Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Another December loss

As December approached, I wanted to just stay in bed. I didn't want to do Momma's death anniversary. I didn't want to walk through the motions of doing Christmas while still very deeply mourning. Every fiber of my being screamed that the best place for me to be was deep, deep under my down comforter.

Then, just as the week I had dreaded approached, we received the best gift possible: we found out we were expecting again. The idea of a new baby - a new life to hold and cradle and celebrate - seemed to put the world back into balance. We already had such sweet joy in B and our nieces and nephew... this would just be joy multiplied. And how fitting was the timing? It almost seemed as if it was a gift straight from my mom.

And, as most expectant parents do, we began to plan. The serious: More life insurance? Bigger house? The fun: Matching Halloween costumes? Joint birthday parties?

These monumental days began to take shape in our minds. January 7th... first ultrasound! February 14th... gender ultrasound! May 19th... third trimester starts! August 18th... he or she is here!

We thought of how this new baby would line up with our other friend's babies. Whose class they would be in for school. Who would they be closest to. We dreamed about B as a big sister and slightly panicked about how Boones would react to another intruder in her house.

Though I mourned the idea of having a sweet new baby without my momma here, I was still elated. It felt like for the first time in over a year there was more sweetness than sadness in a day. I woke up smiling instead of wincing. Looking forward became a whole new pleasant exercise for me. Mother's Day this year wouldn't be the open wound it was last year, but rather the almost-there-point of becoming a mother again. Instead of next Christmas being two years motherless, it would be our first Christmas as parents of two.

Christmas seemed magical and hopeful and all that is good again.

And then, in the calm darkness of Sunday morning, as the rest of Atlanta was still dreaming, it all ended. In a few hours of pain and worry, knowing nurses' eyes and empty ultrasound pictures, in a kindly doctor's hushed, empathetic tones, it was over.

We were two days shy of being six weeks. The baby was a size of a lentil. So small, but already so wonderfully and fearfully made.

So small, but already so loved. So cherished. So prayed for and wanted. There were already so many dreams and hopes for this child.

But once again at Christmas, we find ourselves facing loss and grief and a sudden, abrupt change in how we thought our lives were going.

Last Sunday was the Fourth Sunday in Advent. In churches across the world, the fourth candle - the Love Candle - was lit. It seems an appropriate candle for how we felt that day. We love that child, that tiny soul, with all that we are as parents and human beings. We love our friends and family, who have shielded us with their concern and kindness. We love those of our friends that have opened up to us with full hearts their own stories of expectant love and sudden loss. We love our sweet B, who continues to smile and laugh though the adults around her are crumbling.

And we love our God, our strong, faithful, ever present God. I don't pretend to understand why after a year of so much grief and pain, we would have a few weeks of pure sunshine only to be cast back into the shadows. I do have faith, though, that in some way God will use this for good. That all will be right in His perfect timing. And that through it all, there was love.

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.” (John 3:16-17)

Thursday, November 27, 2014

It is not Thanksgiving until something is on fire.

As a family, I think we do a lot of things well. Great Fourth of July barbecues. Excellent Christmas desserts. We even are able to be fun and obnoxious on St Patrick's with our insistence on wearing orange. Thanksgiving, though, is not really our forte.

Thanksgiving pasts with my immediate family looks like a long list of bad Friend's episodes:
1) The One Where The Dog Knocked Over The Christmas Tree Because He Was Chasing A Mouse (2000) Really, though, that one is on us for having the tree up before Christmas. 

2) The One Where Maggie And Dad Both Had Bronchitis (2002)

3) The One Where We Broke The Fridge And The Pumpkin Pie Within Three Minutes Of Waking Up (2012) Some people still ate the pumpkin pie despite it being involved in the chaos and spending a fair amount of time on the kitchen floor. They will remain nameless for the sake of their dignity.

4) The One Where I Was Gross Preggo And Our Usual Two Hour Trip To The Aunt's Took Four Hours Because I Couldn't Even (2011)

5) The One Where I Ended Up In Urgent Care And Between Breathing Treatments Tried to Convince The Doctor I Was Totally Okay To Go To The UVA/VT Game That Weekend (2003) Fun fact: That was the last year UVA won the rivalry game. Wait... that is actually not fun at all. 

6) The One Where Molly and Momma Both Were Sick* And Maggie Had To Cook All By Herself With No Prior Experience (2000) *The level of some people's sickness and inability to help is still hotly debated in the Bowden household. 

This year alone, we had a grease fire, a fire in the oven that required every window in the house to be opened in 30 degree weather, and a microwave fire. All before actual Thanksgiving Day.

Nothing, though, can top our first Thanksgiving back from Germany. It was 1989. My parents were facing the first "real" Thanksgiving since the death of both of their moms and my mom's beloved grandparents. The two years following the deaths, they had followed custom and Dad had taken us all to eat with the troops in the Mess Hall. Now, though, we were home. And still sad. And Momma just wasn't up for it.

So, a new tradition was born. Dinner at the Officer's Club - surrounded by happy families, delicious food, and beautiful decorations. We would get dressed up, eat out, and all enjoy a movie. All of the family time without any of the kitchen toiling. Besides the inevitable argument of having a 4 year old agree on a movie with a 10 and 12 year old, it was fool-proof.

It started off perfectly. It was a beautiful fall day in Virginia. The food was amazing (even if it did set an unfortunate stage where I believed for a good ten years that people only ate fried chicken and froyo on Thanksgiving) and the siblings and I were keeping our quarreling to a minor hum. For a family that didn't want to concentrate on death and loss and empty seats at the table, it was perfect.

Then halfway into our meal, the grandmother at the table next to us dropped dead. Chair backwards, family aghast, hit us on her way down, dropped dead.

It was awful. Awful. And sad. And I can't even imagine being that poor woman or her family.

But it was Thanksgiving. The Thanksgiving we were going to not think about death or loss or tragedy. And she was right next to our table. 

It is dark and twisted, but it has become part of our family lore. It is the Thanksgiving that makes us cringe and laugh so uncomfortably when we discuss it. We weren't going to think about death and then...

It is the Thanksgiving that all others are now compared to and probably will be for all time. Oh, the house is on fire? Well at least nobody died at the table next to us.

So, there is always that.

From our family to yours, wishing you all a wonderful, happy Thanksgiving. While we miss those we have lost, we are thankful, thankful, thankful for all the love we have shared.

Thanksgiving 1989. Don't hate on Molly's sweater. 



