Missing Mom

Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of my mom's death. I spent it helping out at a funeral. I didn't know if that was going to be okay. It totally was. It was a good thing to do. I stand in a room full of mourners now and I look around and I know, "I am one of them." I am not separate or apart. I have been there. I understand. 


It was a good day to remember my mom, the kindnesses of others during that time, and to take the morning to pay it forward. 


In remembering her, in thinking about this somber anniversary, I had two small breakthroughs. One will sound dumb to you, but it told me some interesting things about me. Yesterday would have normally been a day where I would decide I had an excuse to overindulge in either food or shopping. "This is a sad anniversary. I think I'll eat a bunch of crud." Or "This is a sad anniversary. I'll buy new shoes to cheer me up." But I didn't have time to do that. Because I was busy helping others. And it felt better than new shoes or pigging out would have. And just like that, in a rough moment, I walked away from two emotional crutches I've leaned on heavily in the past. It wasn't even conscious; those things just didn't matter as much as the other things that needed doing.


I had another realization, too. I wondered what my mom would have thought about my big announcement on Monday. My dad would have been busting buttons and telling everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, that his daughter has an agent, that she's a writer, etc and so on. But my mom wouldn't have. She would smiled and rubbed my arm. And if I said, "I learned how to make bread," she would have smiled and rubbed my arm. And if I said, "I made honor roll," she would have smiled and rubbed my arm. Because it was all the same to her. In a good way. She was not more proud of me when I did more impressive things. She just loved me, whatever level I was at. "Mom, I won the Nobel Prize in Literature." She'd still just smile and rub my arm.

I keep a bookmark in my scriptures with her picture and obituary on it. James stole the one I used to keep upstairs. I read it to him, and we talked about her and shared a couple of memories. The conversation wandered to memories of other things. He wanted to know the funniest thing he'd ever done. He wanted to know about the time he was really sick when he was little. And so on.


It was good to talk about stories from our family. It was good to reminisce and remind us both of where and who we came from. I like that something little every day can become part of my story. I believe so much that our stories matter, that when we share them we grow closer. Stories connect us. 


I used to run a scholarship competition for 8th graders. I organized it for a simple reason. Yes, it gave them experience in essay writing and resume writing and interviewing. But more importantly, it taught them that the winner wasn't the kid with best grades; it was the kid who could tell their story best. That's who the judges connected to and awarded a scholarship to, every single time.


I know you've heard about the Story at Home Conference March 9-10. The info has been floating all over the internets lately. Check it out. It's sponsored by Family Search and Cherish Bound. I'd look hard at the schedule; there are so many great storytelling tracks, for people who think they aren't born storytellers. Guys, it's cool. Super cool.


Go. 

Happy Birthday

Today would have my mom's 64th birthday and in honor of her, I'm going to not make a big deal out of it, because that was her way.

She lived this quiet, extraordinary life, a small stone with giant ripples. She wasn't one for making a fuss. She liked simple things: action movies, folk art, M&Ms, drugstore brand hair conditioner, oatmeal, pearls, and the mountains.

She was shy. She was beautiful. Her smile could melt stone hearts. She didn't make friends easily because she never figured out where she fit. With the hearing? The Deaf? She married well, but my dad's health made everything a challenge. She raised three kids she would be proud of. She has two grandkids she doesn't know.

She drew and painted and crafted. She taught. You will never see anyone sign a song more beautifully. She worked hard. She wasn't much for housework or cooking. She sewed well. She loved word games and cheated at Scrabble all the time.

She was highly educated. She was a dedicated teacher. She never really believed in herself but I saw her move metaphorical mountains.

She believed with her whole heart in God. She showed it. She lived it. She walked it every day.

She died happy, surrounded by her legacy: children who dropped everything to be there for as long as she needed, for as much as she needed. Who would do it again. Who never thought to do differently.

She liked pumpkin pie. I think I will have a piece tonight.

This post stinks.

So I was going to bring raw almonds as a "save me" snack during the LDS Storymakers conference I'm attending this week . . . until I found out almonds cause gas. And I'm presenting. I already have nightmares where people exit the room muttering, "Wow. She stunk." I don't need them to mean that literally. 


My mom used to have all these theories about foods that caused her gas. If she ever got gas within an hour of eating any food, no matter what it was, she would pretty much never eat that food again. So yeah, she more or less lived on oatmeal. No gas! During the last month of two before she died, when she still had an appetite, she took a great deal of satisfaction in eating whatever she wanted and not worrying about the fall out. And folks, sometimes it was nuclear level. 


I've learned a lot by having parents who died too young. One of those things is: don't leave things unsaid. Another of those things is: eat stuff you like even if it makes you gassy because life is short. Except if you're presenting at a conference. Then don't do that.


I'm like, pretty wise and stuff. That's how I can find a lesson in anything.


Anyway, time to figure out a plan B. Off to Google: Do baby carrots cause gas? Oooh, or better yet: Snacks that taste delicious and won't make you fat OR give you gas.

