our family is happening right before my eyes.It is like watching a nature special where the butterfly escapes the chrysalis, crawling out one leg at a time, expanding it's wings taking flight. There is wonder to it, but also a little sadness that process of growth is over.No longer is the butterfly dependent on it's cocoon to protect it.

2010 will go down as the year we were brought back together, if only for a short time. It will be seen as the year we all worked long hours, made many sacrifices, suffered many hurts and left our former selves behind us. It will be the year we lived in an apartment so small even the dogs couldn't turn around, sold the family home in exchange for the retirement home Mike and I are so hopeful we will get to keep.
2010 will be about the end of an era, the time when the our kids became our adults, Mike's company changed it's name and identity, my dream became a reality and our future began to look very different from the one we had imagined when we married a decade ago.

Christy came home one weekend and said,"My God, Mom, when did you and Mike get so old?" I looked at her 22 year old face, so shiny and young and sighed,"This year. We got old this year." I envisioned the road map of the past 12 months firmly imprinted on our faces. We laughed then, my girl and I.

A woman asked me, "So are you still?" I looked confused for a moment, eyes squinched, a perplexed expression on my face, "I'm sorry, am I still what?"
"Advancing Backward?" She smiled warmly at me. Laughing, I nodded and thought "My dear, you have no idea..."

You Do the Math.

I looked up the definition of "remainder" today. I needed to know what the series of tubes thought it meant. I knew in my heart what I thought it meant, but I guess, being slightly masochistic, I needed to be assured that I was correct in my thinking. So here it is; remainder-something left after other parts have been taken away, the definition according to Google, which I hear, is never wrong.
It is what I had become after Danny died for my kids, the parents and myself. I was what was left over.
I have in every literal sense apologized to my children for being the remainder. I knew I was ill equipped for the job when I got it, although I had the feeling I had been the remainder before in my life. In several of my relationships I had been the remainder, so why I couldn't wrap my brain around it being so hard then is beyond me.
A remainder in math is not telling of the number(s) in the equation, but the remainder in a relationship seems very telling to those who witness the demise. It became my definitive moment. It became the obsessive point that others felt they needed to remind me. As the remainder I was constantly doing my own mathematical equations of risk factors. Could I afford to do something, bearing out the physical, financial and emotional risk? Could I put the consequence of my action on my family, if I were wrong? These were the haunting questions I rolled in my noggin every time I made a decision about my life. Would the risk be worth the benefit? It was much like flying with no net. One wrong step and I would plummet to my demise leaving the the little ones to then become, yes, that's right, the remainder. Irony can be so cruel.
My hopes and dreams for myself became less important than my worth as the remainder. Here is an oldy but a goody, "Patience is a virtue". Truly, it is an absolute virtue, one I admire in others and recognize as missing in myself. Any patience I have exercised over the years has been merely because of my new title, my status in our family, not because of any great character trait I instinctively had.
I am the least patient person I know. I figured I was given great challenges in order to strengthen my resolve in patience rather than use what I already had.
Being a verbal blurter points out quite clearly how very little patience I have. It shows my immaturity in thoughtful expression, instead letting others know in an instant that immediate gratification is my preferred mode of operation. As a writer, I have to take my time, think things through, mostly, but there are times when even typing or scribbling doesn't slow me down.
I was recently reminded of a time in my life where I was a remainder in a different scenario. I had been left behind, leaving me to believe it was my lack of what ever was required at the time in order to sustain the relationship. I had covered the hole of being left behind with all the usual things one does in order to survive. The hole, being completely plastered over, was now safe to walk on, over and stomp through...until recently when quite unexpectedly it was broken open. My immediate gratification came to the foreground in my head as I rattled around for answers. I wanted to figure out the algebra of what I had done, causing my remaindernous (not a word yet, but maybe Webster will take a second look at it). Was it youthful inexperience? selfishness? ingratitude? All of the above? Yes, it was all of those. I guess, I have always known it was all of those, which is why I have actively tried to evolve in my thinking, my compassion, my expansion of my heart and mind. But what of the subtracted portion of the relationship? What is their role in all of this?
In a subtraction problem there are named components. I believe this particular relationship is more about subtraction than algebra, so this is the equation I am going to delve in. The first value is called the minuend it the total that the subtraction is going to come from. In math it would be the first number in the problem ie., 10-8=2, 10 is the minuend. The second value is the subtrahend. In the example 8 is the subtrahend. The last number is called the difference. So what is the difference? This is the question I have been asking myself the last couple of days. What is the difference?
Here is my solution, thus far. The relationship I had back then was not the minuend. The minuend was the person who left, I was then the subtrahend, the thing subtracted out, and the difference? Well, the difference is anything I want it to be. If I live out the hurt , disappointment and keep all the sadness, then the difference is a broken heart. If I choose to think of all I learned because I was subtracted out, then my difference is growth. If I choose to think in terms of how happy I was having that person in my life for however long I got to have it, then my difference is gratitude. If I were to take all the differences and create a whole new math problem, adding each to the other than my differences become something entirely new. My differences will become an addend, an augend and become the sum total of my experience, which for me turned out to be love. By the time all the equations were done, what I was left with was love for them, for me, for what was and what could never be.
What now, you ask? Much like my second grade blackboard, these current equations will be erased in time to make room for more problems. And just like my second grade self, I will try my level best to figure things out and listen to the instructions. But bottom line, I am just a writer. You do the math.