Friday, November 7, 2014

'Cause we need a little Christmas

For the month of October, we did all the Halloween things. All of them. And when we were done with all the Halloween things, we did some more. I drove RB and B crazy, dragging them from pumpkin themed event to pumpkin themed event. Christmas is quickly beginning to shape up the same way. We will visit Santa in multiple different venues, check out the toddler plays, see the lights, listen to the music. It will be Christmas 24/7 nonstop the second Thanksgiving is over.

Anyone who has known me longer than five seconds will not be surprised by my over-doing it on the holiday cheer. This year, though, I almost feel compelled to over do it. To plan and schedule and book. To pick out cute dresses for B and redo our family decorations. To keep going and going and going with all the festivity and joy I can muster. I feel like if I slow down, if I stop for even one breath, my usual Christmas joy will be replaced by all the pain of the last Christmas season.

So, when RB talks about Thanksgiving this year and our schedule to go to my aunt's, I throw myself into looking up new recipes and finding new Thanksgiving books for B.
I don't want to remember how last year, the day after Thanksgiving, we were driving to Virginia with so much joy and anticipation of the celebration that lay head. Or how Daddy's voice sounded unrecognizable when I picked up the phone and sent a panic through my entire body. How the hours dragged as we tried to make the seven hours left of our drive go as quickly as possible. How all our dearest friends and family sounded as I forced myself to robocall them all at my dad's request. "She has had a stroke. We don't really know more than that. Yes, of course I will keep you updated. No, there is nothing you can do."

As I face down the last few weeks of my twenties, RB softly prods me to say I want to do anything - anything at all - for my 30th. My dearest friends whisper to me about it in hushed tones.
"Let's just get wine. We can all cry. I can't imagine a birthday without your mom."
 I gave RB the go ahead to plan, though. To schedule something with those we love even if it is low key and I cry on the way there and back. A little joy during what will probably be a bleak and wallowing month.
And if I let myself wallow long enough, all I will be able to think about is my last birthday with you. Taking my shift at the hospital, my hand holding yours, my head on the hospital bed. My phone beeped and buzzed with so much love from so many others and all I wanted was you. I begged you and God both, and equally, that you would wake up. You would dry my tears and wish me a happy birthday. That night, confidently, I told Daddy I wasn't opening the presents from you. They
were so beautifully and lovingly wrapped. I wasn't going to do it, I said. I would wait to do it with you, when you were well and could see the enjoyment of what you had so painstakingly purchased. Then, when it was all said and done and those hopes were finally and forever dashed, the presents sat in our house. For months, I stared at them. Unable to open them. They were the last I would ever receive from you. Opening them was just another step in saying goodbye I wasn't willing to take just yet. 

Every year since RB and I have been married, I have been done shopping by Thanksgiving. After returning home from Thanksgiving dinner, we have opened wine, put in a Christmas movie, and I have wrapped all the gifts for hours. We wake up the next morning to the shopping and material busyness of the season over, and only the fun left. This year, I have barely been able to make a list. I am putting it off so in those quiet moments of December, I can run out for one more gift or to check one more relative off my list.
Last year, your list was almost done. Daddy had set up your wrapping station in his office so you could spend the evenings together. You would wrap while he wrote or played on his computer. He asked me to finish the packages. I spent hours sorting through your notes and tags, trying to decipher which nephew Nathan received which wrapped candy. My fingers lingered on the ribbons you had already curled and the scraps of paper you had saved just in case you found the perfect tiny gift to fit them. There was so much love in all of it. So much thought and caring and genuine goodwill towards everyone you adored. 

I will do a 5K under the Christmas lights with some of my sweetest friends next weekend. Others want to wander the Atlanta Botanical Gardens at night. RB wants to give B her first hot chocolate and drive around the suburbs taking in the houses in all their Christmas glory.
That is how I want to think of Christmas lights. Surrounded by those I love, enjoying our time together. The last lights I remember seeing were in the neighborhood where I grew up. The houses pristine, the families merry and celebrating. I drove down the street so bright with all the festivity, exhausted from another 12 hours at the hospital. All I wanted to do was scream. How can everyone else be so happy? So cheerful? Don't they know the world is ending?

As we talk about gifts for B, we turn first to St Nikolaus Day. She will put her shoes out on the 6th and wake up on the 7th to see what the German Santa has brought to her. Growing up, this was always such a fun day - the transition from my birthday to it really being Christmas time in our house. We would wake to the smell of coffee cake and bacon. Our shoes would be overflowing - not with anything grandiose or over the top, but with the little things kids love. Christmas socks and lip gloss. Stickers and new art supplies. One year, Santa brought me "The Magic Locket." I was so excited to read it and wear the locket that accompanied the sweet story of a girl finding her own worth. The locket has long since been lost, but the book sits on B's shelf waiting to become a part of her childhood memories just as St Nikolaus Day will be.
St Nikolaus day last year, we didn't even put out her shoes. RB was driving up from GA the evening of the 7th, doing his best to support our little family in two different states. We gave her the presents with little fanfare, but our sweet little 1 1/2 year old was overjoyed with the Fisher Price Santa Workshop. Her face lit up and she played with it for hours over the following dark weeks. I could barely watch the whole scene. How dare we be doing St Nikolaus Day in your house and you not be there to share it? You would be loving this, Dad kept telling us. Loving every minute of it. But you weren't there. You were in a hospital bed and as each day ticked by it sunk in a little more that you would probably never be coming home. We tried to pretend like that wasn't true. We talked about St Nikolaus Day 2014. How you would delight in seeing the kids set out their shoes. How you would have special treats for them you hadn't told Molly or me about beforehand. We kept talking about the distant future, as if it would all be okay then. It would all be set right again. I knew, though, I think by St Nikolaus Day. I could feel it in my bones that this was done; that we were on borrowed time with you. 

RB has been measuring our den, trying to determine the new placement of the Christmas tree now that every inch of our house seems to be covered in pink and princesses. He wants to go to a Christmas tree farm and take B. We will start off the season with a new family tradition. And I agree. I google the best tree farms in the area and make sure it is penciled in our calendars. It will be another distraction, followed by the hours it will take to decorate and beautify. Followed, of course, by the countless hours of helping B take the non-breakable ornaments off the tree and put them back on again and again and again.
There were always so many beautiful trees in our home growing up. You always had a tree in my bedroom that was my very own and had multi-colored lights that shone brightly all night. Everyone else in the family hated the multi-colored lights but they were my absolute favorite. I would lie awake at night watching them, basking in the warmth that the lights and your love exuded. Now, when I think of your Christmas trees, I see the very last one. You had just finished decorating it when you had your stroke. It was tall and beautiful and took up almost the entire sun room. Someone turned it on the night you passed. Me, maybe? Or, RB to distract B? Maybe it was one of the women from the church. That first night, though, with you gone it shone magnificently - the only light in an otherwise dark and hurting house. Neither Daddy nor I could stomach going upstairs. He wasn't ready to face an empty room without you and I felt too numb to move. So, we slept on the couch. He in your favorite chair. Me curled in a ball across from the tree. So many times I woke up that night, awash in the glow from your perfect tree. My heart filled with the love of Christmas and all the joy and warmth it brings. Then suddenly, each time, the reality of where I was and what we had all lost would hit and the lights of the tree would become blurred in my tears. 