Remembering

Four years ago today, I was sitting in my classroom at my desk, doing something on my computer. I don't remember what. Grades, maybe? I had a room full of eighth graders working in noisy but efficient groups to get a project done. It was fifth period and my principal walked in. He did that several times a week as a way for the kids to know that he was paying attention to his campus and he knew what they were doing. (He was the best boss I ever had.) Instead of walking among them and observing their groups, or even standing in the corner to watch for a few minutes, he headed straight for my desk.

And I knew.

"Mrs. Jacobson, could you get your things and come with me? Mrs. Lightfeldt will be taking over your class."

I didn't even ask why. I scooped up my purse and headed outside. Just outside my classroom door, my husband stood waiting for me. A newly minted husband of four weeks, to be exact. He held out his arms and I walked into them. 

My mom was dead.

I had texted him less than an hour before where he sat at a desk in her bedroom, working and listening for her rattling breaths. 

How is she?

He answered quickly. Fine. Sleeping.

But when he got up to make sure, he leaned over her and realized she wasn't drawing breath anymore. So he got my sister, and they checked again. We knew she was going to die. He was there with her so she wouldn't be alone. I couldn't take any more time off of work because I'd taken a week for my dad's funeral two months before and I'd have to take another week for my mom's since each of them was being laid to rest in Louisiana, two thousand miles away.

But Kenny was there. Kenny was there in her last moment, just like he'd been there in the very first moment that everything started to go terribly, horribly wrong.

I remember that night, too. I ended my cell phone call as we pulled into his parents' place and said, "Her doctor ordered a CAT scan. He's only doing that because he thinks the cancer is back and he wants to know how far it got."

The answer was that in three months' time, she'd gone from a completely clean post-cancer check up to Stage  4. It was in her liver and it was traveling.

It broke my dad's heart. He'd had issues of his own after a post-surgical complication that scarred his lungs. He couldn't take care of her this time like he had the first time. They lay on their bed together, frail and tired, and young. So young. He was 60. She was 59. The worse she got, the less he ate. 

And then a flu came. And he died. He weighed 104 pounds. My dad was almost six feet tall.

She fought a little longer. She held on until my wedding, plus a little more. I was married on their anniversary.

Then a few weeks later, she was done. She fell asleep. Then she didn't wake up.

I get busy. I think I don't miss them. I think I'm doing all right. But I can't really look at their picture. It hurts to breathe for a moment when I stumble across their handwriting in my papers somewhere.

My babies don't know them. My dad would have been whupped over Eden.

And I say to myself that it's fine because of someday.

And mostly it is. 

But today, I'll remember. It's been four years.

And I miss her. I miss them. I'm kind of even not really mad at my dad anymore. His heart broke. Sometimes it happens.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

I need a mom.

I was reading all the online stuff yesterday about how my baby is 24 weeks along now and she's as big as a (giant) mango and she can blink her eyes in Morse code if only I could see it to interpret what she means and she now has very strong opinions about the rompers she sees me buying her and the dinner I ate last night.

I realized that because my babies come early (two and five weeks early so far) that she's going to be here PDQ. We're prepared, mostly. She got stuff in the way of clothes and we're good with a crib, etc. We'll have a larger stroller by then and I'm switching our travel swing (which did nothing for Baby G) to one that goes back-and-forth AND side to side. I'm going to raid one of our retirement accounts next month and stock up on diapers and wipes. I figure if we live on nothing but Ramen the year Kenny turns 72, we should be able to afford the first month of Pampers Swaddlers, no problem.

So she's all set, or nearly.

But I'm not.

When Little J came ten years ago, I had just moved into a new place the day before. Nothing was unpacked. I didn't even have a working phone. I had to roll into the grocery store belly first at 2 a.m. to wake my doctor up and find out that yes, dummy, that was your water breaking. Go to the hospital.

My mom was on a plane within two hours of me calling her and at the hospital by the time they started my epidural. She was there through the delivery and when Little J and I got home, she had unpacked my whole house for me. It was a little house and I didn't have much stuff, but it still made it easier to breathe.

She put off work for an extra week to stay with me because (as she told me later) I wasn't exactly into picking the baby up to do anything besides feed him at first. But then everything was okay.

When Baby G was born a couple of years ago, my sister happened to be here on a fluke visit so that she was ready to jump in even though he was five weeks early. My sister is a very, very good person to have around if you're ever in the hospital for any reason from a tonsillectomy to open heart surgery. She was nearly as good as having my mom there.

But this time...

I don't know. I just need a mom. I need someone who's going to show up for a few days in a Mary Poppins-ish manner and play with my kids and either

1) Ignore the fact that some of the messy spots in my house have been neglected since before I was pregnant and either
      a) pretend like I do that they don't exist or
      b) clean them and never say a word to me about it because um, yeah, my  mom would know exactly who taught me to keep house that way

2) Scold me for having certain messy spots in my house but somehow manage to not judge me in the least and then either
      a) ignore them, like I do or
      b) clean them and never say a word to me about them

She would warm up the meals the Relief Society brought over for me and change Tiny E's tenth diaper of the day like it's her greatest delight because she can clearly see after the first nine, I've lost my enchantment with the whole process for the day.