It Is Indeed a Merry Christmas!

I was thinking about all the changes that happened this year. So many things are once again shifting to another place, another way to live, more to be awe struck by. New jobs are on the horizon for several of us, the new house is somewhere we love being, my new attitude about waking up every day happier, more grateful, trying to ring all the goodness out of the day. It is all so very important to me right now.
I have no idea how all the things that have changed will effect us in the end. What I do know is how excited I am to be a part of it, waiting, watching for every new step we take as a family, and the ones I get to take as a woman, wife and mother. Where I once stood back, with great trepidation, thinking about the looming changes, now I am able to see that the "unknown" is merely part of the adventure.
I was remembering where we were as a family, just last year at this time. Our house was torn up, being re-constructed inch by inch, in order to get it ready to sell. We had so many questions back then. Would it sell? Where would we live? What would we do in the mean time? I was driven back then, as I sported my "work" clothes, splattered with paint, hair often plastered to my head, smelling to high heaven, by a quote I learned from a famous contemporary artist Chuck Close. He said, "Other artists wait for inspiration, while the rest of us get to work."
So that is what Mike and I did this past year, we got to work. I wouldn't say this was an easy year by any stretch, but I am grateful enough to know it could have been so much worse. The truth is, it could always be much worse.
Our house is decorated and smells of cinnamon, wreaths dangling, Christmas trees lit with multi-colored twinkle lights, while a 3 foot Santa smiles down from his perch on our "plant shelf". The dogs are snoring, each in their little beds, covered in their very own blankets. The bratty cats, are sleeping, fat and happy in their new kitty bed, yawning as they look up at me when I enter the hall. Jeepers, the sugar glider chatters from his cage until I go and get him his favorite dried blueberries to keep him quiet and happy.
I love my new house. We had friends over who wanted to see the house. As we walked them into the foyer we told them to turn around and have a look. In my head I was thinking "tadah". "This is it," Mike and I both chirped at the same time. There would be no tour from room to room. We have one open area that is our house; the only thing not visible are the bedrooms. The rest can be seen as soon as you hit the front door. Our house is easy to clean. It invites folks to sit and participate in whatever activity is going on. There is nowhere to hide in our house, but then again, I see we don't need one.
Our house is not perfect, it is perfect for us.
It's Christmas Eve and there are few presents under the tree. Living within our means, we must all be happy with what is, rather than what we think we want. The requests were simple, mostly of time spent. I have no regrets about not having stuff. Living simpler, smaller has allowed each of us to realize how very little we require. Stuff needs space and space for us is at a premium.
I feel happy. I realize how fortunate we are to have had the experiences we had this year. I went on-line and some of the houses that were our competition, when we were selling, are still on the market for much less. Everything that has happened for us and even to us, feels somehow divinely inspired.
Tomorrow is our Christmas. We plan to hang with our college kids tonight, unwrapping gifts, playing games chilling by the fire, letting them sleep in tomorrow. Mike and I plan to go to mass to thank our God for all we have been given. We will go early, just the two of us, hand in hand, remembering to sink into the moment, feeling every ounce of the joy.
Tonight will be about cheesy dance moves to corny Christmas music. It will be about celebrating traditions I have given to our children all of their lives. Tonight will be about remembering those who we will not see, but love so much. Tonight it will be joyous in our new house, all of us celebrating the gift of being together.
I wish you all a very Merry Christmas!
I wish for you the gift of miracles and Santa Clause. I wish for you a deep, peaceful sleep filled with wonderful dreams of loved ones, near and far. May you all be filled to the brim with all the happiness your heart can hold.

