30 Years- A Blink of an Eye

 Time is an incredible thing. when you are looking forward it seems like the future is so far away, but when you look back, it’s like the past is still within your reach. 

30 years ago life changed forever for me. 30 years ago I woke up after my brother and sister had already left for camp, and after having a sleepover with my sister in my room. (Side note: we loved having sleepovers with each other. We would bring in the mattress from the day bed in our den to whomever’s room we would be sleeping and we would stay up late talking and laughing.) I spent the morning with my Mom and her friend shopping and having lunch, and I found the cutest stuffed cow for Ashley that mooed when you pressed a foot. I bought it for her, but there was a nagging feeling. Like if it were a tv show, ominous music would have been playing in the background. That afternoon, I was sitting on the couch watching a rerun of The Brady Bunch and waiting for my sister to get home so we could go swimming together. Someone knocked on the door, I answered it, and the stranger asked, “Is your Mom home? There’s been an accident.” I immediately started screaming for my mother, who was upstairs. She flew down the stairs, told me to call my Dad, and left. I waited at home for what felt like forever. My Dad came, picked me up, abs drive us to the hospital. The ominous music would have been swelling if this was a tv show or movie. I looked out the window at the most beautiful blue sky and puffy clouds and murmured, ”We’re never going to see her again.” My Dad shouted, “Don’t say that! Never say that!!” We pulled up to the hospital, went in, and my parents were ushered into a little room. I was told to stay outside. After a few seconds I heard my Dad cry out, “No! My baby! Not my baby!!” and I knew. I just knew. My brother was taken to a different hospital, so we drove over there and when we pulled up to that one, a bunch of my parents friends were standing outside. I was puzzled as to how they even knew to come. My parents went in to the emergency room to be with my brother, and I was sitting in the waiting room with all these people who were there to support us. I couldn’t cry. I remember thinking to myself, “My sister is dead. I am supposed to be crying. If I don’t cry everyone will think I didn’t love Ashley, but I did love her! I need to act like I’m crying.” I buried my head in my hands and started saying, in what I hoped was a tearful voice, “I want her back! I want her back!” and thinking, “‘I want her back’? That makes it seem like I want the back of her. I hope they all realize that’s not what I mean.” Someone was rubbing my back and making calming noises. Time skips a little. I finally got to see my brother in the ER. We walked out and drove home. More friends were at the house. Time skips a little more and the next thing I remember was the Mom of Ashley’s best friend told me she understood because her brother was killed in a car accident 20 years earlier. “20 years,” I thought. “That is a very long time to live without your best friend.” It felt so far away, and yet now I’m at 30 years, and it feels like it was just yesterday. 

Every year on the anniversary of Ashley’s death I post a tribute to her. Usually it’s how I miss her and I see her in my girls, but for this, the 30 year anniversary, I needed to let 14 year old Ivy tell her story. 

30 years is a long time and 30 years is a blink of the eye. 30 years ago I couldn’t see how I could ever live my life, knowing Ashley’s was snuffed out. I had some questionable years- my entire year of 10th grade, in a new school, but that’s a story for another time, I wore black every single day. A kid once asked me, “So, are you goth or something?” and I snapped at him, “No! I’m grieving! My sister died!” “Woah!” he replied, and walked away. I spent almost every lunch period sitting outside of my history class since that was the class I had next, sobbing. One time, my teacher walked out, saw me, sat down next to me and pulled me in for a hug. That was the first time I felt like I was seen. I had plenty of dark moments in the beginning, but at some point, the darkness cleared and I started living again. I like to think Ashley is happy with how I’ve lived my life over the last 30 years- I am living my dream. I always only ever wanted to be a wife and a stay at home Mom, and I am. I try to keep her alive as much as I can and while it still saddens me the only way my girls and Marc know her are through my memories, I’m happy they get her that way. We talk about her a lot. 

To my sweet Ashley, I love you. I miss you. I miss us. I miss not getting to grow old with you. I am still so jealous when I see sisters our ages spending time together, but I know you are here, even if you aren’t here. 

30 years truly is a blink.

A Patchwork Heart (AKA: Losing Luna)

 Forward

I stopped writing this blog a while ago because M discovered it and I wasn't comfortable with the girls reading what I was writing.  However, just because this blog started off as a way to me to journal my adventures with The Curly Girly Trio doesn't mean it has to stay that way. They are old enough now to read my thoughts and know that Moms have things they need to get out too.