She would take the boys to the park while I slept with Tiny E, knowing that Baby G thinks my naps mean I'm prone so we can start wrestling. She wouldn't care that Baby G gets a couple of Nickelodeon marathons while I stare into space, sleep-deprived. And after a few days she would realize I'm gaining a little traction and she'd go home, knowing that I've rejoined the land of the living and I'm child-cuddling and bum-wiping abilities have been fully restored.

My aunt, who is more my aunt even by marriage than she could be by blood, flew out from Illinois last time for a weekend a couple of months after Baby G was born. There was just something about knowing that she was willing to do that for me that made everything bearable, filled the gap a little. But she is kicking butt and taking names in  her new nursing program and I'd put her right back on a plane and ship her back if she tried to come out this time because she needs to be there, not here.

I miss my mom. Do you think if I tore this blog post into small pieces and threw it into the fireplace that the wind would whisk it away and suddenly she would appear in a smart coat with a carpet bag the morning I go to the hospital? Because I need her.

No wonder.

On my first day of freedom, I bought white bread. It felt subversive and rebellious. A great way to start my career at BYU, no?

I was on my own in the apartment-style dorms of Heritage Halls and I got to buy my own groceries for the first time. My list was full of the forbidden items I didn't get while growing up. That's how I ended up with white bread. I was sick of wheat bread. I wanted the Wonder Bread goodness my friends got to eat. My mom just shook her head when I plopped my first loaf in the cart.

She knew what I didn't.

Wonder Bread isn't so good. The wheat bread we ate growing up with its rich nuttiness was much tastier than the bland, anemic loaf I brought home.

I can't even tell you how many times I learned that lesson the hard way: listen to your mother. I'm stubborn, so...lots. Over and over again until it stuck.

Boys will treat you with more respect if you aren't hanging out of your clothes. Get enough sleep. Don't forget to pray.

I only wish white bread was the last and worst of my transgressions. The list is long and embarrassing.

It turns out I learned something else from my mom. I've learned a little something about putting the past behind me and about forgiveness of myself as much as others.

And my kids eat wheat bread.

So this confession is honest but it may not make you like me better. It's the true story of how it was.

I definitely resented my parents at times, not necessarily for being deaf, but for some of their choices. I mean, I understood that they had no control over being born deaf, but they could hear well enough to make things tricky. My dad had a profound hearing loss which means total nerve damage, but through a series of blessings given to him over the years, he functioned far better than people with lesser hearing losses. My mom had a severe hearing loss. She could maybe hear 20% of what was going on around her. She and my dad were both raised orally, meaning with intensive speech therapy and no sign language, so they were master lip readers and speakers, and extremely competent at understanding content based on context. They both learned sign language in college and switched to that as their primary form of communication, but their ability to speak and lip read...well, sometimes even I got suspicious...

I mean, were they really deaf? It seemed sometimes like they could hear when they wanted to. As a kid, I often wondered if they were faking being deaf and just tricking us so they could get us kids to do more stuff for them. As an adult, I found out that my younger brother and sister had the same suspicions.

As it turned out though, they really were deaf.

The resentment came from having to do a lot of things that other little kids never had to do, and since I'm the oldest, most of it fell to me to take care of. It's pretty easy for deaf people to communicate now, what with email and Blackberries and video relay services. As a kid, I didn't have any of that stuff to bail me out. At six years old, I would have to call and make doctor's appointments or handle calls to my parents if they couldn't understand the person on the other end. With their hearing aids and the special volume control they had on the phone, they could get by most of the time, but they needed me often enough for it to wear thin, sometimes.

As I got older, the resentment came from other things. These are the choices I mentioned. We never did sports as kids because my parents didn't have the money and my dad's health was too poor to invest in something like that. However, as we grew older, my siblings and I (there's just the three of us) got involved with things in high school, especially academic stuff. I went to the national mock trial competition with two different states (Louisiana and then California) and they never came to see one match, not even at the county level. My dad said they would be bored without interpreters.

It really bothered me. I felt like it was kind of beside the point. I figured the point was just to show up and be there, but they didn't see it that way. My brother kind of felt like that too. I guess over time we learned to shrug it off, but not completely. It still bothers me, sometimes.

Also, we attended a deaf branch when we moved back to California. It was awesome for my parents because they finally got to participate fully in church and I was happy about that, but we got tapped to interpret a lot in church when there weren't enough adults to go around and sometimes...we just wanted to be kids, to enjoy youth conference without having to interpret for a classmate or whatever. Most CODAs feel this way at some point.

There were compensations, though. My parents died two years ago, but I have rich memories of them centered in the language of thought, which is probably the best way to explain ASL. There are things you just can't explain in English that are so easy to get across in ASL. I have great memories of my mom explaining the origin of certain signs to me in a way that made them indelible, and I bet no one else has ever thought of the same explanation. I'll always remember how lovely she looked when she led the congregation in hymns every Sunday, her hands tracing out concepts about God and glory and grace in the air, painting the clearest picture. I'll always remember the way my dad's face would move so expressively, perfectly conveying his thoughts which is an earmark of ASL. I'll always remember his contributions to spreading the gospel in the deaf community. He and his three companions were the first LDS missionaries called to teach the gospel to the deaf, and in later years he worked on helping the Church translate the scriptures into ASL dvds.