Simple Gifts

I was on the phone last night talking to my eldest child, who much to my dismay lives two and half hours away. We have been watching television together, via the phone. "Ooh, here it comes, my favorite part," I say as we both sigh at the upcoming events on the movie we are sharing. "I know, this part is brutal,"my beloved child says. We talk about the days events, about her future, which seems so open it's overwhelming, and share our time, our hope with each other. I tell her I watched the special about the White House Christmas, whose theme this year is "Simple Gifts". The irony of the pageantry, pomp and circumstance of the doings in the people's house and the theme is not lost on me. "I suppose they have to decorate that way," I sigh. My child says back sarcastically,"Do they?" I hear the sneer in her voice at the unfairness of where we as a country are, and how split we seem to be.
Both of us digressed into our own Christmas memories and how we were able to celebrate with very little money. A few meaningful gifts, homemade cookies, and trips in the car viewing others lights since we could never afford our own. Our Christmases were simple back then because they had to be. "Remember how we had to get up at four o'clock in the morning before you had to go to work to open our gifts?" my girl recalls. "Yeah, I hated that but I didn't want to miss Christmas", I say back with the smallest amount of regret in my voice. "You always made it fun", she says. I drifted back to the time when time and money were commodities we never seemed to have enough of.
Christy, my oldest of the four children, is in a place where the simple things mean the most to her. All she ever wanted for Christmas was to be loved and time, as much time as she could get. We laughed at the time my friend Judy and I got together, when our kids were really small, we decided to bake cookies they could decorate. In our heads, it was a simple heartfelt activity for our small children to participate in. We spent hours in the kitchen baking little ginger bread men and women for the kids to ice and sprinkle to their hearts delight. We imagined them spending at least an hour painstakingly decorating the little people, while we got to watch the wonder of the holiday spirit. In our heads it was all so magical. The reality was the kids got bored of our heart felt activity after about five minutes and ran off to play in the other room. Judy and I looked at each other and laughed. All our efforts were for absolutely nothing. That is the thing about kids, they require very few organized activities when they are small. Their imaginations are far more entertaining than anything we could dream up. In the end Judy and I shared some wine, decorated cookies to the point of ad nausea, ending up making our population anatomically correct and rather crude. The more vulgar we were with the cookies, the more we laughed. We of course, hid the cookies that were most explicit from the kids, not that they would have known what was going on anyway. Laughing hysterically, my husband Danny walked in the door from work. "What is so funny?" Judy and I busted out into fits of laughter, tears running down our faces. Danny seeing the naked village of cookie people, picked one up, taking a large bite, headed for the shower. I have to tell you, that is still one of my favorite Christmas memories. Many years later, I went to see my daughter, Christy, where she was sharing a house with several friends. I had taken stockings for the fireplace, a Christmas tree with boxes of decorations and things to make cookies. We baked and decorated our new version of the ginger bread naked village, inspired by a bottle of wine and the memory of what I had told her actually happened the night Judy and I laughed so hard we couldn't talk.
I believe in Christmas miracles. I never expect to win the Christmas lottery; I just wait for the moment when clarity of what Christmas really means to my family shows itself in the simplest of gifts of having each other to love. I have over the years made thoughtful gifts, instead of racking my brain to figure what to buy for people, who are perfectly capable of buying themselves their wants, needs and hearts desires. I choose instead to make picture calenders, memory quilts, home made salsa, and, of course, Christmas cookies. There is some pageantry in our house. I decorate with the things we have acquired over the last 25 years. I make homemade soups for the cold nights by the fire. I bake yummy desserts to be shared and gobbled by passing grown children as they head out the door. Having them stop for five minutes to kiss the top of my head and share a joke is the simple gift I hope for.
As the season comes to a close this year, I will look back on the nights I spent with Christy, on the phone watching movies on TV. It was the simple gift she gave to me this year, her time, her attention, and as she always so graciously gives me, her love.

