Before and After

There have been plenty of times in my life where there has been a clear division of before and after.

Before high school graduation and leaving home and after.
Before meeting RB and after.
Before having B and after.

These - and many more - have been defining milestones in my life, where old gave way to new. Things changed, mostly for the better, and they shaped who I am today.

None of those, though, can even begin to compare to the loss of my mom and the new reality that has created. Those landmark divisions seem to have bled into one another. Sure, I left home for college but there were still Christmas visits, daily phone calls to my parents, the same friends I had had since early childhood. There was the sadness of moving on but so much joy and anticipation for the new experiences that lay ahead.

This new division, though, is so much more severe. There was the before and now there is the after. Everything that happens now is immediately summed up in my head as before or after. Was it before the stroke or after? Were things hard but ultimately there was a feeling that all would end up right in our little world? Or were the happiest of moments colored with an almost overbearing sense of sadness and longing? Was it before or after the world came crashing down?

Easter 2013 - Ganma and B (sporting a holiday themed outfit
from Ganma, of course) 

A year ago today was Easter Sunday 2013. It was miserably wet and cold. We couldn't make it to church because B was teething and slept too long. But it was perfect. My parents were here, excited to spend Spring Break with us (mostly B, but us too). Momma and I took B grocery shopping so we could ensure my dad had his Easter ham. We all took naps. We cuddled, hiding from the rain and watched as B opened her Easter basket (twice, because the pictures weren't good the first time). We introduced my parents to Game of Thrones and laughed at the scenes where both Mom and I covered our eyes. It was the before.

Today, a year later, the sun is shining and the cherry blossoms are in full bloom. The temperature is in the 70's and the weather seems to be ready for a new chapter after the dark and coldness of this harsher than normal winter. Yet, today the gloom and coldness feels much more present than last year. The cloudless blue sky and warm breeze seem to be hiding how I actually feel. The chirping birds and joyful new blooms seem almost offensive to me. Doesn't spring know this is the after?

Easter 2013: Dad got his ham. B got cottage cheese. And four bibs.

Spring marches in, though, unaware that we aren't ready to let go of the winter. Let go of our last sense of the before. So, we move forward with the changing seasons. We love one another and celebrate those small moments that seem all the more precious now. We cry. We reminisce. And, in many ways, we function like November 2013. Like the before. RB goes to work. B and I go to play group. We pay bills and grocery shop and Molls and I text movie quotes back and forth at inappropriate hours.

Thanksgiving 2013: Moments after Facetiming Ganma
for the last time. We were all so excited about new Christmas
pjs, movies, and the joy of the season that lay ahead of us. 

But unlike other big life changes, nothing about this seems familiar. None of the before seems to have crossed over with us into the after. We go through the motions of our before selves, but those people seem unrecognizable to me. It is painful for me to look at pictures from Thanksgiving last year. Our smiling faces. Our silly poses. Carefree and happy for the day off of work and the chance to celebrate with family. We had no idea what awaited us 12 hours later. No idea that this was the last day of the before.

As we did every day (sometimes twice if either my mom or I was feeling especially homesick for one another), we Facetimed my parents Thanksgiving night. Momma cried because we were in Georgia. I remember vividly - painfully - laughing. "Don't cry! Maybe we can come next year! It just didn't work with our schedules this year - it was too hard, Momma. B hates long car trips right now. Next year, she will be older. Plus, we will see you tomorrow!"

By the time I saw her the next day, she was eight hours post stroke and in the ICU room where she would spend the last 10 days of her life. I thought we had plenty of before left. Little did I know, we were already starting the after.

So, now we all navigate these new waters. Molly, Albert, and I as motherless children. My dad without his love of the past 40+ years. Her friends missing their rock. The grandbabies grieving the loss of their second mom. An entire school community moves forward without their biggest supporter. We all have new identities to find in this after.

Our whole lives when things were bad, my mom would just look us in the eye and say "Nobody is dead. We are going to get through this." It always took the drama and intensity out of a situation. Nobody is dead. My mom is still here for support and has my back. We will get through this. We will get through this together.

But now, she is gone. And we find ourselves grasping with what that means and the extraordinary sorrow that follows the loss of extraordinary love. This is the after, whether we want it to be or not.