We are filling up our calendar quickly - scheduling and scheduling and scheduling some more. Movies and ornament exchanges. Cookie parties and ballet recitals. Joy and cheer and Christmas mirth. In January, we will slow down again. And it will probably hit me all over again. For now, though, I just want to keep moving and celebrating. Doing all the holiday things that have always been so magical. The ones that remind me of my sweet Momma and how much she loved this time of year. The ones that take me back to being a little girl again, so loved and so happy. The ones that inspire me to be a better mom to B, to fill her every days with the magic of this season.

It won't be the same. It will never be the same again. At least, though, we can have a little bit of the Christmas spirit. We just have to keep going.

Christmas 2013: B playing with Momma's last decorations

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Santa! I know him!

Six hours later and I am still in shock. Complete shock.

2013: B discovers that she hates Santa. Santa doesn't seem too pleased with her either. 
We headed out for our annual visit to Santa this afternoon and I had braced myself for all the chaos that would ensue. I was expecting a repeat of our Easter bunny fiasco  or a picture similar
to last year's - just add a little more hair and a lot more sass.

The day started out headed for disaster. Nap time started late which meant we had to wake B up early to make our Santa appointment.

I know, I know - never wake a sleeping baby. But any Atlanta mom knows that you wake a sleeping baby for the Phipps Santa. The Phipps Santa is serious stuff. You enter a raffle in June just to get a slot to register. Just to register for a chance for an appointment. Six months before Christmas. 

Then, once you have won your coveted registration time two months later in September, you hustle to get the best time slot possible for the actual Santa appointment. You stop whatever you are doing whenever that email comes through to let you know it is go time. This stuff is serious. I mean First World, Suburbia Serious, but serious nonetheless. Rumor has it that if you no-show on your appointment you are blacklisted. People trade their slots on Facebook, pleading with friends to work something out. It is all ridiculous. But we love it. And we wake a sleeping baby to make our appointment on time.

So, we woke her up. As expected, she wasn't pleased. We soldiered on (and maybe bribed with some new books) and headed to the mall.

The minute we got there, there was angry side eye and some loud yells regarding putting a bow in her hair. Same with a headband. She asked 10 times in line to leave. She asked where her dogs were. The babies three people ahead of us howled, while the couple behind us fussed with their toddler's sweater and gave me the judgey look as I tried to tempt B with any - any, please B - of the bows we brought. Listen, lady... all you have to deal with is a pair of khakis and a Polo pull over. Get back to me when you have a girl and all the accessories and attitude that come with her. 

We filled out the wish list for Santa to read to B. We happily told B how excited she should be. It is Santa! Yay! You are going to have so much fun sitting with him! She continued to stare at us, seeing right through our fake smiles and cheer. Please don't scream. Please don't punch him in the face like last year. Please. Please. Please. 

Every bit the line inched forward, my anxiety heightened just slightly. She is going to pull his hair. The whole mall is going to hear the screaming. She is going to be missssssserable. Why do we do this every year? 

The kids in front of us went. Two smiling, perfectly matched little darlings sat on Santa's lap, smiling from ear to ear. Clearly their parents sedated them. Or bribed them. BRIBED THEM. I forgot about bribery. 

I flashed back to my cousins telling me about how they used to smuggle the Phipps Santa M&Ms. Their son would sit in his lap for what seemed like hours, smiling perfectly for the camera, meanwhile being slipped small little colorful disks of chocolate crack. Hey, you do what you have to do for Christmas photos. 

So, we leaned forward and whispered to B "If you go up to Santa, you can Trick or Treat."

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowed, and she pushed to get down from me. "TRICK OR TREATS! TRICK OF TREATS!" Okay, this might be awesome or this might backfire. It is done now. Go big or go home. 

And then.. it was our turn. She was perfect. She sat in his lap. She didn't ask for us or even seem to realize we had moved away and handed her off to a complete stranger. Maybe that is not a good thing... She listened to him and answered his questions. She discussed her boots and her pink dress. She smiled for the photos and waved to the cameraman.

It was perfect. It was unbelievable. This certainly couldn't be the B we all know and love.

RB and I watched in amazement as she behaved beautifully. Santa began reading the wish list we had put together for B. "You want a stuffed pony? Okay! New books? We can do that. Is there anything else you want, little girl?"

"Queso. Queso, please."


Yep. There it is.









Saturday, November 1, 2014

H-A-DOUBLE L-O-W-DOUBLE E-N Spells Halloween

Part of the fun of having a toddler is being able to dress them however you want - especially when it comes to Halloween. It is the one time of their life where you have total say in whatever ridiculous outfit you want to stuff their chunky legs into... and it is glorious. 

RB dove into the idea of dressing up B, planning matching costumes for the two of them while she was still in utero. First year out, we shoved her in a lobster costume and Chef RB carted her around in a giant pot. 
Halloween 2012
2013 was the year of Duck Dynasty. RB and B joined in on the crazy, though most of RB's motivation was really just to have an excuse not to shave (and drive me nuts) for two months. 
Halloween 2013
I thought we had one - maybe even two if we were lucky - more years of total Halloween control.By four, I knew she would have her own opinion and make her own decision. Surely at just barely two, though, we would still have complete say. Like most aspects of raising a toddler, however, I was wrong and reality was far, far different from our expectations. 

Originally, RB planned to grow out just a mustache (again, in an attempt to annoy me beyond belief), channel his inner Libertarian, and head out with B as Ron Swanson and Leslie Knope. This was short-lived once we realized that even if we were able to find a toddler pant suit (which seemed unlikely, thanks a lot Etsy), our little princess was already boycotting all pants on a normal day. "Dress, please," is a common phrase heard throughout our house. Every morning. All morning. 

Revised plan: Find anything fun and colorful that B would love to wear and wouldn't boycott. 