A Patchwork Heart (AKA Losing Luna)

10 months ago we adopted two 4 month old tortoise shell kitties who were sisters.  We named them Ginny and Luna and they quickly found their way into our hearts. We loved watching them play together, tease our dog, and sit on us. They were wonderful additions to our family and brought us so much love and laughter. Luna was always super little and we just assumed she was the runt of the litter. She never let her size stop her and she was the one who was bravest with our big brute of a dog. A few weeks ago I noticed that she hadn't been eating and was losing weight. She still ate her tuna flavored treats so I assumed she no longer liked the chicken flavored food and bought her a bunch of different brands of tuna flavored food. She loved it! Ginny loved it too, even though Ginny needed no help in the weight department. For about 2 weeks she ate the new food and it always made my heart swell when I saw her eating. I had visions of her gaining weight and figured this time next year we'd be reminiscing back to when she was so tiny. Last week B and I noticed Luna looked like she was losing weight again. She was painfully thin. On Tuesday night B told me it looked like Luna had stopped eating again.  I called the vet Wednesday morning and got Luna an appointment for Thursday morning. Wednesday night, B put out a bowl of the tuna flavored cat treats Luna loved so much and Luna sniffed at them, but didn't eat them. B and I looked at each other and I said, "I hope she's ok." Luna spent the night under my bed and every once in a while she'd emit a very pitiful cry. Every time I heard it I'd simultaneously feel sad and scared that she was crying, but happy because the cry meant she was still alive. Thursday morning, Luna could barely walk, and while she drank some water, she still refused food. I took her to the vet and hoped and prayed it would be something fixable. I dropped her off (the vet is still doing drop offs only because COVID). I was driving home and the Vet Tech called and said, "The vet would like to talk to you and your husband together." My stomach lurched and I replied, "I'm still on my way home, can you please have her call The Doctor on his cell phone?" I drove home as quickly but safely as I could and raced upstairs as soon as I turned off the car. Just as I entered The Doctor's office he was hanging up the phone, 

"That was the vet, right? What did she say?" I asked, shakily.

"It's not good news," he replied gravely.

He explained to me that Luna was jaundiced and in liver failure and kidney failure. 

"How?" I asked. "Why?"

He said the vet wasn't sure of the cause, it could be leukemia or another cancer, it could be something congenital, she just wasn't sure.

"We have to put her down?" I asked softly.

"We do," he said softly.

"Can it wait until L is finished with drama camp today?" I asked.

"I asked that," he replied. "The vet said she doesn't think Luna will make it that long. We need to get over there right now."

"Oh my G-D," I cried.

After I got out all of my tears in that moment, we called B and M into the office and told them. M burst into tears. B got teary eyed. 

We left the house and The Doctor and B went to the vet while M and I drove to the drama camp to pick up L. Thankfully the drama camp is in the plaza right across the street from the vet's office so we didn't have to go too far. I called the director of the camp on the way over and she said she'd get L when we got there.

We walked in and saw L was in her costume, getting ready to go on stage. She saw us, immediately put her hands to her mouth and turned away. The director called her over and I broke the news to her. She burst into tears. She left the camp in her costume and jazz shoes and we went over to the vet.

The vet told us Luna's exact diagnosis was FIP. Feline Infectious Peritonitis. The lining of the stomach gets inflamed. It can be caused by a mutation of a coronavirus that initially presents itself as a respiratory infection. When we first got Luna she did sneeze sometimes, but it didn't last too long and since Ginny never sneezed we didn't think anything of it. Looking back now, that was probably the culprit. FIP is fatal and even if we had caught it a few months ago, she still would have had to be put down.  

I'll spare you the details of saying goodbye. There were lots of tears and kisses, and tears and pets, and tears and more kisses. Luna was not Luna and we knew it was time to let her go. After she crossed the rainbow bridge L said, "I really don't want to go back to camp."

"I know you don't, but you have too. The show must go on," I said hoarsely.

"I know, but I won't be able to have energy on stage," she cried. "How can I go back out there knowing Luna is gone?" 

I stood in front of her, put my hands on her shoulders and said, "Because in this room you are L, but on that stage you are The White Rabbit. You can be L at lunch and after camp, but when you walk back into the theater you become your character.  That's what actors do."

She nodded her head, dried her eyes, and blew her nose. 

"Ok," she said. "I'm ready to go back.

I pulled The Doctor aside and said, "I'm going to take M with me. Can you please make sure B is ok? She isn't really crying and I'm concerned she's hiding her feelings."*

M and I took L back to camp where the camp director met her at the door and helped her cope with her feelings. The last thing I said to L before she went in was, "I know you're sad, but I need you to stay because I'm driving the carpool home this afternoon." I'm not alway the most nurturing.

On our way home I said to M, "I have a Luna shaped hole in my heart."

"Yeah," said M. "So do I."

"You know, the hole won't always be this deep," I said. "It won't ever get filled up, but it will fill up with a slightly different color and texture, so we'll always know it's there, but it won't always hurt."

"Like patchwork," M said. "It's like every hole that's ever formed in your heart gets filled with a different kind of material, so while the holes are filled, they're still kind of there."

"A patchwork heart," I said. "I like that idea."

I started thinking about all the patchwork holes in my heart. We have never had a cat live past 7. Luna is the youngest we have ever lost, but we seem to get kitties who develop cancer at a youngish age. I can't figure it out, but I'd like to think it's the Universe's way of telling us we are meant to care for sick kitties because of the love we have for them. I remember each and every one of them and like losing a human family member, the pain never truly goes away. It definitely lessens as the hole is patched up, but you know it's still there.