Silver Bells

My grandmother is on the right. She is my dad's mom.
My parents have always been social creatures, going to parties, volunteering for groups, belonging to clubs, that sort of thing. When I was young my grandmother watched us when they went out. I remember sitting in my grandma's house watching TV or listening to her play the piano. I had always envied my grandma's ability to play. During Christmas time when my folks went to different sundry events, my sister and I would go to grandma's house and usually spend the night, hardly a hardship. It was a time for us to have her all to ourselves. It was a time for us to be spoiled, make cookies and sing around the piano.
Grandma would pull out Christmas music and ask us to pick our favorites. Mine changed every time I was asked, being fickle, one week it was Frosty, the next time it was The First Noel. I had never really had a favorite Christmas song, I loved them all, so choosing a specific tune on any given night was tortuous for me. Grandma always chose Silver Bells, pulling the dog eared pages out, setting them up on the piano, asking Kim to turn the page when necessary. I wasn't asked because I couldn't seem to gather my coordination about me enough to do it. When I tried turning the delicate paper pages, inevitably everything would fall to the floor and things would come to a halt.
I would sit next to my grandma on the piano bench and listen as she warbled her way through Silver Bells. The three of us would be singing full out, under the small light that stood on the piano, looking on over the small hard candy Christmas tree that sat next to it.
Grandma's house was always warm mainly because she was always cold. My grandmother had an assortment of sweaters, primarily pink ones for every occasion. To this day, I still have two of those sweaters, stored away but easily accessed when I feel like I really need a dose of unconditional love from the woman who treated me as if the sun rose and set just for me. I guess, today was one of those days, when I really missed my grandmother and all her idiosyncratic behaviors, traditions and warm loving hands.
She had a tiny two bedroom house across town from where we lived. Being small, it seemed to take forever to get to Grandma's house on the west side. I felt as if I had traveled some great distance to get there, where in truth, going back I could have walked it if necessary. It wasn't right next door, but it was hardly the journey my tiny mind had set it to be. Being at Grandma's house felt like a vacation from real life when my parents weren't there. We still had bedtimes, childlike responsibilities, but it was just different enough to allow for me to feel relaxed, comforted and loved.
The phrase "comfort and joy", I guess, describes it best for me, that is how I felt, comforted and joyful, soothed by Grandma's soft hands on my back as I drifted off to sleep in the soft bed in the spare room. I will tell you though, my grandma made doll cakes as a hobby, where she use a doll torsos complete with a head and insert it into a half round cake, where she would decorate it to look like a princess in a ball gown. These disfigured torso creatures were kept in the top drawer in the bureau in the spare room. She would open that drawer and I would see not pretty dolls but dolls who looked chopped in half and it really freaked me out. If I saw them before I went to sleep, I would have nightmares about "paraplegic Barbie" the rest of the night. When I first told Grandma of my fear of the halfings, she scoffed and said, "there was nothing to be afraid of." She soon learned after having to spend the night with me, the drawer was best left shut until daylight hours.
My Grandmother was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease when I was still in grade school, about 342 years ago. I had the misfortune of watching as she lost her independence, having to sell her little house, so she could move in with us. As much as she loved all of us, it chipped away at her, that she no longer could have the life she had built. I saw the sadness, witnessed the frustration as her hands shook a little more, and her legs became like lead weights, she would have to drag around to get from one place to the next. She had hardening of the arteries and began the telltale signs of geriatric onset dementia. One day when she was driving she had gotten lost in the town she had lived in for well over 20 years. It was then she was once again informed it was not safe for her to drive anymore. She was heartbroken, but I saw fear in her eyes; she knew that my parents were right and she would have to give it up. My parent's had to handle all of my grandmother's illness with her and eventually for her. My father being an only child was forced to make hard, ugly decisions when it cam to his mother. He guarded her safety, her privacy, her dignity until the day she died. My mother took care of her as if she were her own, because to my mom, she was. I still feel the weight on my parents as they made daily decisions for her care. Grandma lived with us for seven years, and in those seven years she slid down the constant hill of decline, eventually requiring full time care. My parents did everything they could to keep her at home, with us, where they were certain she was safe, and loved. My parents lived a tortured existence during this time. They never gave themselves a break from the constant demands of grandma's welfare. They second guessed every decision they made, because they made the toughest decisions they would ever face. I will tell you, the respect and admiration I have for my parents and what they did for my grandmother is immeasurable. This was the very reason I became a nurse who specialized in elderly care.
When Grandma moved in, her piano moved in with her. I was in high school, so going to Grandma's house had lost it's magical appeal, anyway. Having her close meant sitting at the piano in our blended home, once again picking favorite Christmas songs. As she had done a thousand times before, she had chosen Silver Bells.
I miss my Grandma. I miss the way she thought I was the best thing since sliced bread. I miss her stories of her family and my grandpa, who died of Leukemia long before I was ever born. My recurring question about him was always if he would have liked me. Grandma always said the same thing, reassuring me that he would have been proud of me and loved me dearly.
At Christmas time I listen to Christmas music all day every day. Silver Bells comes on the radio and I immediately go that place where memories of Grandma fill my heart and tears fill my eyes.
I miss my grandma's physical presence, but she gave me the gift of music that stays with me everywhere I go. If I close my eyes and listen really hard I can still hear her sing.