With a Halloween scheduled packed with all the apple-cider drinking, pony riding, pumpkin-carving a two-year old can handle, we picked out three crucial costumes. Three... I know, it is ridiculous. But this is the year of the happy... and so we had three costumes. 

In my "still way over-estimating life with a toddler," sleep-deprived brain, the costumes would be perfect. For Boo at the Zoo, she would be an adorable peacock posing perfectly still next to the zebra pen and the frog statues, smiling from ear to ear. For Trunk or Treat and actual Trick or Treat, she would shine in her homemade, beautiful Ariel costume. For our Mommy's Group party, she would marvel as a little mini-Audrey Hepburn, bouncing around in a black tutu dress, twirling in her over-sized pearls and quintessential Audrey sunglasses. 

Yeah. 

That didn't happen. 

How the peacock costume should have looked:
Pictures and delusions of life brought to you by
Pottery Barn Kids
Boo at the Zoo hit first, and to prep we showed B her peacock costume for two weeks before the big event. We read books about peacocks and watched some YouTube videos about the animal. We all took turns wearing the Peacock hat, with B taking special delight at her Dad's turn. (Picture not available due to threat of divorce by RB). 

The big day came and we were ready to go. We parked at the zoo, surrounded by tigers and bears and eight-thousand little Elsas climbing out of their parents' SUVs. B jumped out, jabbering about seeing friends and pandas and riding horses (because, obviously, that is something she should get to do every weekend now). 

Confidently, I whipped out the peacock costume and cheerfully let B know it was time to put it on! We were going to be a peacock! It was going to be so fun! Yay, themes! Yay, memories! 

Within two seconds, I am fairly confident all of Atlanta could hear the displeasure coming from this tiny little girl. There was yelling and pleading. "No, pea, please. No, pea, please!" There were tense discussions between Momma and Daddy. There was input from strangers. "Stay strong, Mom!" "We have all been there!" Really? You have been there, sir? You have been trying to wrangle a toddler in the middle of a hot parking lot into a bright teal, harbinger of toddler-angst, felt demon while all of the Metropolitan-area - including your husband - takes bets on who will win this battle of wills? Sure you have.
Boo at the Zoo: Clearly a peacock. 

It took one minute of the high pitched screaming for me to cave. Fine. No peacock dress. You want to go naked to church, I will stand strong. But you don't want to wear some ridiculous costume you had no say in selecting for an event you won't remember in a week? You win. The threat of the peacock costume left its impact, though, and it took another twenty minutes of parking lot, desperate crying for us all to calm down and actually enter the zoo. Note to Atlanta Zoo: Please start selling wine. Immediately. 

By that time, she wouldn't even wear a seasonally-themed dress. So, in we entered with her proudly displaying shiny, blue tights - two sizes too big - and a leotard. The one upside to the whole draining morning was having complete strangers guess what she was. A bruise? A snowflake? A winter ballerina? I don't even know what a winter ballerina is, but apparently that is what B looked like. 

Screaming with happiness
because she got her way. 
Who run the world?
For Trunk or Treat, I had lost all my will. All of it. My plans to Pinterest-up a beautiful, made with love by mom Ariel costume was replaced by my overwhelming desire to not have an epic meltdown in the middle of a church parking lot. So, we went with an oldie but goodie, well-loved, oft-worn Ariel costume. I don't even remember where we bought this thing or who might have gifted it to us. All I know is that she will wear it with no screaming or tears. So, we threw it on, joined our group, and celebrated Trunk or Treat. RB donned his King Triton costume, I stalked B as Ursula, and it all went off without a hitch if you don't count B's instance that she, and she alone, gets to wear a crown. 

Confidence returned after the success of Trunk or Treat, I woke up bright-eyed and optimistic on Halloween morning. We will wear our Audrey Hepburn costume this morning! All the Etsy searching will not have been a total waste! Again - memories! Pictures! Halloween! 

I thought when B screamed at the peacock costume, that was the loudest she could be. I was wrong. So very, very wrong. We sat outside the park for the playgroup party while B threw a tantrum truly fitting for the horror of  All Hallow's Eve. I knew before we started there were some battles not worth fighting and this was probably one of them. Still, I decided to try one trick: Convince B the costume was for a queen. I mean... it comes with a tiara after all. How could it not be a queen costume? 

Stroke of genius. She stopped crying. She smiled. She said please and reached for the outfit. For a full 15 seconds. She put on the tiara, the pearls, let me slide on the gloves and then we were right back to a parking lot show down. Just like Boo at the Zoo, there was yelling. There was crying (mostly mine at this point). There were other moms offering to help and there, mocking me, was that stupid black leotard. 

'Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play
And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate
Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake
I shake it off, I shake it off
Then, she drew a line in the sand. Not only would she not wear an Audrey costume, but she wouldn't wear anything at all. No leotard. No shoes. Nothing. Forget the fact that it was a brisk 50 degrees, this little girl was changing gears and donning her birthday suit for this year's costume.

I am not sure anyone has really witnessed the audacity of toddler-hood until they have seen a two-year old wearing only a diaper, twirling costume pearls in the front seat of a (non-moving, completely off, of course) car, screaming "No clothes! No dress! Bonnie naked only!"

After a few minutes of letting her scream, I walked back to the car.
Me: Are you ready to calm down?
B: Yes.
Me: Do you want to go home?
B: Nooooooooooooo.
Me: Will you wear clothes?
B: Yes. Ariel, please.

"Ariel, please," might as well be cross-stitched and hung on our wall. So we dug out the two-sizes too big, waiting to be returned to Party City, Ariel costume that was laying in the trunk. And I caved. And she had a great time, running around, chasing her friends, dragging her fins. She wasn't Audrey, but she was thrilled.

Halloween night, we didn't temp fate. We popped on her Ariel costume and let her prance from house to house in total bliss.

And as we drove home from our friend's house last night, an exhausted mermaid asleep in our back seat, RB held my hand. Deep in thought, he turned to me and said "Next year, we should do Merida from Brave. She can be Merida, I will be King Fergus, and you can be the Bear Queen. And let's have triplet boys by then to be the princes."

Yeah... you are definitely on your own for that one, buddy.










Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Your Momma's So...

I ugly cried today. U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi, bad acting in a Lifetime movie, eyes swelling shut, kind of cry.

B and I started our day off at an adorable farm in the middle of the 'burbs, petting ponies, feeding pigs, and trying to figure out why the chickens wouldn't let us hold them. It was the perfect fall morning with the sun shining down on us. Near the end of our visit, we found ourselves on the tractor ride, sitting in the back of a rusty wagon, waiting to be pulled through a couple of acres of trees. As I looked at all the sweet toddlers pushing for room on the benches and gabbing to their mommas, it hit me like a brick. Everyone was there with their grandmothers. Everyone except us.