It's so sad to think about a heart that has so many patchwork pieces in it, but you know what? I wouldn't trade those patchwork pieces for anything. Each piece is a piece of my heart that loved a sweet kitty deeply.

M.C. (who was actually 12 when he died. He was The Doctor's parents' cat that we fostered while they were deployed in Italy). Spunky. Oliver. Sophie. And now Luna. Sweet little Luna who was the least catty cat we have ever had. Luna with her beautiful checkerboard mouth and black nose, except for the smallest sliver of pink. Luna who let us kiss her directly on her nose and mouth and never backed away. Luna who let us pick her up and carry her anywhere. My sweet Looney-Tuney. We didn't have you long, but we loved you fiercely and you will always be remembered as one of the greatest cats of all time.

I keep feeling so silly for being this upset but Luna made such a special mark on our lives and even though we still have Ginny and Linus (the dog) the house feels a little less full, a little less happy, a lot less Luna.

*When I got home, The Doctor told me he spoke to B and B told him she knew Luna was dying on Wednesday night. She spent about an hour with her saying her goodbyes and crying because she was worried Luna wouldn't be alive on Thursday morning. B is very intuitive so I'm not surprised by this at all.

I Miss Them Little

"The days are long but the years are short."

That is my favorite adage.  To be fair, it's the only adage I know, but even if I knew more, I'd still say this one is my favorite. It sums up parenthood beautifully.  

I remember when I was in 6th grade, I told the Mom who was driving carpool that the school year flew by.  She told me the older you get the faster time passes.  I didn't understand that back then, but I do now.

Last week M found a DVD from when she was 5 and B was 7.  She called for B to come and they watched it.  Then she came downstairs and said, "Mommy! You have to come see this!!" I told her I'd be up later and she took my arm and said, "No! You need to come now!" She practically dragged me upstairs and told me to sit down.  I plopped down into the bean bag chair and watched.  I must have had a dreamy or teary or something look on my face because M said, "I know what you're thinking! You want another one! You miss having babies!" I looked at her and said "Actually, what I'm thinking is how much I miss you being little.  All 3 of you. . . It's just going by so fast." I got up (with help from B and M since I was sitting in a bean bag chair and have aged too), went back downstairs and contemplated how much I miss having them little.

That night, we went to a Halloween event at an amusement park and one of the exhibits was through the Barney area of the park. We have annual passes and go to this park all the time, but I've never been in the Barney section.  As we were walking through, B and M were making fun of Barney.  I said to them, "You make fun of him now, but you loved him when you were little!" All I could think was how much I miss them being little.

Don't get me wrong. I am loving watching them blossom into young ladies.  Watching them grow has been an absolute pleasure for me.  They have come into their own and more and more are showing who they will be when they are fully grown.  I really like what I'm seeing, but oh, I miss them little. 

I miss all of the things I tried so hard to not take for granted.  I miss walking and having them still grab my hand (L still does this). I miss their teeny tiny voices, lisps, and speech impediments. I miss knowing that I still have more time with them at home.

Last night B's high school held a college night for all grade levels.  B is in 10th grade, and we went because this time next year she will be in the process of applying to colleges.  As I was listening to the guidance counselor talk about scholarships, the SAT, ACT, and essays I kept sneaking glances at B.  When she was in elementary school her teachers always said whenever they were teaching something, she would get this intent look on her face and almost zone in on them.  You could just tell she was soaking up everything they said like a sponge. She had that same look last night.  At one point, I thought to myself, "Holy cow. . . 10 years ago she was in Kindergarten! 10 years ago we were at home and she was reading to me from her poetry book. 10 years ago I never thought that in 10 years we'd be sitting in a high school auditorium listening to a guidance counselor tell us about the college application process."

Time is going by too fast! I've thought that for the last several of B's birthdays.  She's going to be 16 this year. Time is really going to by too fast.  For the first time, though, I'm really hit with the fact that in 3 years from now she's going to be in a college dorm.  She won't be at home anymore.  She's still here and yet I miss her already.

A few years ago I was upset because B never put away her things and I was constantly tripping over shoes, her book bag, jackets, and books.  I yelled.  Later, The Doctor said to me, "You yell now, but when she's in college you are going to miss this."  I told him I would miss her, I wouldn't miss the mess.  She still leaves her shoes, back pack, jacket, and now trumpet, lying around and I do step over them routinely.  I don't yell anymore, though.  I still maintain I will not miss the mess when she is in college, but I also know I will be pleased to see it again when she comes home for breaks.  Seeing it now reminds me that she is still here.

I am loving watching my trio of girlies grow, but I still miss them when they were little.  I used to dance M to her room to tuck her into bed.  Now she goes to bed later than me.  I know she misses me tucking her in and I desperately miss tucking her in too.  When did I stop?  (Actually, I know when I stopped.  It was the beginning of this school year when she started going to be later than me.) 