Hippity Hoppity

I love holidays. Super, obsessively, have a Pinterest board for the most minor of them, love holidays. For a few years, I tried to keep it under wraps... because sometimes a childless 26-year-old begging her husband to watch Hocus Pocus in September is "weird."

So, having B was an amazing way to live vicariously celebrate everything with her and enjoy all the festivities through the eyes of a child.

And in 20 short months I have learned this: holiday mascots are terrifying through the eyes of a small child. I know this should be obvious. There are movies, blogs, and childhood nightmares devoted solely to this concept. Every holiday that rolls around, though, I think this is it. This is the time that B will love every holiday themed picture situation.

So, with completely unrealistic expectations, we headed out for the 2014 pictures with the Easter Bunny. Day 1 was immediately derailed by poor time management skills a packed schedule. Day 2 started off a little more promisingly. B slept like a champ, the sun was shining, we actually knew where our car keys were on first look. It was all going to be perfect.

Of course, two minutes later, we all came right back to reality when we realized B had four pairs of white shoes all in sizes that would fit her between the ages of 5 and 7 (thanks, sweet cousins!) but none that would fit her before 2017. Available options for her Easter Bunny photos included fake Uggs, a pair of cowboy boots, and some black Mary Janes that recently became the latest victim of her avant-garde painting phase. For just a second, in a moment of weakness, I tried to justify that the cowboy boots would work. Cowboy boots are outdoorsy, farms are outdoors, farms have bunny rabbits, thus it is totally legit to wear cowboy boots to visit the Easter Bunny.

"Is this really my life?"

Once I accepted that this logic was indeed ridiculous, we headed out with the idea of making a quick stop in the mall for appropriate shoes. I have been reading B stories about the Easter bunny for two weeks in preparation for this visit. So far, she hasn't hurled them across the room (looking at you It's Potty Time), so I figured we were in good standing already to meet the Bunny. En route, we (okay, me... but sometimes parenting decisions sound more credible if you pretend like your husband thought you were brilliant when you made them) decided it would be a great idea to sing along to our Music Class track "Bunny Has a Tail" on repeat. Because obviously the toddler will connect the music in the front of the car and the happiness of mom and dad's hand motions to the giant 6-feet tall, bespectacled, white ball of terror in the mall. Even if that connection was possible, B seemed less than amused around repeat #5. I am pretty sure I even saw some eye rolls. Or, as RB calls them, "when B looks just like her mom."

We managed to make it to the mall after only one version of "Bunny Has a Tail" in which B screamed "noooooooo" like a UVA fan on Friday night (too soon?). Now, just a quick trip in to the department store to grab some white summer shoes (as if there were any other kind of white shoe) and then BAM, another wonderful family holiday memory made.

The last time B went shoe shopping with me, she was confined to a stroller and mostly interested in trying to figure out how to get her foot in her mouth rather than into a shoe. I should have known this trip would be a whole new experience as at least four times a day my closet is emptied out while she tries on every shoe I own. Even a few pairs of sparkle heels from college that really should be retired are a part of her daily routine.

The minute B saw the shoe department in Von Maur, it was like a glimpse at teenage B. Our usually clinging to momma, shy in public daughter was sprinting ahead of us and yelling "SHOES" as loudly as possible. Before we could even attempt to reel her in, two pairs were off of the (child level - thanks a lot store manager) shelves and she was attempting to cram her feet into them. And so it went for at least 30 minutes. RB and I were quietly asking the 20-something, not super amused sales clerk for pairs to try on, while B continued to rearrange pairs, ask for them, and possibly shove a few into my purse.

It was harrowing. When they could actually find a pair in her size, it meant dragging her away from the shoes she was currently clinging to with all the might and fury her 26 pounds could muster. Then, we would try to distract her with the new shoes.. only to then take them away three seconds after shoving them on her foot so we could send them back with the sales clerk. This cycle became self-perpetuating as B realized no shoes were staying with her for long so all shoes must. be. hoarded.
 By the time we were finally able to find a pair that worked, we were exhausted. Exhausted. But we had what we needed to continue our quest to see the Bunny. Even though... maybe for a second... it did cross my mind just to prop her up against the cardboard egg cutout at the entrance to the department store and call it a day.