So in yesterday's question, Josi asked how I reconciled the issue of their deafness in my life and how it relates to me as an adult. The answer is that in hindsight, they did their best, but sometimes the load was heavy and as children we were asked to shoulder a part. I don't think it's anything different than what many children have done for their parents whether it's because of a disability or a language barrier. And I know my life is far richer for the experience.

Thanks, Josi, for asking the question. I think later this week I'll revisit deafness once more for the time being to share the lighter side too, because believe me, there are some funny things about deaf culture and growing up in it. And maybe even later, I'll share a little more of the tought stuff, too, but honestly? It all shook out all right, you know?

Cheese!

Another gratuitous Mom shot:

Hope you don't mind. One thing that always made me laugh about my mom was how self-conscious she sometimes was about her smile. I know, right? It's gorgeous. But as she got older, she was more and more convinced that her teeth were ugly or she had too many fillings, or whatever. Judge for yourself:

So silly of her, I know.

You know what's funny?

I've developed the same quirk. I used to have straight teeth, but a couple of years after my braces came off, my wisdom teeth grew in and pushed them crooked again. I didn't mind since my overbite was still gone, but now in the last couple of years, they've gotten just a titch more crooked. The only time this ever bothers me is in pictures, which is why my profile picture is a close-mouthed smile. And my new Facebook profile picture. And most pictures I post publicly.

The reason the slight increase in crookedness bothers me is because of where my teeth got more crooked, so I'm going to show you:

Kinda gnarly, right? While I don't think my teeth look bad at all in person or in a mirror, in a picture, my right front tooth (your left as you're looking), is slightly farther back than it's twin. They're fraternal instead of identical. Anyway, that slight dip back sometimes catches the light wrong and suddenly I'm super Snaggle Tooth. Half my pics come out right, and half, well...see above.

But then I think about my mom. She always smiled big for her pictures. Her slight self-consciousness never stopped her from doing that. What if it had? I wouldn't have all these great memories to look back through. So...

I'm going to smile in my pictures. Big. Lots. Like I do in real life.

And just as soon as I get my wisdom teeth and a little bit of dental work done, I'm getting Invisalign!

And here's another gratuitous shot of my pretty mom, with me on her lap.

Dang, I miss her! She was the best!

Here comes the beso!

Thanks for your kind thoughts and good wishes today.

I'm here to announce the winner of my blog giveaway for a MAC lipstick and gloss, but in so doing, a whole bunch of things came together and gelled at once.

I finally remembered why I was doing a MAC giveaway in the first place. Have you noticed the little widget in my sidebar titled Project Countdown? If you're like I am with most people's sidebars, probably not. But that little box is my word count goal and progress toward it on my current manuscript, The List. Recently, last Thursday as a matter of fact, I hit the halfway point to my goal. When I hit little milestones like that, I give myself rewards. This time it was a mani/pedi and I got my eyebrows taken care of. Finally. Because they were all overgrown and stuff. You know those obnoxious little garden gnomes that plague Mrs. Weasly's house in the Harry Potter books? I think some of those came out in the wax.

Anyway, since my work-in-progress is light, fluffy chick lit, it seemed like a good idea to give away a lipstick to share the celebration with you. That's why I decided to give it away. I knew I had a reason, even though I forgot it yesterday. One of my greatest flaws is that I get ideas into my head then I fixate on carrying them out, even if I forget the point after a while.

I digress, though. Which is another of my flaws. I prefer to believe that all the rabbit trails I follow are utterly compelling, but then Baby G pukes on me or something and I'm reminded of my utter humanity and vomit-scented boringness.

Wow, I digressed again.

Anyway, today I was working on my daily word count goal for The List, and it suddenly occurred to me why my mom has been so much on mind this week. It's because I have this character named Laurel, a really quiet girl, a really minor character, that I didn't quite understand. She's shown up in a couple of scenes but she never talked and I couldn't figure out why until yesterday when I found out she's deaf. *Smacks head. Deaf, duh. Like my mom. Excellent lip reader, great speech, but definitely deaf. I realized that Laurel is my mom, a pretty girl who loves Institute (Bible study) classes but doesn't say much to anyone and steers clear of the handsome boys who flirt with her because she's self-conscious about her disability in front of strangers. Her character grew out of my mom's stories I heard growing up. She was a total babe but super shy and the flirting and socializing at Institute were a high point in her memories.

And at some level, I have been subconciously trying to visualize my mom at that age, her mannerisms, her motivations, so I could infuse them into Laurel's character. I've had a great time writing Laurel. It's felt a little like visiting with my mom.

I think I'll still post a story or two about her next week, but I told you that she had a bald head and an angel smile. I have proof, in these photos taken outdoors on the Thanksgiving two months before she died and two weeks after my dad died. She would always wear her little white lace cap if it was cold and would never wear a wig because she said they made her itch and were only to make other people feel better. She felt she had quite enough discomfort without an itchy wig, thank you very much. She's got her hood up because it was extra chilly outside, but she loved her lacy white cap and wanted everyone to see that, too.

I really, really miss her. But seeing her smile, even if it's just a picture, makes me feel really good.