When S was younger, I used to pick her up, even when she was clearly too big, just so I could say the last time I picked her up wasn't the last time; until it was.  She is definitely too big now and I distinctly remember the last time I held her because when I picked her up I could barely stand up straight. 

I love the fact that we have evolved from conversations that were more one sided on my part to actual conversations where we talk about everything and I love how we are able to joke with each other now that they're older.  I love that they can help out more around the house (they usually don't without a fair amount of nagging, but they can!) and I love seeing them for the individuals they are, and not just an extension of me.

I really loved when they were little, but you know what?  I'm really loving them big too.  I need to start focusing on what we have now.  The last thing I want is to send B off to college feeling like high school flew by and I missed it all because I was so busy preparing myself for how I would feel when I sent her off to college. 

Grief Is Like Glitter

Flashback:

September 10, 2008 we experienced what we now affectionately call "The Great Glitter Explosion of 2008".  B, who was 4, convinced M, who was 2, that glitter was fairy dust.  I walked into the family room to get the girls for dinner and found that M had sprinkled "fairy dust" everywhere.  I mean everywhere.  It was on the cats, the couches, the play table and chairs, the rocking lamb, the floor, and all over M and B.  I freaked out.  Trying to get glitter off the floor is no easy feat (you'd think a lint roller would work, but you'd be sorely mistaken). We were finding sparkles everywhere for months after, but I was confident we'd gotten it all.  Over a year later, we moved out and as the movers were moving the furniture out of that room, we found more.  It was nightmare I can laugh at now, but at the time the only sound I was making was sobbing.

Present Day:

A few weeks ago, a friend posted a meme on Facebook.  "Grief is like glitter. You can throw a handful of glitter into the air, but when you try to clean it up, you'll never get it all. Even long after the event, you will still find glitter tucked into corners, it will always be there- somewhere."  If that doesn't describe grief, I don't know what does.

I've been thinking a lot about this lately.  It's been 27 years since Ashley died.  I was talking to my little sister about Ashley a few weeks ago (she was born after Ashley died so she only knows her through pictures and other people's memories) and I was overcome by grief in a way I haven't felt in a long time.  I was telling her about the time I first realized that even though I was older, Ashley was actually the older sister.  She always was an old soul and I used to go to her for advice on pretty much everything.  Normally, I love talking about Ashley.  Talking about her keeps her alive, but this year it's just been hard, harder than in the past and I don't know why that is.

Today is especially hard because it's Ashley's birthday.  She would have been 38.  She should have been going out tonight to celebrate with her family and I should have called her this morning to sing her Happy Birthday. I should have spent the last couple of weeks looking for the perfect gift and we should have been planning our families summer vacation.  Some people (my Dad mainly) would say, "You can't live in the past and you can't wonder what could have or should have been" but sometimes you have to.  At least I do.  It doesn't feel right to just accept that this is what it is.  And as I reread that last sentence I realize how utterly ridiculous that sounds.  This is life.  These are the cards my family got dealt.  We can't exchange them and we can't go through the deck looking for different ones.

The brother of one of M's best friends died about a month ago.  When it happened, his Mom called me and said, "I know this is an awful reason to think of someone, but you're who I thought of to help J get through this."  I've been texting J once a week and every week she says the same thing, "I thought it would be better by now."  It takes a long time before it's better and even when it is better sometimes you slide back and it's worse again. The last many years I've been managing not having Ashley here just fine, but this year. . . I don't know.  It's been tough.

I honestly thought I had picked up all the pieces of my grief years ago.  I would think of and talk about Ashley and it was fine. I was fine. I moved some furniture around in my head, though, and found a whole pile of it I wasn't expecting.  I not only mourn the 10 year old who died, but I am also mourning the high school, college, and law school graduations we missed and I'm mourning the sisterly phone calls I don't get to have.

Epiphany (this is why I like blogging- suddenly my thoughts all make sense): I'm getting older but Ashley is forever 10.  I don't mind getting older but it feels the older I get, the more I move on, the further away I'm moving from her. I went on to do everything we both wanted (well, except for law school.  That was all Ashley) and she didn't.  She's been with me for every big life event I had, even if she hasn't been there physically.  Sometimes I just get tired of her only being here in my thoughts, but that's better than nothing, so I guess it's time to accept that again.

Goodbye, Oreo Cookie

When M was 9, she started asking for hamster.  She told us how she would care for the hamster and how much she would love him.  For her 10th birthday, we gave her a hamster.  Well, not really, but we gave her the cage, bedding, food, a ball, and a gift card for her to use at Pet Smart to buy her hamster.  I took her there a few days later and she looked around for a little bit and then pointed to a black and white gerbil and said, "I want him."

"He's not a hamster," I pointed out to her.

"I know, but he's adorable and I think he's mine," she replied.

The employee took him out of the tank and held him out for M to see.  As M was stroking his back she said, "His name is Oreo."