Sweet little voices called out "Gigi" and "Mimi" and something that sounded like "Boopie." In the Deep South, it is unclear if that was her grandmother moniker or her given name. She was a grandmother, nonetheless. The daughters took pictures of the smiling generations above and below them and there was a general consensus that we were in some sort of Hallmark commercial.

The grandmothers started introducing their little ones as we waited for our ride to start, comparing all the stats. Age. How many grandkids they have. Whether they lived in town or were just visiting. Slowly the introductions made it around the circle as I bit my lip and focused on answering B's questions about why there were no doggies riding with us. When it got to us, I plastered on the biggest fake smile I had, introduced B, and said cheerily, "It is just us today!"

The grandmother next to me patted my knee sweetly, and chirped, "Well, be sure to send your mom lots of pictures! And bring her next time!"

And I lost it. Ugly cry, frightened the other tractor riders, I wish someone would have just sedated me, lost it.

And when my tears had dried, when all the grandmothers had hugged me and told me about losing their own moms (or their fear of when that happens to their 90 year old moms), and the girls my age had looked at me with pity and heartbreak in their own eyes while subconsciously resting their hands on their own moms, we started the stupid tractor ride.

And it was perfect. We saw horses and squirrels. We stopped in a garden and learned about fall vegetables. A butterfly landed a foot away from B, and her smile and squeals were pure joy. It was the best morning we could have asked for this last day of this long September.

So, as we drove the long back roads home and B slept in the back seat, I thought about the morning. Had I ruined the morning for the other farm visitors? Was the whole tractor ride tainted by the sad girl with the seemingly endless stream of tears? I hope not.

It occurred to me, as well, that lately, friends are shielding me. Arguments with their moms aren't discussed or are abruptly ended with "I shouldn't be talking to you about this. It is really not a big deal." Mother daughter dates are glossed over with a "Oh, yep, we had fun" rather than the details I would have been given a year ago.

And that is sad. Friends not willing or wanting to share their own joy is so, so sad.

Don't stop sharing. Don't stop telling me about the joy you have with your mom, the wonderful relationship she has with your kids, how crazy she is driving you about where you are going to spend Christmas when it is only July.

Your having a relationship with your mom doesn't heighten my grief. Your hiding your relationship doesn't lessen it. If anything, I take joy in the fact that there are so many wonderful women I know who have strong, wonderful relationships with their own moms.

When I see your mom beaming more than you at your baby shower, my heart soars. Sure, I might cry a bit in the car on the way home, but I am elated for you. For her. For your unborn baby.

When your mom writes something on your Facebook wall that was meant to be private, I cringe and laugh with you. I don't begrudge you the adorable mess.

When you and your mom fight over something small - or even something big - I want to hear it. I still want to be the friend who you can lean on and who can relate. Sure, some of my bite might be gone and I might preach a lot more "life is short, give grace" but I am still there.

This past Mother's Day, as my Facebook feed filled with beautiful pictures of my friends and their beloved mommas, I couldn't look away. Not out of grief or heartbreak, but out of true happiness for all the love these pictures showed. All the relationships with their own little unique languages and patterns, all the memories that are still to be made. Each photograph was so precious in its own right and each reminded me in some way of my own sweet momma. Not of what I had lost, no. It reminded me of what I had experienced. And lived. And been blessed to call my own.

So, please, share your moms with those of us who find ourselves motherless. We promise to share in all your happiness and joy... and keep the ugly crying to a minimum. At least in front of the kids.
One of my favorite Gamma Phi events: Mother Daughter Tea.
How wonderful to see all these amazing women and the women that raised them. 




Sunday, September 28, 2014

That's the Glory of Love

Tomorrow would be Momma's 66th birthday. More than all those firsts in the time since her passing, this one seems the most personal. 

All the other days had distractions - holidays to be celebrated, family to see, other bright moments on which we could focus our attention. Her birthday, though, is all hers. The 29th has always just been her day, late September synonymous in our little family with celebrating her and all that she was to us. 

Last year, we celebrated and celebrated. We threw a surprise party for her 65th. Family came from the opposite coast, dear friends kept secrets for months, and those she treasured sent cards and notes telling stories of their lives together. When she walked in the door and saw everyone there, she cried. She cried and hugged and laughed and cried some more. We had debated not doing it - maybe we should wait until 70? Or, channel all our energy into her retirement party? We never imagined she wouldn't make it to either of those milestones. 

Now, looking back, how thankful I am that we threw her the party. That two months to the day before her stroke all those she loved were able to let her know how much she meant to them. How much she was loved. And cherished. And valued. 

We have always been a little over the top on birthdays in our family. Parties have been big and presents planned for months. They seem all the more important now, as does each day. We are not promised tomorrow, let alone the next milestone to celebrate. So tomorrow, I am going to celebrate. Celebrate the 65+ years we had her. The 29 years I had her. All that was wonderful and amazing and totally unique about her. 

B and I are going to go to the park and breath in the fall air, talk about the leaves changing, and remember all Momma loved about this time of year. We will read the fall books she sent B last year, holding tight to the inscriptions on the inside cover so lovingly written for her youngest granddaughter. 

I might even watch Beaches with a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream, remembering all the times of my childhood we curled up together under a blanket on a rainy day, crying our eyes out the minute Barbara Hershey couldn't make it up the stairs. Momma would always pause it (okay, technically tell me to pause it because she didn't know how) and sigh deeply. "I just wish she could live. Her baby needs her. I just wish she could live."

Me too, Momma. Me too. 




You've got to give a little, take a little
And let your poor heart break a little
That's the story of, that's the glory of love



You've got to laugh a little, cry a little
Before the clouds roll by a little
That's the story of, that's the glory of love



As long as there's the two of you
You've got the world and all its charms



And when the world is through with you
You've got each other's arms



You've got to win a little, lose a little
And always have the blues a little
That's the story of, that's the glory of love



As long as there's the two of you
You've got the world and all its charms




And when the world is through with you
You've got each other's arms



You've got to win a little, lose a little
And always have the blues a little




That's the story of, that's the glory of love
That's the story of, that's the glory of love



65th Birthday Pictures courtesy of the wonderfully talented Lindsay Collette

Lyrics from "The Glory of Love" - One of Momma's favorite scenes from Beaches 

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Hot Fudge Puff

If you asked our family friends what foods they thought of when they thought of us, they would probably answer with one of three things: Wine Cake, Seven Layer Dip, or Hot Fudge Puff.