And so does giving away lipstick! Yay to Kimberly at Temporary? Insanity, who won this giveaway! She's one of the very first bloggers I discovered and has often helped me with the MOST inane blogging questions, and she's a fellow writer, so I'm quite delighted to send her the lipstick and see for myself how well she rocks the Viva Glam when we meet in April.

Thanks for playing!

Happy sad.

I have picked up and put down so many words today, trying to find the right ones to string together. Every time I open my head and dump a few out, they just stick together in a big coagulated mess instead of lining up in a way that makes sense.

In their simplest form, they boil down to a single thought: I miss my mom.

I want to tell you about her purple shirt, and her bald head, and her angel smile, and I will. When I can get it right. A million little things have prompted me to think about her this week. Some weeks are like that, where she's forefront in my mind.

Maybe I'll post later today if I can get the words put together right. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just hold the memories close and enjoy them. I don't know.

Maybe I'll eat my oatmeal exactly how she made it and remember her and be happy. And sad. And thankful I had her.

Time passes

Tomorrow marks a strange anniversary for me. It will be two years since my mom died. She was 59. It was breast cancer. I could blog for an entire year about the incredible woman she was and what she taught us even in her greatest hardship. I could, but I won't. It's funny the things you remember about someone after they're gone, the things that sneak in and become a part of you. I meant to do a different Friday Favorite, but it just seems right to tell you one of my favorite memories about her. It's nothing profound, but it makes me smile, and that's welcome today.

Both of my parents were deaf, which I've mentioned before. But they were really high-functioning. Excellent speech, excellent lip-reading, all that. Well, let me amend that. My mom had mostly excellent speech. Her W's and R's got a little tangled up sometimes. It was always easy to figure out what she meant, so no big deal.

One year for her birthday, my brother the thoughtful gift-giver, got her a framed picture of a rooster. It was done in the primitive folk art mode, her favorite style, and was painted like it had been made from patchwork quilt pieces, then mounted in a rustic red frame. It was a little on the country-kitchen end of the spectrum for me, but she liked it and hung it...in our kitchen. It must have been up there for about five years when she casually commented that she liked it, too, but wasn't sure what prompted my brother to give it to her. I was surprised. "I thought you told him you liked rooster art," I said.

It was her turn to look surprised. "Sure, I guess," she said, and shrugged.

It wasn't until months later that it hit me: she hadn't told him she liked rooster art. She'd been telling him she liked the art work of Jane Wooster Scott but had only come up with the Wooster part of her name, which to him sounded like "....folk art....rooster...." and voila! We had a rooster in our kitchen for five-ish years.

It started a tradition in our home for gift-giving. Every occasion after that, whether it was her birthday or Mother's Day or Christmas, she got something she wanted and could use, and she got rooster paraphenelia whether she wanted it or not. Rooster dishes, rooster dish rags...it was an impressive collection. That she never wanted and was powerless to stop.

When we settled their estate and sold off a lot of stuff, it was with great glee that we watched her rooster stuff get snatched up. But I it is always with a little pang that I see a gad-awful rooster accessory now. I have no one to buy it for. I miss my mom.

I really needed this today.

I have just experienced three days of some of the toughest parenting challenges of my life. And I haven't even talked to my kid yet because he's with his dad for the holidays. But this is the break-your-heart-if-you-let-it kind of hard. Since I'm not going to broadcast his business all over the blogosphere, you'll have to take my word for it. But this post from Stephanie over at Everyone's Excited and Confused really caught my attention today. I badly needed a reminder of not being alone in this crazy undertaking of being a parent, and a reminder of the huge and amazing rewards.

I love this. It is the first and possibly only meme that I will ever do, but it's so worth it.