Over the years, M took great care of Oreo. She loved putting him in his ball and he loved running around the house as much as she loved watching him.  He would perch on her shoulder and nibble her shirts and she "trained" him to come up to the top level of his cage when she called his name and held out a treat.

I loved Oreo too.  Every night when I tucked M into bed, I'd go to Oreo's cage and hold out a treat.  Watching him eat it was one of my favorite things to do.

On average, gerbils live to be 3-5 years old.  Oreo would have been 4 in April, so he was a pretty old man.

On Saturday night, I was in M's room, waiting for her.  She came in and said, "Did you give Oreo his nightly treat?"

"I tried," I said. "But he didn't come up."

"Oh. . ." said M.

She went to the cage, held out a treat and called, "Oreo!  Oreo!  Come on, little buddy!"

She looked at me and then back at the cage.  She took off the topper and put her hand into the bedding.

"I'm scared to go down too far, Mommy.  What if I touch his body and he's dead?"

"Do you want to wait for the morning to check?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said mournfully.

The Doctor was out of town and as M was putting the topper back on the cage, I texted him.

"I think Oreo is dead. I was hoping M wouldn't discover it until tomorrow when you're home, but I think she has. I'll call you after I tuck her in."

I tucked in M and she said to me tearfully, "What if he is dead?"

"Then we'll deal with it," I told her calmly. "He's an old gerbil."

I called The Doctor as soon as I got downstairs and we talked about how he most likely is dead.

"Let me talk to M," he said.

I told him she was already in bed.

"I'll call her.  I'll call you right back," he said, hanging up.

(Side Note: We let the girls sleep with their phones in their rooms because they each listen to classical music at night and the phones double as iPods.  They are locked down from any other kind of media. I probably shouldn't need to explain that, but you know. . .)

After about 5 minutes, M came into my room, in tears.

"I really need a hug," she cried.

"Do you want to sleep with me tonight?" I asked, while hugging her.

"Yes, please," she said in a small voice. "If he is dead, can we bury him in the backyard?"

My phone rang and I answered it, seeing it was The Doctor.

"I spoke to M," he said.

"I know," I replied. "She's here now.  I told her she could sleep with me tonight."

"I figured.  I told her to go down and ask if she could."

"If Oreo is dead, M wants to bury him in the backyard."

"She told me that too," The Doctor replied. "I was looking stuff up and really, the most respectful way is to bring the body to the vet and have them dispose of it. But, we can get her a garden stone for her to decorate and put his name on and she can put it in the yard as a memorial to him."

"That is a brilliant idea," I said.

We said our goodnights and M and I got into my bed.

"Did Daddy say we can bury him in the backyard?" she asked.

I told her what he said and she nodded.

"That sounds like a good idea. I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep tonight," she said, sniffling.

"Just do your best," I told her.

In the morning, I got up just before 7 (On a Sunday.  Yuck! But such is life.) to exercise and M got up too.

"OK.  I'm going to get a garbage bag and am going to clean out Oreo's cage.  I really hope I find out he's OK."

"Do you want me to come with you?" I asked.

"No," she said, shaking her head.  "I can do this."

"Ok.  Bring up 2 baggies too, just in case," I told her.

I went and put on my Country Heat DVD (this is another blog post all on it's own) and started.  About 5 minutes in, I hear M shriek, "No!!!  He's dead!  He's really dead!!"

I paused the DVD, went to her room and found her sobbing in front of his cage.

"I can't believe it," she sobbed.  "I mean, I knew he might be but I was so hoping he wouldn't be!"

I gave her a huge hug and when she let go, I asked her if she wanted help cleaning out his cage. To my great relief, she said no.  She picked up his body and cradled it in her hands.  At this point B and L came into the room to see what was going on.

"Oh, Oreo, my baby boy," she cried.

I held opened the baggie and she started to put him in. I kind of shrieked and B took the baggie from me.

"Let me do this," she said.

I left the room and B and L stayed to help M.

About an hour later, M came into my room, crying.

"I'm a terrible pet owner," she said.

"What on earth are you talking about?" I asked her, shocked.

"I should have known he was going to die.  I should have been there for him," she said, crying.

I explained to her how animals hide the fact they're sick and often curl up to die, then I asked her if she wanted to go out to breakfast.

On our way to breakfast, she said to me. "I never told anyone, but Oreo had a middle name."

"He did?" I asked, with a sad smile.

"Yes," she answered, very seriously.  "Cookie.  His name was Oreo Cookie."

"That is a very nice name and I think that will look very nice on a garden stone," I told her.

Pretty much all day yesterday we talked about the grief process, and how the stages are fluid.

At one point, she had laughed about something and then said, "Wait.  I shouldn't feel happy.  Oreo died."

"It's OK to continue to feel other things," I pointed out. "It's OK to feel sad about Oreo and still laugh at a tv show."

"I don't think I want another pet again," she said. "This is just too hard."

"Oh, but M," I said to her. "Think about how much joy Oreo brought you. Yes, saying goodbye is the hardest part of owning a pet, but the joy the pet brings is so much greater than the sadness of saying goodbye. You feel so sad because you loved him so much. Don't let the sadness dissuade you from loving another pet."