My Reason For the Season

Someone was recently over to my house during the process of me decorating for Christmas. "Why so many Christmas trees? And stuff?" this person asked. I answered we had a bigger house before and some of it was from that. In truth I just wanted the question to go away. "Why not pare it down, then?" another question came at me. I felt my face grow hot and looked down to avoid eye contact fearing I might sear a hole through this person with my over enthusiastic Christmas spirit. I mumbled,"I like it." I then kindly began moving the person toward the door. I smiled a little too broadly as I said, "Thanks for coming, enjoy the holidays, talk to you later..." I could not shut the door fast enough.
Earlier this season I was "reminded", that the reason for the season is Jesus and all the Christmas decorations seemed gaudy. I again, head down so as not to harm anyone mumbled my way out of the situation. The truth is I know my house is over the top. It is meant to be as festive as I can possibly make it. I know how much work it takes to do all this and have to take it all down in a month. I know because I am the one doing the work. Why others feel the need to critique my work when it really doesn't effect them, their life or intrude on them in any form or fashion is beyond me.
The truth is I like my Christmas stuff. No check that, I love my Christmas stuff. Once a year I haul out box after box after box, just so I can put all the things I have acquired over the years out for ME to enjoy. Personally, I hope others like it, but in truth, I really don't care too much what they think when they are negative. The season is so much more to me than just Santa or Baby Jesus. I realize that reducing Jesus to merely part of the season is sacrilege to some, but originally December 25 was about Pagan and Roman holidays anyway. Jesus got thrown into the mix later by a Pope who jumped on the already celebrated day. Just sayin'.
I love the whole history of Christmas and how it evolved into a uniquely American holiday. The Puritans tried to take the hearty celebration away from the peasants and ended up joining them since they found they could not be beat. Santa Clause, although derived from Saint Nicholas, looks the way he does to us now because of American illustrators. And Rudolph, well, don't get me started. Rudolph is and always will be an American icon.
I hear ramblings of how commercial the day is, but it has been that way since the Druids and Romans partied like it was 199. I understand why people buck the cash flow situation this time of year, I don't buy a lot of gifts, so that isn't an issue for me. I never over spend because I hardly spend anything to begin with. I don't believe in that kind of Christmas. My kids have had the same monetary limit on Christmas now that they have had all their lives. Christmas isn't about the money for me.
I love the pageantry of Christmas. I love the decorations, twinkle lights and absurd music that fills every square inch of air. I love the fact that I can justify spending an entire month creating things for around the house, only to finish with a flourish New year's Eve. I put Martha Stewart to shame this time of year. Got an old bucket, pair of tweezers and a flashlight that doesn't work? I will McGuyver that thing into a rustic lighted wine cooler. I am merely stating my talents come to full fruition this time of year. As I sugar my last pine cones of the season (gluing glitter to them), I leave them in the corner to dry before getting the wire out to tie them into greenery, I notice a rather large spider crawling out of the one in my hand. My daughter looks up stunned, "Is that glitter on the spider? Did you glitter a live spider?" She looks on horrified. "I didn't do it on purpose, Silly, I didn't even know it was there. But it does look nice with it's holiday adornment, don't you think?" She leaves the room with a look of disgust on her face, shaking her head. I "dispose" of the unwanted guest and resume looking for the forms for my giant ornaments I want to make to hang from the roof line. The family doesn't usually ask me what I am doing this time of year, for fear I may ask them to join me. I no longer take that personally, since I have been aware of their apathy for holiday decorating, for some time.
I keep my craft pliers, glue gun and assorted fine grain glitter to myself.

The reason for the season for me has been the same for as long as I have had an addled brain wave; the love, lights and charitable attitude are what I surround myself in. I wallow in dreams of Christmas miracles, moments of joy in children, and the beauty of the lights reflecting heavenly stars. I am over the top in all things Christmas, none more prevalent than my hope. This is my season of feeling hopeful next year will be even better, that my family will remain healthy and be happy, and I will continue to grow in wisdom, kindness and compassion, and always remembering when things get tough, Christmas is right around the corner...