You fancy, wine cake... even when you aren't a bundt cake.
The wine cake is legendary... mainly because as seventh graders, the idea of eating a yellow cake soaked in sherry for three days was crazy enough that we had a contact high just from being in the same room. It is a staple at the Annual Atlanta Christmas Ladies' Brunch and Molls makes countless mini versions for neighbors and friends every year. The recipe is a well-guarded family secret, except for the seven years I didn't know it was a secret and emailed it out to everyone who as much hinted at a fondness for Williams-Sonoma shaped bunt pans or booze-filled desserts. Whoops.

The Seven-Layer Dip is basically the most American-ized version of the Mexican (Tex Mex? Made up from some guy who has never been South of the Border? Something random our mom saw on the back of a box of sodium and chemical laced taco seasoning? Who knows.) recipe possible. There are no olives. The refried beans are kept to a bare minimum. Guacamole is rarely included because it is just so hard to mesh up that many avocados. It is basically a glorified bowl of sour cream and cheese. In other words, it is amazing. It was a staple, though, at every class party or shower thrown at our house. We made it in college for late night snacks and RB and I bonded over it on a rainy Labor Day in Charleston the summer we became friends.

Hot Fudge Puff was a "fancy" staple growing up in our house. Originally, it was reserved for dinner's with dad's bosses and old friends in town. It was served right before the kids were ushered off to bed and always with fine china. It included fresh cherries and huge chunks of pecans and was always served with coffee in the formal living room. It might make an appearance twice a year - at most.

As things tend to do, though, the family evolved and so did the dessert - reflecting our new lives. I started being allowed to stay up late, which meant the cherries became an optional side and not a staple. Though, to this day, I still have the "Wait? You don't like cherries? Since when?" conversation with my dad each time it's served (Daddy, if you are reading this - I also still don't like seafood. Since always. Yes, I have tried it. No, I don't want to try it again. Yes, that includes crabcakes. They are basically just giant spiders that live underwater.). RB became a fixture at our holiday dinner table, and so the pecans were 86'd. Not because he is allergic to nuts, but just because he apparently has an allergy to awesome.
Fourth of July 2013.
No time to remove goggles. Must start eating. 

Then, the first grandbaby came. And, a short 13 months later, #2 and #3 arrived. Suddenly, we weren't waiting for formal occasions anymore. Hot Fudge Puff became a staple at Mom's house. It was made constantly, with my mom always offering some excuse as to why the kids should get some ("They played so hard in the pool! It's only 18 days until Christmas! Well, I already told them I was going to do it, so ... I am doing it.") It somehow stopped being called "Baked Fudge Puff" and became "Hot Fudge Puff" during those years.

Momma would make it quickly and efficiently, rarely needing to consult the recipe. She would let the babies smell vanilla and sometimes let them lick the spatula if my sister wasn't looking. She would tell stories about making it every Sunday night with her own mom and how her family loved it growing up. This, though, is highly disputed by her older brother and sister. My Uncle Ronnie was visiting Atlanta several years ago, so I made Hot Fudge Puff as a nostalgic throwback. He listened to my retelling of my mom's story of it being a staple in their West Virginia home, took a big bite, and smiled broadly. "This is delicious, but I have never had this a darn day in my life." Aunt Pookie agreed. Many Kyle stories end in this sort of disagreement, inevitably leaving future generations very confused about their family history.

A few days after Momma's passing, I sat shell shocked on my parents' couch. I could barely see straight through the grief and didn't even realize Soph was in the room. Quietly, she came and curled up next to me, her long legs pulled into her chest protectively. She wasn't her usual active self, and I could tell she was thinking hard about Mom - her nickname for her grandmother.

"Aunt Maggie?"
"Yeah, Soph?"
"If Mom's gone, now... who will teach me how to make hot fudge puff?" she asked so quietly I almost didn't hear.

I looked up from the fog I was in, and saw her big brown eyes - exact replicas of my mom's - brimming with tears.

"Will we not have it anymore? It is a tradition, right? How will we do it without Mom?"
"Oh, Soph.Your momma and I will. Just like Grandma's mom (supposedly) taught her. And like she taught us. We will teach you, sweet girl."
"Okay... I don't think it will be the same without her, though."

"I have to fil this WHOLE cup up? That
seems like a lot of sugar."
And it won't. It hasn't been. This Fourth of July, though, just like last Fourth of July, we made hot fudge puff. We measured the cocoa and the vanilla. I cracked the eggs because "Momma says raw eggs kill you" and Colin worked diligently as "official taste tester." The kids asked for it for breakfast the next morning and their request was granted way too early.

And, like last year, there was too much Mexican food and not enough sleep. There were pool days and laughter and retelling of the same stories for the millionth time. There was the singing of patriotic songs and prayers thanking our Lord for this country and fireworks that were probably age inappropriate.

This year, there was also tears. And a longing and ache that won't go away.

"I will supervise. I have practice
on my fake kitchen at home."
The babies saw all of it. They saw the good and bad - the sudden crying at an unexpected flash of memory and the deep belly laughs that only come when you are in the comfort of those you love the most. They saw more happiness than sadness, though - probably for the first time since November.

Fourth of July 2014
Sweet Lilly, so proud of her baking skills
And they had hot fudge puff. With whip cream and no cherries or pecans. They will have it next year, too. Probably at Christmas as well and when they come to visit in a few weeks. We will make it every chance we get so they learn how to do it and can show their own kids, telling their own babies about how Mom used to make this for them. How her house smelled like chocolate for days afterwards and how she would let them sneak cold bites straight from the fridge when no one was looking. How they could feel her love in every bite and taste the joy she had in being their grandmother. And then, hopefully, their kids will know her - at least know her love. All through a little cocoa and butter.




Saturday, June 14, 2014

Let's hear it for the boys.

My life has been pretty "Mom" centric the past few years: new moms are showered more than new dads. There's a mommies group; the guys just tend to get dragged along to a bbq once or twice a year to huddle in mass, discussing the best way to light stuff on fire. I had a little girl, which is a special mother/daughter bond. And, of course, with the passing of my momma, most of my thoughts and conversations and focus has been all about moms since November.

Through it all though - the ups and downs of new motherhood, the loss of my own mom - standing quietly and strongly, these two have been there:
Are they wearing the same suit? Cause that would be weird...
1985 Style
Growing up, my mom and I were close. But my dad... my dad and I could be the same person. We bonded easily over board games and politics. We shared a love of history and the same legendary stubbornness of our ancestors. We had Friday Night Date Nights that I will hold in my heart until I am old and gray. We had a yearly trip to Water Country until the summer I left for college and election nights were spent calling him every half hour to discuss the most recent results.