Later, I told her we needed to clean out his cage with water and bleach.

"Do you want to help, or will it be too hard for you?" I asked.

"I want to help," she said.

We went outside and she helped until she thought a bug was by her ear.

"It's a wasp!" she gasped, putting down the paper towels and walking away. "Sorry, I'm out of here. I don't do wasps, or spiders, or bugs, or the outdoors, really."

As I was just about finished, my watch buzzed with a text message from M.

"The 'bug' I felt on my ear was actually hair. Sorry for leaving you with the wasp."

It was a much needed laugh after such a sad morning.

Last night, though, as I was tucking her into bed, the tears came again.

"This is the first night in almost 4 years I'm sleeping in a room without another life in it," she cried.

"I know," I said, hugging her.

"It's amazing how empty the room feels now," she said.

"I know," I said again, hugging her.

I looked over to where Oreo's cage used to be and felt tears come to my eyes.  When M first said she wanted a rodent my skin crawled at the idea of it, but truthfully, I loved that little gerbil just as much as M did and I will miss him every time I go into her room.

Goodbye, Sweet Oreo.  Thank you for giving M so much love and for being the best rodent we ever had.

What Happened?

When B was little she wasn't your typical toddler.  She very rarely had tantrums and she was such a pleaser.  She would do whatever I asked with very little complaint.  I mean, don't get me wrong, she had her share of tantrums, but they were very rare (or maybe I just blocked out all of them) but ultimately, she was a very easy kid.

I never bragged about it, but The Doctor and I were very pleased with our parenting skills.

"Parenting has nothing to do with it," my Mom told me one day.  "You are just lucky because you have an easy child. She has such a mild personality and is a pleaser.  Not every kid is like that."

"Yeah, ok," I scoffed to myself.

M came along and she was very easy too.  She went through the Terrible Threes and the Ferocious Fours, but after that, it was easy sailing.  L came along and once again, we breezed through.

For years, I felt like I was an awesome Mom.  Sure, I had my faults, but I worked on them.  I hated yelling, so I stopped.  For 15 months I stopped yelling.  It was wonderful!  I felt so proud of myself.  You can see my progress at the earlier blog entries, because that was the sole reason why I started this blog.  I figured I needed to keep track of what caused me to yell and I wanted to keep a record of days that I didn't yell.

I loved being a Mom who was effective without yelling.  It made me feel on top of the world and I discovered finding the fun in everything was a lot more, well, fun.  It lasted until one fateful day in March when I decided I would teach the girls how to ride their bikes.  Not only did I fail miserably, but I yelled in a way that I thought I wouldn't ever do again.  It was just so frustrating that they weren't even trying.  All 3 of them were so scared of falling that they barely even tried and I was so angry that they were letting their fears get in the way of trying. You know, this is the first time that I used the word "angry" when I tell this story.  Usually I use the word "frustrated" or "annoyed" but truthfully, the correct word is angry.  I was angry that they were as old as they were and they still couldn't ride bikes.  I felt like I failed them because other kids their ages could ride and had been riding for years and isn't it a childhood pastime to learn how to ride a bike?  Was I a failure of a Mom for not teaching them?  I certainly felt like it at the time and then I yelled and all of my hard work fell apart.

"Mommy!" gasped M. "You yelled!!"

"Yes, and I'm sorry," I said.  "It's OK.  I can start over."

It has been almost 4 years and I still haven't had more than 2 weeks of not yelling.

(For the record, they still can't ride bikes. They can do lots of other things, though, so we'll just focus on that.)

Still, despite the yelling, I felt pretty good about my parenting skills.  Even when B entered the dreaded teenager years and I started receiving eye rolls, heavy sighs, and stomp offs.

Then, last year, we started our move and The Doctor started work in our new hometown, almost 300 miles away.  The girls and I moved in with my parents and we went from seeing The Doctor every day to twice a month.  We talked on the phone and texted daily, but not seeing him everyday was hard.  Being uprooted was hard. I found myself giving in to the girls more often and being a lot more lenient with them.  I felt bad that the majority of their things were in storage and that rules changed because living in my parents' house meant we followed their rules.

A few months in to living with my parents, I saw a change in the girls. I know it was because I had changed and I was not happy with it.  I always thought if I was put into the role of a single Mom I'd have the strength to continue parenting the way I had, and I felt weak because that wasn't the case.

Everyone noticed.  My Mom pointed out to me that L was arguing about everything.  The Doctor's Dad pointed out that L cried every time I tried to discipline her and B had a bad attitude.

"It's OK," I said calmly. "It'll all change once we move into our own house and we get settled."

We moved in to our new house last August.  We have been settled for 6 months and yet I still feel like my footing isn't any better.

L argues about everything.  The girl is 9, but I think she is trying to emulate B. If I tell her something, I immediately get backlash and an argument. I pointed this out to her a few days ago, and she even argued about that!