99 Cool Mom Things

1. Felt the world shift and change when you held your newborn baby.
2. Thought, "Hey, they didn't tell me about this when I got pregnant."
3. Given away perfectly good pants because they just don't seem to zip up anymore
4. Walked around with snot on your shoulder and pretended it's normal
5. Wrestled with a car seat and won
6. Cursed the makers of really loud annoying toys
7. Rocked your baby until she fell asleep, and then kept rocking anyway.
8. Gained superhero kissing powers-- you kiss it, it's okay.
9. Learned the art of counting to three, in a loud, patient voice
10. Avoided swearing like a pirate when a small child stepped on your bare feet with heavy-heeled princess shoes
11. Dressed up as a butterfly and floated magically around the room with blanket wings
12. Made a tent out of blankets and chairs and crammed your really large body into it.
13. Learned you really aren't a patient person, but tried to work on it.
14. Listened to really bad, heartfelt, vibrato out-of-control, children's music that for some reason your children love.
15. Succeeded in doing an awesome hairstyle on a squirming, uncooperative child.
16. Decided that bribery really does do the trick.
17. Read a Parenting book and thought, "Do they even have children?"
18. Gotten nothing but lessons in patience and enduring to the end from the past 3 years of church
19. Allowed others to think you're crazy as you drive down the road doing the actions to "5 Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed."
20. Smiled and managed not to punch the people without children who give you advice on how to discipline them.
21. Pitied the pioneers, who didn't have movies/television.
22. Thought sadly about landfills, but put it out of your head by remembering what dunking poopy cloth diapers in the toilet is like.
23. Managed to get the grocery shopping done with one or more children in tow.
24. Put yourself in time out.
25. Given up career opportunities, wistfully, but gladly.
26. Thought, "This is so worth it. I have the best job ever."
27. Thought, "This is so not worth it. I quit." But woken up and fixed breakfast and taken care of the kids anyway.
28. Heard your child say, "I love you so much!"
29. Watched with delight as your child lurches around the room with their first dinosaur-like steps.
30. Ignored your dirty house to play ponies.
31. Taught a child to use the potty. (And wanted to start an ad campaign with signs posted above every public toilet that read, "If you can use this, thank your mother.")
32. Tried a home business to make just a little extra money
33. Actually sewn something, that turned out pretty good if no one looked too closely
34. Played the choo-choo or airplane game to try and convince your child that food is not evil.
35. Slipped, tripped or twisted on a left out toy
36. Fished pennies/small toys/anything small out of your child's mouth, while keeping the panic at bay.
37. Lost brain cells while watching a Baby Einstien movie
38. Wondered where the instruction manual is.
39. Thought that you could improve upon the baby design model by adding three lights on the side of each baby-- one for hungry, one for tired, and one for poopy.
40. Listened with chagrin as your child repeats your favorite adjectives.
41. Crept into their room at night, just to make sure the covers are on and that they're still breathing.
42. Thought while breastfeeding, "No wonder people get breast implants. My shirts actually fit."
43. Laughed out loud at the optimistic "6 weeks after birth prognosis" by your male doctor.
44. Learned that you really aren't a pleasant person with only 2 hours of sleep.
45. Tried to explain why clothing is mandatory.
46. Had to eat your words because, "I would never do it that way," but then you do.
47. Called Poison Control.
48. Left the store without buying anything because your child is screaming.
49. Had to apologize to a stranger.
50. Wanted to petition that handicap stalls also be available to mothers with 2 or more children under the age of 6.
51. Said, "That's not funny," when really, if you weren't the parent, it was funny.
52. Felt extreme anger at another child when they hurt your child.
53. Cleaned up throw up more times than you wish to count.
54. Eaten a soggy cracker.
55. Thought sadly of hungry people as you scrapped your child's uneaten food into the garbage.
56. Threatened to do something awful (and untrue) like leave your child at WalMart, or cut off their toe if they didn't stop misbehaving.
57. Even though you vowed never to say it, yelled, "Because I said so."
58. Not left the house for three or more days.
59. Discussed buying stock in paper towels, wipes and diaper companies.
60. Conversed with other adults about poop, drool, and snot.
61. Thought, "My gosh. My children are the most adorable things in the entire world."
62. Smiled when your kids hugged each other.
63. Thrown away Halloween candy (after fishing out all the chocolate bars).
64. Realized the true use of a timer is not for baking.
65. Thought, "Isn't there at least some period of their lives where they adore me and listen to what I say?"
66. Cried and cried, because you feel like you're just not cut out for this sort of thing.
67. Felt triumphant when your child spelled their name without prompting to your now impressed neighbor/relative/friend.
68. Put on boots, coats, hats, gloves and snow pants and just as you're walking out the door hear a rumbling from your child that indicates severe diaper problems, or having your older child say, "I have to go to the bathroom."
69. Realized that children's books are sometimes written for adults.
70. Had to remind yourself not to talk in a sing-songy, supercalm happy voice when speaking to other adults.
71. Sometimes the only constant in your day is that it will eventually end.
72. Discovered that a really childproof room is empty and padded and only exists in insane asylums.
73. Had to backpeddle quickly when you told your child not to do something and they said, "But Mommy, you do it."
74. Dug out a sliver
75. Been ignored. Over and over.
76. Felt that if you get touched one more time you might have to become a hermit.
77. Laughed (with just a bit of hysteria) at the magazine picture of well-behaved children that put together beautiful crafts.
78. Gotten an unexpected kiss and a hug.
79. Had your heart melt when you hear, "Hold me, hold me."
80. Cleaned up a blow out diaper, and managed to salvage the onesie.
81. Thought, "Oh, my parents were right."
82. Prayed really hard that you're raising them to be good, thoughtful, happy people.
83. Hoped they won't remember the time you accidentally dropped/forgot about them.
84. Hoped they will remember the times you read stories/sang/played with them.
85. Felt like the Wicked Witch of the West.
86. Given an Eskimo kiss.
87. Felt your heart strings tug when they first let go of your hand to venture off on their own.
88. Pretended you liked something just to get your kid to eat/do it.
89. Wore matching outfits with your kids and thought it was awesome.
90. Tried to keep the car nice by not allowing food, then gave up and tossed food randomly at your children in an effort to quiet them.
91. Heard your child yell excitedly, "Mommy!" when you walk into the room.
92. Caused extreme giggling (on purpose).
93. Vanquished a monster with a spray bottle.
94. Answered "Why?" questions with preposterous and crazy answers but still not managed to stop the "Why?"s from coming.
95. Bought a really padded bra for protection from elbows and other stray limbs
96. Played the, "I'm going to hide in the _____" version of Hide and Seek
97. Learned to traverse the kitchen with a small child clinging to your legs and the phone on your shoulder.
98. Told yourself, "This is for her good."
99. Known this is the best and hardest job in the world. (But wished for paid time off)

I'm dreaming of a White Christmas

I am awash in a sea of memories, drifting on the gentle swells of Bing Crosby's voice from my White Christmas CD.