But MEMORIES. For the sake of all the memories, we pressed on. We had already learned our lesson from Christmas, and decided the best plan was for me to hide and RB hand her off to the stuffed animal of nightmares friendly Bunny. So, shortly before reaching the Bunny Spring Land (or ... whatever they call the giant plastic eggs and bunny habitat next to the vending machines), I slowed down and positioned myself behind a giant, indoor fern next to the photo op. I could see B but B couldn't see me.

It was perfect. Momma's out of sight, Momma's out of mind. The one downside: I was also five feet from the children's indoor play yard. Want to make a bunch of suburban moms nervous? Hide in a fern and stare at kids. Seriously. I think I was minutes away from Chris Hansen popping out with a microphone in my face. I tried to subtlety point to B and smile but I am pretty sure they just thought I was signaling to an accomplice.

So, now under the watchful eye of the neighborhood watch, I focused attention on Sweet B. At first, all was wonderful. She and RB confidently walked into the fake yard, waving to the photographers and the Bunny. At first, the Bunny was amazing - maybe just a sweet, giant stuffed animal she could snuggle. She was intrigued. Then it moved. Immediately game over. Through my fern-framed view, I saw RB try to hand B over to the Bunny while she kicked her legs and swung her arms, Chuck Norris style. Both photographers swarmed her, shaking tambourines in her face and singing loudly. Because if a small child is terrified, the best way to calm her is to have strangers making loud, startling noises while invading her personal bubble.

And then, almost instantly, it was over. One bulb flashed, RB scooped her, the crying ceased immediately. She had survived and we had our new memory. Maybe not the memory we had originally imagined, but she kept her bow in the whole time. I call that a win.

"I have bad parents."

Play that funky music, white girl

I have the worst taste in music. Seriously. My first concert was Hanson. I spent a semester in college trying to convince my sorority sisters our rush shirts should be themed to Outkast's "Hey Ya." ("What's cooler than bein' cool? Bein' a Gamma Phi!"... Come on, you know you love it) I will passionately defend my argument that Miley's "Wrecking Ball" was the greatest song of 2013. I am the target market for country cheesiness: songs about trucks, small towns, the troops, or Friday nights make my heart sing.  

Try not to be too jealous of the show choir hotness

And I don't care. I know my Pandora playlist looks like a teenybopper's dream redneck dj mix (Except for the Biebs. My taste may be bad, but it is not Bieber bad.). You would think that after 14 years of formal piano training and six years of voice, I would have some sort of sophisticated view on music. Nope. I love catchy beats, songs that play to the nostalgia of my long lost youth (I am almost 30, after all), and anything I can imagine I would hear blasting out of a frat house on Rugby Road on Saturday night. I embrace it. 

As much as I love my bad pop and country, when we had B, I knew I was going to have to tone it down. So, I kept to country and Christian on the car radio while we darted around Atlanta. I decided while country may have its downfalls (seriously with the country rap? Get it together, Bubba Sparxxx. And don't get me started on Toby Keith.), it had to be better than most of the other songs on loop on the top 40 stations (I am looking at you, Rhianna. "S&M," really?). 

Lately, though, I have been feeling the need to have more of our music be B-centered. And so began the toddlerification of our eardrums. The Disney soundtracks (any and all of them) have basically been on loop since the start of the new year. There are lots of classic lullabies now being tranquilly sung from our car stereo. We started music class on Tuesday. 

And at first, she loved all of it. Drum solos had her cheering. She would sway to slow songs and clap along with fast ones. She took it all in and everything was golden. 

Then, she discovered she could pick the songs we listened to. She could say "no" or "more," and magically Mommy and Daddy would end a song or put it on loop. It was all downhill from there. Because this poor child definitely inherited my gene for truly horrible music 

Last week in the car, she screamed nonstop for 15 minutes while we sat in non-moving, no reason for it Atlanta traffic. In a panic, I was rushing through the cds trying to find a song to calm her down. Surely "Old McDonald" will work, right? Nope. "Itsy Bitsy Spider?" Negative.

Oh wait, what is this? Momma's "Beachweek 2006: NO PARENTS" CD? Journey on repeat? All smiles for the next 30 minutes. Not a typical baby selection, but desperate times, folks.