"Do you realize everything I say to you is met with an argument?" I asked her.

"No it's not," she retorted.

"Yes,  it is!" I exclaimed.  "You're even arguing about arguing!"

The other day, on our way to the bus stop, we were talking about a retreat she is going on this weekend and I was reading her the packing list.

". . . sports equipment for free time. Well, you don't have sports equipment, but you can bring a card game."

"I have sports equipment," she said. "I can bring my soccer ball.  I need to practice my skills, anyway,"

"I don't want you to bring your soccer ball," I explained. "It's too big to fit in your bag."

"Well, then, you can buy me some tennis balls," she argued.

"I'm not buying you tennis balls," I sighed.

"Well then everyone is going to think you are CHEAPSKATE!" she shouted. "They will all have sports equipment and I'll ask to share and they'll say, 'L why didn't you bring your own?' and I will say, 'Because my Mom wouldn't buy me tennis balls' and they will say, 'Well, she's a cheapskate'!"

"I don't really care what people think of me," I said, calmly. "You don''t have to bring sports equipment, but you can bring the game UNO.  That's a very nice game to play during quiet time."

"I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PLAY UNO!!!" she roared.

She yelled this so loudly, the girl across the street walking to the bus stop too stopped and looked at her.  As we crossed the street, A said, "L, you don't know how to play UNO? I know how to play.  It's a really fun game."

"Huh, look at that," I said to L as we walked to the corner. "A knows how to play UNO but I wonder how she knew you don't know how to play."

"Because I shouted it, OK?" whined L.

Then, I noticed that she had her lunchbox with her.  Side Story: One of the rules in our house is the girls have to clean out their lunchboxes when they get home from school, otherwise they end up having to buy lunch the next day.  L hadn't cleaned out her lunchbox the night before and as we were leaving for the bus stop I told her she was going to have to buy lunch.

"L, why do you have your lunchbox?" I asked her.

"Oh!" she laughed. "It's a habit to take it.  Can you bring it home?"

"Of course," I answered.

"But wait, can I just take these?" she asked, grabbing her 3 Beanie Boo Dog keychains she has attached to the lunchbox.

"No, you may not," I told her, because the last time she took one off on the bus she lost it.  She ended up getting it back from a friend who took it for her, but for 2 days she thought it was gone and she was devastated.

"But MOMMY!" she stormed. "I don't have anything to do on the bus because I didn't bring a book! Please!!!"

I told her several times that I had already given her my answer and she should have thought about not having anything to do on the bus when she took her book out of her backpack.

"It's not my fault," she said tearfully.

"Really?" I asked. "I think you need a lesson in what personal responsibility is."

"I know what personal responsibility is," she whined. "It's taking responsibility for your actions but this isn't MY FAULT!"

I told her if she really wanted the Beanie Boos she would have to take the entire lunchbox with her.

"What?? Why would I do that?!?" she exclaimed.  "It's a dirty lunchbox!  I might forget and take it to lunch and then I'll have nothing to eat!!!"

"Well, if it's that important to you to take the Beanie Boos, that's the only way you can do it," I said, calmly.  At this point, we had quite the audience, with other kids and parents looking.

L was full out crying and I was feeling a little bad.  I mean, was it really a big deal if she took the Beanie Boos off the lunchbox?  But, I had already said no and if I changed my mind it would just perpetuate the arguing I get from her, so I was going to stand firm with my answer.

"FINE!" she sobbed and she took the lunchbox from me.  I gave her a hug, told her I loved her, and to be spectacular and she went to join the kids in the line to get on to the bus.  All of a sudden, I heard her say, "Here" and she handed me her lunchbox as she skulked off, crying.

I hated sending her to school in tears, but at the same time, I think it was important that I stuck to my guns.

She was perfectly fine after school, like nothing happened that morning at all and I didn't bring it up.

As we were getting ready to leave the house for the bus stop yesterday morning, she turned to me and said, "I'm really sorry for how I behaved yesterday morning."

"Thank you," I replied giving her a hug. "I really appreciate that."

So, I handled that entire event without yelling because we had an audience.  And then last night, I felt my face get angry after I had tucked her in to bed because as I walked past her desk I saw she left all the scraps from what she had been cutting sitting on the floor.  I walked back to her room, pushed opened her door, and yelled at her about the scraps.

"Do you think someone is just going to come up behind you picking up things you leave on the floor?!?"

"No," she whimpered.  Sitting up in bed, hugging a stuffed animal, and looking scared.

Then, for good measure, I yelled at M because her room and bathroom were a complete mess and I had told her she needed to get it cleaned up by tomorrow morning.  She looked like she was going to cry. (B wasn't left out, I had already yelled at her for watching TV instead of doing her chores.  You know, just in case you thought I played favorites and chose her for the night.)

The Doctor is out of town and he happened to be on the phone to hear me yell at both girls.

"Ugh!" I said to him as I was going downstairs. "I'm so tired of this. I just can't anymore."

"You're burnt out," he said. "I get it."