White Christmas. That was my dad's favorite Christmas song. When we were kids, he made us learn it in sign language and perform it at every family get together. I hated it then. I'd do it now on a stage in front of the whole entire world if it meant another Christmas with him. That probably makes more sense if you know my parents were deaf.

My mom liked the Christmas hymns best. I have memories of her sticking in a cassette tape and cranking it up, then signing the most beautiful versions of her favorite songs like "O, Holy Night" and "O, Little Town of Bethlehem," her graceful hands and arms tracing the most beautiful Christmas stories in the air, for no one's benefit but her own because she loved those songs so much.

This will be my second Christmas without my parents. My second Christmas that my dad doesn't stuff a grip of batteries on top of the orange my mom always put in the toe of our stockings. The second year that we don't pull out our nice Christmas dishes and spend the afternoon in the kitchen making a turkey gumbo as a family. The second year we don't all squish onto their bed together and watch hours of movies.

I thought it would be easier than last year.

It's not.

But there are consolations, like the ongoing territory war baby G and I are having over the Christmas tree that reduces me to giggles several times a day. Or the stacks of holiday cooking magazines, beckoning me to turn out plate after tin of Christmas baking goodnesss. Or the parties full of friends and laughter.

Missing my mom and dad won't go on forever. If I play my cards right, only the good stuff will go on forever, in its truest sense.

I, Melanie, having been born of goodly parents....

I think they taught me well. I hope they feel like they did. Because I'm counting on forever with them.

Hi-yah! Chop, chop!

Just so you know, if you're reading this in Firefox, it's supposed to look like a notebook. Not seeing it is part of the small price you have to pay for escaping the evil clutches of Internet Explorer.

Today, all the kids had a day off of school and so the babysitting was full at the gym. Instead of taking the psychotic kickboxing class, I ended up pushing baby G in his stroller for a brisk walk along the beach. It was a beautiful day, but I could feel just the faintest nip of fall in the air, which doesn't show up around here until close to Thanksgiving.

I could barely wait to go home and look at my Michael's Crafts Sunday circular and start drooling over the Christmas decorations.

And I started thinking of family traditions. Our little family is still new. We've only been married for just shy of two years so we're figuring things out. Like who's in charge of taking the kids trick-or-treating (not me!) and where we spend New Year's.

Growing up, our holidays were pretty straight forward. We all piled into the car for a trip to the video store and then we each picked out a movie. My dad always got an old Western or musical, my brother and I got something we'd already seen five times, and my sister picked out something Disney, I'm sure. But my mom...

She always got the most violent, shoot-'em-up, swashbuckling, karate-chopping action she could find that was rated PG-13 or lower. It never occurred to me to ask why, considering that my mother in every way was a sweet, gentle, and peaceful soul. She had a glowing smile, a quiet voice, and a long fuse. Finally, a few years ago, I figured out that maybe her film bloodlust was a little out of character.

So I asked her, why? Why the Van Damme and Stallone flicks, the multiple viewings of Krull, the screeching car chases, the sword fights?

And she gave me an explanation that I never would have thought of. But should have. She was deaf and had to watch everything with closed captioning. She said, "Talking movies are boring. Blah, blah, blah. It's like reading a book. If I wanted to read a book, I'd read a book. In action movies, there's not so much talking. Much better." And all of this was accompanied by a super cute nose wrinkle at "talking movies" and an adorable little hand gesture at "blah, blah, blah."

I miss my cute little bloodthirsty mom.

An Adventure, In Which I Save Us All From Getting Blowed Up

This one time, I lived in my parents' garage for five years in a non-loserish, non-broke kind of way that's a long story. (But I'll tell it to you: my parents sat around looking morose for a month when they found out I was moving back to California, saying how they really wanted to spend time with their only grandchild and so I should move in with them, and since the garage was converted and tricked out and on the complete opposite side of the house from them, I gave in since it was the only time they ever tried to blatantly manipulate me and it ended up working out well cuz they kept getting sick and I was right there to help out, so I was not a garage-dwelling loser!)

And one day I was working on my computer and I thought I smelled something burning, which usually just meant that my mom was in the kitchen. But this was extra acrid so I went out to investigate. My mom was in the kitchen but she just had an unburnt baked potato, so I set my sniffer to work. Something wasn't right, but it was a smell that was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, like Santa Claus except for menacing. Last time that happened, it turned out to be the leftover stargazer lilies from my friend's wedding decomposing all over the house, but we were currently flower-free at that moment, so I looked for a different answer.

Nothing.

I gave up and went back to my computer, probably working on stupid lesson plans, when a few minutes later, smoke started pouring in around me from the air vent in the ceiling. I hopped up and yelled at my mom in sign language (cuz my folks were deaf) to get everyone out of the house (my dad, her and my son), grabbed the phone and made a 911 call, and then saved everyone's life by manhandling the half dozen or so huge medical oxygen tanks in the entry way out of the house and across the street to the neighbors while my mom herded out my bewildered father and wide-eyed son in front of her.