And through it all, he served as my moral compass. He taught my Sunday School class for 14 years and etched
Dad, his two oldest kids, and his favorite
Bible verses onto my heart. He taught me daddy lessons - and called them daddy lessons. They were always followed by a number ("Precious, do you remember Daddy Lesson #2342?) yet the numbers were never the same, even when I sometimes needed to hear the same lesson over and over. Some were more practical ("Precious, you are probably just better off calling AAA then trying to do this yourself again.") and others have shaped my life ("The only thing you ever have is your name. Make it an honorable one.")

More than anything though, he taught me love. Love of learning. Love of competition. Love of laughter and dark beer (not until I was 21, of course). Love of old movies. And an even more important love - love of God, country, and family.

He also taught me strength. Growing up when I would complain about something he would always respond with, "You know your ancestors were frontier people? You are frontier stock. You can handle this." It was his own original version of first world problems. It was said lightheartedly when I was whining
I am on a boat.
incessantly
 simply pointing out something I was not completely satisfied with at the moment. It was also, though, a guiding principle. Think about how much those before me have faced? I can face anything.

That love and strength in large ways shaped who I am today. It also, I believe, shaped my marrying RB. I wanted someone who was loving. And strong. And would be an amazing father. I wanted my future kids to have a generous, invested, fun dad like I did. Someone who could just as easily spend hours in the pool, goofing off as they could leading and teaching and being a father.

New Dad. Already so at ease. 
Fast forward  3 1/2 years into our marriage, and here comes B - 8 lbs of pure, never-stopping energy. With her arrival came all the new fears of motherhood. What kind of world is this to raise an innocent child? Will I read her the right stories? Sleep train? Teach her manners? Will I be enough? The one thing I never worried about, though, was would RB be enough.

He took up fatherhood like it was his destiny. He handled a crying B as easily as a happy go lucky B. He kept his cool when she choked in a restaurant and whipped out his Heimlich skills - while I screamed and acted like a total banshee. He has taught her the good (he really helped her master "please") and the... um... less than good (Babe, look how far she jumps if I throw her off the bed).

We are on Team Not-Mom 
I already see who she is becoming and so much of it is because of him. She is fearless. Quick to laugh. Kind and gentle with those she loves but a fighter when necessary (though in her 22 month old brain, necessary can sometimes mean someone looked at her. We are working on it.). She is fascinated by football and makes the same face he does when I try to feed her a new veggie. Her eyes sparkle like his and she paces the front hall when it is time for him to be home.

Especially this past six months, he has been her rock. Since momma's death, he has come home, scooping her in his arms, and softly said "upstairs?" Biting back tears I have been holding in all day, I have nodded and quickly escaped to our room to sob and mourn. He has stayed - focused on her, continuing her day of fun and joy - sparing her from having to experience the grief of the world just yet. Every step of the way, he picked up my parenting slack even though he was exhausted, commuting between Georgia and Virginia for six weeks to support us, and also grieving. He was the father she needed and still needs, never faltering.

Though he jokes about "may the next child be a masculine child," he is a champ at being a little girl's daddy. Just as my sweet daddy used to let me put bows in his hair and took me to see "The Little Mermaid" in theaters, RB knows all the words to Ariel's songs and was one of only two dads who showed up at story time with Elsa (if you can read this and assume Elsa is a sweet librarian in our town, you obviously don't have kids. Or kids between the ages of 1 - 10). At the same time, he has taught her about trains and every day suggests our activity be Lego World downtown (No. Too young. Too many choking hazards.).

Every day that she blossoms, he blossoms more and more as a father.

B and I are lucky girls. So loved. So blessed. So cherished. Happy Father's Day to the two greatest men I know. Even if B does make this face when she is with you...


Sunday, May 11, 2014

Lessons From My Second Mother's Day

First time holding my girl
7-15-12
My dearest Bon Bon,

I can't believe my second Mother's Day with you has come and (almost) gone. It seems that it was just a second ago that we found out we were expecting you. Now, in just two short months, you will be two.

This motherhood thing has certainly been an adventure. We have had our ups and downs. I have had my moments where I shone as a mom and moments where I fell flat on my face. You, my darling girl, have been a blessing from the start... even though I am fairly certain you have only slept for 17 hours total since the day you were born.

These past couple months have been hard. The hardest. I haven't been the mom I should be. There have probably been too many viewings of Frozen and too few books. I have been here, but not always present. And through it all - through the time your sweet Ganma was in the hospital and the week of her funeral, through the trip to Arlington to bury her, your Papa and me packing up my childhood home, and the extra long phone calls to your Aunt Molly, you have been an angel. Always smiling, always hugging, you have been my sunshine when the skies were so gray.

It is crazy how we find history repeating itself. My momma lost her sweet mom when I was only one year old. It was a dark December in 1985. My mom taught me a lot from that - about grief and depression, finding joy through the tears.

It has made me think a lot about other things she has taught me - things I had hoped she would help teach you. She won't have that chance now, but I hope - as she did with me - I can show you ...

1) That grief sucks. It sucks. But it is not your whole life and it won't define you forever. Even in your darkest days - and I hope those are few and far between - there will be moments of joy and laughter. And at the end, you will come out of it changed. It is up to you if that change is positive or negative. It took your Ganma a long time to overcome losing her mom - she would be the first to admit it - and of course I am still struggling with it. But there will be a time when the loss isn't your whole identity - you just have to walk through the valley.

2) That family is forever. Your dad and I will always be here for you - your backbone, your cheerleaders, your moral compass, and your home. Your Ganma was always that for me. Her house was Tara - getting back there was to regroup and refocus. We hope you always feel that way with us. We hope you understand your aunts and uncles are additional parents for you. They love you almost (ALMOST - Aunt Molly) as much as we do. Your cousins were your first siblings and, when you are older and we are gone, will know all the stories of your life from the very beginning. Cherish them. Cherish your time with them.

3) That friends can be surrogate family. Your grandparents moved a lot - all over the world - during your Papa's Army career. Your Ganma made friends wherever she went - women who she bonded with and loved, who loved her kids and whose kids she loved. At the time of her passing, she had established a "sisterhood" of fellow teachers who shared all the joys and pains of life together. They sat by her bedside for hours in the hospital. They held us as we cried and prayed for us daily. And they mourned deeply because they loved your Ganma and the relationship she had built with them. The friendships were a light in her life. In the same way, I have women in my life who I would flounder without - those that have been my friends since the days I wore sandals with socks in good old middle school and those that I have become close to through this whole journey of motherhood. You have more "aunts" than the Dugger grandkids. I hope you always feel their love and one day find your own sisterhood.
Being held by your sweet Ganma in the hospital.