"I'm not burnt out," I said. "But I feel like I lost the Mom I used to be and I don't know how to get back to her."

Y'all, I don't want to be this Mom.  I'm so sick and tired of yelling, of seeing the looks of sadness and fright when I yell.

My Dad is a yeller, both of my parents are actually, but what I remember is when my Dad yelled, his face would get red and scrunched up and he would look really angry and scary.  That's how my face was last night.

I'm tired of feeling inferior.  I miss the Mom I used to be.  I know I can get back to being fun and joyful. I just have to figure out how.

Who Am I?

L's school had a Color Run yesterday.  For a few weeks prior the students collected pledges and yesterday was the big run.  I've seen this at other schools before, but they were always put on by an organization; this one was put on through the PTA.  L was super excited because at her old school only 5th grade got to run through the color but here all the grades did.  I saw what time L's grade was going and thought maybe I'd go to watch. I realized I have pictures of M from her Color Run (in fifth grade at our old school.  I don't have any of B because they didn't do the Color Run back then) and I knew I'd be upset if I didn't get any of L.

I walked into the office to check in as a visitor and then I walked to the field where it was taking place.  As I was walking to the Visitor's Area I glanced out at the field and saw all the PTA Moms covered in color and talking with each other.

"Oh," I thought. "I know how they feel."  I knew they were exhausted, sweaty, and happy.  I know that while they had been there all day, they also absolutely loved seeing every child have a great time.  I knew that while they were happy, they were also looking forward to the last 2 grades so they could collect their children, go home, shower, and collapse.  I know they probably told their husbands that morning that tonight would be an order in night, or a fend for yourself night because they were going to be too tired to do anything else.  I know because I used to be that Mom.

I felt a pang of guilt as I found a place for myself in the Visitors Area.  I couldn't help but feel that I should have been out on that field.  I should have been dirty and sweaty too.  When we first discovered we would be moving, I told everyone I was going to jump in and volunteer at every event because it's a great way to make friends.

In the past, when people would ask what I did I'd reply, "I'm a professional volunteer."  It certainly felt that way with the amount of time I spent volunteering in my daughters' elementary school.  I loved it.  I loved being with the kids, with the teachers, with the office staff, and with my friends. I was exhausted, but I was also exhilarated and I thought I would do it forever.  That all changed last year.

I took on a much bigger role in the PTO and I was super excited to do so.  After a month, I started thinking maybe it was a mistake because I was seeing things I didn't want to see but I was convinced to stay on.  After 3 months, I knew I needed to get out, but I couldn't and by the end of the year, not only was I burnt out, but I was broken.  People I thought were my friends turned out not to be and friendships I thought I had built turned out to be fake. I was so thankful I was moving because I didn't know how I'd step foot in that school again.  It was bad.  Really bad.

In addition to that, I lost myself last year.  I stopped running, I stopped cleaning, I stopped reading, I stopped trying not to yell. I was so busy with other people, I forgot to take care of myself.  I realized afterwards that I wasn't happy at all.  Looking back at the school year, I realized I wasn't happy for the majority of it.

I knew I needed a break and I figured a new school was the perfect place to get that break.  For the first time in years, I wasn't Room Mom. I didn't even apply to be, which surprised quite a few people. "I'm in a new school," I explained. "I can't come in when I don't know how they run things."  I put down that I would help at class parties, but so far there haven't been any.

I said I would volunteer during L's time at the Fall Book Fair and the old me came out.  I went every day and loved every minute.  I was asked to run the Book Fair for next year and I told them I'd consider it, but I'm still not sure.

I signed up to volunteer in the Media Center once a week, but I quickly backed out of that. After the first 2 times I realized that while I was in the Media Center for the 2 hours, I was thinking about everything that I needed (or wanted) to be doing.  I figured if I wanted to be happy, I needed to put me first and that meant not committing to volunteering even 2 hours a week.

I have felt pretty good all year.  I love having time during the day to do what I want (even though it's mostly spent cleaning and doing laundry).  I love not being stressed every morning that I have to rush to the elementary school or that I have to oversee an event and yet I still feel guilty.

As I was watching the PTA Moms yesterday I realized I'm no longer a Professional Volunteer and I felt a pang of sadness.  I'm a very all or none person.  I always have been and that's always been my biggest problem.  If I can't do it all, I do nothing.  I know there has to be a happy medium.

L was so sad at the beginning of the year when she realized I wasn't going to be in school this year like I was last year, but she got over it pretty quickly.  I'm still trying to find my place.  It's still weird for me to be at a school event as a parent and not as a volunteer but while I feel guilty in that moment, I don't feel an urge to sign up when the Sign Up Genius links are sent to me.

Maybe I need to learn to that it's OK if only volunteer a little bit or maybe I need to learn it's OK if I don't volunteer at all.  I'm happier this year than I've been in years past and that's probably the most important thing.  So, I'm not a professional volunteer anymore but I am a happy Mom.  That seems like a pretty good role to me!