She has decided the all time classic "Happy Birthday" should be feared and any rendition should be howled through loudly. Meanwhile, "Achy Breaky Heart" comes on? Dance party time. (That one may not be her fault. Maybe we are genetically predisposed to love the Cyrus family). 

The pièce de résistance? Frozen. I know, I know. Every little girl in America is having a singalong with Elsa. "Let it Go" is the anthem of 2014. But, B. Oh, sweet B couldn't care less if "Let it Go" is playing. By that point in the soundtrack, she has grabbed the remote and is repeating "no" as urgently as she can. 

Her takeaway from Frozen? Frozen Heart. While the rest of the songs are Oscar nominated or sung by huge stars, B is clinging to the intro and dancing along with the Vikings? Sweedish ice makers? Nordic delivery men? Whatever they are, they are B's kindred spirits. She mimics cutting the ice and thumps to the heavy beat. She smiles as big as she can and has taken to putting a tutu on as soon as the opening chords start. She is in total bad-music love. 

I guess it was meant to be. Her grandpa's ring tone is "Jump" by the Pointer Sisters, after all. She really didn't stand a chance.

She can only blame the love of bad music on my side, though. Those dance moves... that is all her daddy, bless his heart. 

"Do we have to dance the whole time at our wedding?"

"I. Am. Fabulous."

My New Math

A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch of my dad's new house listening to him and a contractor debate raising the house and installing three-panel windows. As the conversation wound around the elements of the house, we inevitably got around to the main reason my dad was in a new place: my mom's death.

The contractor turned to me with a really sad smile and expressed her condolences. She lost her dad in October, just two months before we lost Momma. Instinctively, I responded with "I am so sorry. You know how we feel."

She looked alarmed as soon as I said it. "No. I don't know how you feel. I am 58. You are a baby. I don't know how you feel."

And immediately, I started doing the math in my head. She is 58. I am 29. She had her dad twice as long as I had my mom. Twice as many Christmases and birthdays. Twice as many summer nights, staying up late, sunkissed and happy. Twice as many random wake up calls and cards just to say I love you. Twice as many arguments about whether or not I really need a cardigan for the weather and twice as many debates about who really broke her food processor in 2001. Twice. twice. twice.

And B. If my mom lived until I was 58, B would be 31. An adult. She might have her own baby. Momma would have been an integral part of her life. A shaping force, not just a story to accompany pictures.

I find myself doing that math a lot lately. My dad has told me previously that after his parents died, he found himself always whispering the numbers to my mom at friends' parents' funerals. I find myself doing it constantly these days.

I can't hear about a death without the numbers running through my head. Were they younger than my mom? Or older? If she had lived that long, how many more years would I have had? Would she have met our second baby? Our third? Would she have been able to enjoy retirement? See one of her kids hit 40?

It is starting with birthdays now, too. A Facebook post about a grandmother's 80th sends me reeling. If mom had lived to be 80, we would have had her until 2028. 2028. 15 more years.15 more of everything.

Sometimes, I can step back and realize how lucky I am. Despite the shock of the sudden loss, I still had her for 29 years. Almost three decades of love, support, and laughter. I have dear friends from high school and college who lost their moms in their teens. Their moms missed high school graduations, arranging their college dorm rooms only the way moms can, first jobs, weddings, ever holding their grandbabies. I know they would give anything to have their moms until just after their 29th birthdays... even just to see their 20th birthday.

But this is my own personal new math. Twenty-nine years doesn't seem like nearly long enough and just painfully abbreviated.

Momma often talked about how losing her own mom at 37 was too, too young. How I wish I could laugh with her now and tell her how much those extra eight years would mean to me. She would have patted my hand and said "I know, honey. I know."

Sixty-five years was not enough for her be on this earth. Twenty-nine years was not enough for me to have my mom. It was too, too short. But in those 65 years, she did more living than most could do in 600 years. She loved fiercely. She loved unconditionally. She loved wholeheartedly. She loved life and everyone around her.

And she always hated math, anyway.

Me, Momma, and Albert 1985

Momma's 65th Birthday Party - 2013

One Fish, Two, Mom Fish, Cave Fish

Ever since B could walk, she has loved to go visit the neighborhood fish. A sweet little routine, she begs to walk outside, squeals when the front door opens, runs down the street, and claps with unbridled enthusiasm when she sees him. It is the highlight of her morning, every morning.