The fire station was just at the bottom of the hill from us so within minutes, the fire truck was whipping around the curves of our narrow street and about eight firemen jumped off and were running for the house before the truck even screeched to a stop. The neighbors began to join us, of course, because the best place to be when a house is smoking mysteriously is directly in front of it. And smoke was definitely drifting out of the doors.

The firemen scurried in and out, using special heat-sensing equipment, asking me questions, but unable to find the source of the billowing smoke. At first, they looked worried. They spent a great deal of time checking the ceiling in my room. Then they began to look less stressed. Then they started to look amused. Then they began to grin at me and take it easy as they went back and forth between me and the house. Even my mom, who was convinced I usually imagined stuff like this, noticed all the odd looks.

Finally, they reported that it was a faulty ignition something or other on our heater and everything was okay but we needed to get it inspected ASAP. They helped bring the oxygen tanks back into the house and then left, grinning the whole time.

I shrugged it off, thankful I wasn't all blown up and stuff.

Then I walked into my room to see the damage. There wasn't much. Oh, except to my pride. Because it seemed they had focused their attention on the duct work above my bed. And on my bed was a giant pile of underwear, sorted, but not put away yet. Bright red bras hanging off the stupid bed posts, assorted panties in flourescent florals or heaven forbid, cartoon prints.

And worse, because the fire station was in my neighborhood, I ran into these guys all the time at fast food places and the grocery store after that. Big grin, every time. Not me. Them.

Kinda sucked.

So remember what your mom always told you about wearing clean underwear in case you get in an accident. Except you should also have clean underwear in case your house is almost going to blow up and people need to get into your ceiling.

Now you know.

And yes, the firemen were cute. Sorry, honey, but it was before I knew you and I never could look them in the eye after that, anyway.

Mommy Badge of Honor

A few days ago, I posted about dumb things I did in public this weekend. I reached number six on my top ten list in one day, which made me sure I would stockpile incidents seven through ten in no time at all. I was kind of right.

I was standing in line for a workshop or a free book or food (okay, probably food), keeping my mouth shut and not scratching anything. My clothes were free of salad dressing, butter, and highlighter marks. I secured the area to ensure there was no water to knock over. I wasn't dumb enough to feel confident, but my nerves were settled. It would take a greater genius than me to create a minor disaster with nothing in arm's reach. Then again, I underestimated my own genius.

I heard a snicker behind me.

Don't think I'm paranoid when I tell you that snickering in my proximity is pretty much always about me. I could dedicate an entire blog to a detailed rundown of all the ways in which I have totally earned my snickers. So I looked around and found the girl behind me smothering a smile. Smarting from my humiliating Day Glo skin disorder of the day before, I didn't even try diplomacy. I turned fully and smiled. "Yes?" I asked politely. Meaning, "Bring it on."

"Nice band-aid," she said.

I didn't even have to look to find the new item on my List of Shame. I knew exactly what she was talking about. Let me set the scene: I was wearing my new Ann Taylor Loft skirt, knee-length and pencil cut with a cool abstract brown and yellow floral print. (Trust me, it sounds like baby puke but it was cute). I topped it with a cream shirt and a three quarter sleeve brown cardigan. I felt like I looked sharp. I also had my favorite brown wedge platform sandals on. Not bad for a mom who didn't sleep most of the night due to the fact that NO ONE IN SAN FRANCISCO EVER SLEEPS and and they had all hung out UNDER MY WINDOW the night before. I considered being at my conference on time in fairly unwrinkled clothes a victory.

But I had forgotten that my crop pants the day before hid the band-aid I stuck over an unsightly mosquito bite on my calf. The bright blue and yellow Spongebob band-aid. No, not bright. Make that screaming neon. Now totally exposed by my oh-so-chic skirt.

I will bet money that I was the only person in the San Francisco Marriott with a Spongebob bandaid on her calf. I bet everyone else has normal colored band-aids at their house. I bet no one forgets to buy the lovely flesh toned strips every time they go to the store.

I smiled weakly and almost turned around, ready to make it Number Seven on my downward spiral to a dubious top ten. But then I stopped. And I firmed up my smile. And I said, "I stole it from my kid."

And I was proud. Because that stupid Spongebob band-aid said clearly that I am a MOM. And so I wore it all day as a Mommy Badge of Honor.

I don't think I even want the fake skin ones now. Bring me your Scoobys, your Harry Potters and your Hot Wheels. They will find refuge on my calves!

A Good Gift

My sister called a couple of nights ago and wanted to know what I was doing for our mom's birthday on Saturday. "Not much,"I said. Which suprised her a little, I think. I'm the one who makes a big deal out of stuff like that. My mom would have been 61. But she passed away last January.

In the end, my sister spent the day hiking. I spent the day at a writing conference. And my brother spent the day running a big swing dancing event in LA. We were all doing something we love, following our bliss for a day. I think my mom would have loved that.

Happy birthday, Mom.