4) That love is unconditional. Here is the truth baby girl: some times your aunt, uncle, and I were jerks growing up. Sometimes we were jerks as adults. Okay, it was mostly your aunt and uncle. I mean, I was pretty perfect. Don't ask them that - but it is true. Regardless, she loved us anyway. She forgave us. And we forgave her. If you are going to love someone, love them. 

5) That you should love your neighbor as you love yourself. Your Papa will teach you the verse just like he taught it to me every Sunday growing up. Your Ganma never recited it to me but I saw her live it every single day. I saw it when she came home weeping over one of her kids at school and the cards they had been dealt in life. I saw it when she left in the middle of the night to comfort a friend in need or to pray by a sick bedside. I saw it when she sent care packages and cards to people she hadn't seen in decades so that they always remembered they had someone in their corner. I saw it in the countless hours she gave to her church, her family, her friends, and her community. I hope you have her heart and eyes for those around you.

6) That if it is after Labor Day or before Easter, you better have stockings on those legs.

7) That it is okay to admit when you are not good at something and ask for help. For your Ganma - this would apply to anything that plugged in or required some sort of Internet connection. Ask your daddy one day about the time she called him because she couldn't figure out how to turn her computer off.

8) That it is okay to take a break. Every semester in high school, your Ganma would let me take one day off of school to float in the pool, watch Days of Our Lives (which will probably have the same storyline when you are 16 as it did when I was), and just escape. Once, when I was pregnant with you, she offered to write a note to my boss - MY BOSS - to let them know I needed a day to get a pedicure and look at baby furniture. I declined, but it was a good reminder that every now in then we all need a me day. I hope you remember.

9) That every day can be magical. Your Ganma tried to make the most ordinary days extraordinary for you and your cousins either through special trips outside to catch fireflies or letting you each get private time reading stories with her. It was rarely something big or flashy - it was just the magic of being with her and being loved by her. I hope you always feel that and make those you love feel that way. Remember each day can be as wonderful and surprising as you want it to be. And, of course, that only boring people are boring.

10) That if you don't know how to cook something, just saute it with Worcester sauce and garlic. Okay, I hope you actually learn a lot more about cooking but that was your Ganma's go to regardless of occasion and meat being used. She would have loved showing you how to mince garlic and explain to you that it is the best ingredient of anything ever.

Most of all, I hope I can show you what kind of mother she was - kind, fun, strong, and fierce - through the kind of mother I hope to be to you. I love you sweet girl. Thanks for making me a Momma.


Thursday, May 8, 2014

On my first motherless Mother's Day

I am having trouble wrapping my head around this weekend. Tomorrow will be five months since Momma's death. Sunday will mark our first motherless Mother's Day. 

It is a funny feeling this motherless Mother's Day. Molls and I have so much to celebrate - healthy, wonderful, amazing gifts from God that call us "Mommy." Yet, there will be mourning. There is no sappy but true card to drop in the mail or present to wrap. There is no racing to be the first one to call on Sunday morning or summary wrap up call to be had on Monday. 

It has been five months yet still it seems unbelievable. There is a sense of security that leaves your world when you lose a parent. We are suddenly the matriarchs. We are the mothers. All those Hallmark-esq commercials about mothers kissing skinned knees and holding scared children tight to their breast - they have an impact for a reason. They ring true for billions of people across thousands of years of history. And even as I fell into my own rhythm of motherhood - as B and I developed our own songs and secret language, our own coping mechanisms and I began to feel confident in my ability to be her mom - I still had my mom. I still needed and wanted my mom.  

She was the only person I let stay in the NICU with B so that my broken and tired body could have four hours of rest in an actual bed during our week long stay. She was the first call I made when we had tornado warnings and RB was out of town, even though it was silly and there was nothing she could do but worry and give me ridiculous advice like make sure I went to bed in real clothes in case the house was destroyed. I called her on the way to each play date to tell her what we were doing and (because she would inevitably ask to see if it was something she gave B) what B was wearing. I called her on the way home to report how B liked the activity and whether or not I thought she would nap that day. 

She was my mom. And sometimes that meant we behaved as mothers and daughters do. Cross words were said. Phones possibly slammed. But she was my mom. And we always fell back into our own rhythm. 

Last Mother's Day was so sweet I can almost taste it. I had my sweet girl to celebrate and rejoice in on my first Mother's Day. I had my own sweet momma, just a phone call away, freshly returned to Virginia after a beautiful, perfect trip to Georgia for B's dedication. I had my rhythm as a mother and my rhythm as a daughter.

And now, that rhythm is off. A key player is missing and we are all grasping at how to readjust. For Molls and me, this weekend seems to just scream questions. How are we the only mothers in this little family? How do we face the large milestones and not have her to call? Not have her here to keep being our mom? How do we start to fill those shoes?

We are motherless. It doesn't matter how many times I say it or think it, it still catches my breath. We are motherless. 

I am sure some would grimace at that phrase. They would remind us that she is always with us, that she watches over us. And in some ways, they are right. She is here in everyday things - in the way I chop garlic haphazardly and quickly. In the way I fold (or as RB calls it "mangle") fitted sheets. In the way I push my hair back when I am thinking. Or purse my lips when I am trying not to show annoyance. She is with me when I rock B, stroking the curly hair my sweet girl inherited from her grandmother. She is with me when my heart breaks for others and when my West Virginia fighting spirit comes tumbling out unchecked. 

But in many, many, painstakingly hurtful ways they are wrong. She is not here. She is gone and we are motherless. And it is hard. And it is sad. And - as seems to have become the new family motto - it sucks. 

I am thankful, though, for the 29 Mother's Days I had to share with her. For the brunches and cards and stories of how hard it was to deliver me. For the values she instilled in me and the compassion she witnessed to me. For the random trips home from UVA to surprise her. For the never ending, absolutely insane questions about how her computer worked that still have Molls and me howling with laughter. For the reminders of who I was and who was in my corner. For loving me, my husband, and my daughter with every ounce of her being. For teaching me to celebrate the holidays and the every days. 

She always used to tell me that I would never understand how much she loved me until I had my own baby. She was right. She missed something though - I would never understand how much I loved her until I was a mother. Until I heard that mother daughter rhythm from her side. I love you, Momma. Happy Mother's Day.