This is the neighborhood fish, the very cornerstone of my sweet girl's daily nature exposure:

Mom fail. 

Bless it, y'all, this can not be B's idea of wildlife. I knew there would be some childhood differences in her Suburban Atlanta childhood vs. our small town upbringings, but this is too much.

So, mommy guilt in full effect, RB and I began to discuss getting B a Beta fish. One little Beta fish to float around her room providing the toddler endless joy while becoming another monthly chore for us. Switch out the air vents: check. Secretly replace B's dead fish before she notices: check.

I know nothing about fish. We were dog people growing up, and no other pets were ever needed. My experience with Beta fish is based mostly on giving them as sorority gifts. Betas for the Gamma Phi Betas. I am sure there were some monogrammed tanks/ vases we found in our parents basements involved as well. Other than that, I know nothing. RB assured me Betas were easy to care for and would take up minimal space. I wouldn't even notice it was here, he promised.

So, on this Sunday Funday we headed to Pet Smart for a quick in and out. We had a million errands to run and I estimated this would take 15 minutes, max. After all, how long can it take to buy a glass bowl, some rocks, and ONE teeny, tiny fish?

Forty-five minutes later and we left with me in a daze. I can't even begin to understand what happened. I know it started with this:

Dis, Momma, dis!

And continued with this:

That would be B, freaking out about the quick, colorful, energetic fish in the back of Pet Smart. She sprinted right by the rows of Betas (helpfully half off, B!), not even noticing they existed. She saw the non-Beta tanks and made a beeline for them, showing a level of enthusiasm not shown since the first time she had cheese dip.
Attempts to distract her were fruitless. Usually in situations like this we employ the "scoop and stop" method of child rearing. Scoop the child and drag her to the nearest distraction until she stops remembering that she was focused on something previously.

Every attempt today, though, hit a brick wall named RB:
 "You know... the real tanks are on sale. It is probably just the same as buying the beta stuff." (It wasn't.)
"B seems to really, really love those quick ones." (She does. But she also has the attention span of a two year old ... so, you know).
 "The light in the big tank can serve as a nightlight."
(I didn't even fight this one, I was so overwhelmed by the fish free for all invading my house I saw as inevitable at this point.)
"These fish eat the algae and clean the tank by themselves. We pretty much don't have to do a thing." (We didn't even buy that kind.)

And then, before I knew it, because I am admittedly a weakling against the combined zeal of B and RB, in a total out of body experience I watched the helpful, oh-so perky Pet Smart attendant (Fish are great! Once you have one tank, you will want to fill your house! Can I interest you in an additional plant for your tank?) fill a glorified Ziploc bag with our four new pets. B was beside herself with excitement. RB couldn't stop smiling. I was trying to do the math in my head of how one small bowl and one small fish suddenly becomes a 5.5 gallon tank with four inhabitants.

We were barely back to the house before the dynamic duo was setting everything up, busy at their new task.

Note to self, it is much more efficient to put together a fish tank if you aren't being helped by a toddler who feels the need to immediately take out every aquarium pebble you put in, the instant you put it in the tank.

If you add pebbles at a bag a minute, and I remove them at a scoop every 10 seconds, how long until we all go insane?

And before long, it was all set up, adding a little more pink and princess to an already pretty pink room. Because, of course, of all the tank accessories the little one could select, she flocked to the pink castle and magic carriage.

Excellent, excellent. Do my bidding, Daddy.

Despite having spent most of the evening clapping her hands and cheering for her new roomies, names have yet to be decided. I suggested Blush, Bashful, Pink, and Pinky. B countered with Doggy, Doggy, Cheese, and Doggy. We seem to be at an impasse.

I am sure eventually names will be agreed upon... because you are supposed to name fish, right? That's a thing, I am sure.

For now, she is in Heaven watching her "ishies" swim. RB is in Heaven plotting his next move with his sidekick, deciding what part of our lives they will change next, overruling me with their votes. And I am just happy they are both happy. Life is short, especially if you are a fish. Might as well make it a fun one.

I thought about putting her in a smocked fish dress for this picture. I came to my senses.