Free Time

The past 10 months have been a blur.  P changed jobs, we went on a house hunt, we bought a house, we moved, we discovered a wildly insane flea infestation, I quit my job, we had our 10 year anniversary, and soon school will start while I am still unemployed.

We didn't move far, just over the Columbia River to Vancouver, Washington.  P's new job is 30 minutes north of our new home, but adding in the traffic to cross the bridge into Portland, and the Traffic to our home in the SW suburb of Tigard, and his commute was almost 2 hours each way some days.  That is hardly sustainable.

I had the crazy notion that I would keep my job in Beaverton for the next school year, as L's preschool is down the street from work.  Between having a 1.5 hour commute some days, and the knowledge that our site was moving farther south, away from L's preschool and deeper into traffic Hell, I finally came to terms with the inevitable, and quit my job.  I was certain I would find work by the time school started.  After all, I'm smart, energetic, and highly employable.  Yet, as each day in August goes by and I don't get that phone call offering me the safe haven of a paycheck and benefits package, I grow a few more grey hairs, wrinkles, and deepen my need for anxiety medication.

School starts on September 2nd, and I'm still unemployed.

School starts on September 2nd, and I'm still not a licensed educator in the State of Washington.

School starts on September 2nd, and my checking account balance is getting low.

School starts on September 2nd, and I'm actually considering that dog walking position posted on Craigslist.

I'm sure once school starts, I'll enjoy the freedom of a quiet house all to myself for a while.  I may finally finish unpacking and get the garage cleared out enough to park our cars in it.  I may finish that weighted blanket I started making for L's birthday (in April) that he keeps asking about because it's about the only thing that will get him to sleep at night.  I may build a chicken tractor and then fill it with egg makers.

Until then, I will fret, check the status of my teaching license and job openings online every hour, and google "work from home jobs" every evening.

But now that I have all this free time on my hands, perhaps I'll write more.  I have a few things peculating in my head, things I've jotted down in my mind as I begin to drift to sleep and see things with a clarity I don't have in my waking hours.  Once the kids are in school, I won't have the distractions of finding lost items, putting together train tracks, or cleaning up spills around the house (how did the toothpaste even end up behind the couch?), and I can write freely, honestly and beautifully.

Or, I can finally watch Season 3 of OITNB.

Yeah, I probably won't be writing...

Unanswerable Questions

“I wish I was never born...”

My heart sank, as I tried to process the sentence coming from my sweet, precocious six year old as we drove down the road. I didn't think such things until I was in the middle of my junior high “yuck” phase, hating everything about my life, a female George Bailey with no Clarence to convince her otherwise. But this was different. My daughter was still innocent.

“...because then I wouldn't have to die.”

And then my heart shattered. Poor E is still processing all the grief of losing a loved one, and grappling with the inevitability of death. I have a hard time with it myself, so it's no wonder that she would consider such dark ideas. Hell, I caught myself thinking the exact same thing only the day before.

My father passed away suddenly and unexpectedly in August 2013, followed a month later by my maternal grandmother. Since that time, both my children have been obsessed with death. And who wouldn't be? I'm obsessed with death and think about it all the time. Perhaps it's because I have no answers, but I have the same questions they do. What happens? Where do you go? What do you do? Do you see your family? Can you talk to people? Does it hurt? And my favorite - Are you magical?

Aside from Christmas, Easter and when her baby teeth fall out, I am completely open and honest with my daughter. I try to tell her the truth in everything, in the best way I think she will understand. When I broke the news to her about my dad dying, she was initially upset that she wasn't going to be getting pretty dresses for Christmas and her birthdays anymore. And then she blew me away and broke my heart by saying “He'll be your daddy forever and you'll never see him again.” We held each other like our lives depended on it and cried until our tear ducts dried out.

Until December of last year, I've been able to reassure her that I won't be dying anytime soon. While I've been honest that I don't know when I'm going to die, I may have allowed her childhood innocence to believe that only old people die. My three year old drives her crazy because 32 is the biggest number he can fathom, and he's convinced that is the magical number for death.

“Mommy, when you turn 32, that's when you die,” he says.

“But Mommy's 41! Don't say that, L!”

And the tears flow.

Just a few weeks before Christmas, a dear friend of mine lost her baby at 27 weeks gestation and my daughter learned that death does not discriminate. The only thing more heartbreaking than watching your daughter realize that you can die at any moment, is watching her realize that she can die at any moment.

Hearing her only logical solution to this mysterious and frightening puzzle on routine drive home from the store made me question my ability as a mother. How can I reassure her and restore her love for life when I'm not 100% certain about this thing myself?

We sat on the couch when we got home, and we talked about those unanswerable questions. I told her that I don't know exactly what happens. I told what I believe, why we go to church, and that we should look at death as a peaceful thing - not something to fear. She asked if we would be with our families when we die. I told her that I certainly hoped I would get to see my dad and my grandparents again, and that I hopefully would be reunited with her when it was time. But I don't know for sure, and that's what's hard. And scary.

I spent the first six years of my child's life holding every answer to every question in the palm of my hand. I was the omniscient and omnipotent being in the household. I was God, and Unit 14 at Timbercrest Condominiums was the Garden of Eden. As my daughter's innocence is stripped away, I feel my resolve weaken. I cannot protect her. I cannot save her. I am just as helpless and vulnerable as she is. I'm fairly certain she figured this out long before I did, even though she still seems to act like she adores me. But maybe that's because she's six.

I can't protect her and I can't promise her that nothing terrible will happen. I can only promise that I will continue to eat my vegetables, keep up with my running, try not to hit other cars in traffic, keep my doors locked at night, drink ample amounts of water, avoid soy, take my vitamins, brush and floss my teeth, and practice yoga.

I can promise her that I will strive to bring joy into our lives. A friend of mine who lost the battle with breast cancer many years too soon always ended her journals with the line: “Every day is beauty – beauty in the every day.” I promise that I will find that beauty, I will share it, and I will treasure it. From early morning wake-up kisses, to the surprise pumpkin muffin in the lunch box, to raspberries on her cheeks at tuck-in. I will treasure the not so pleasant moments, too. The legos I step on in the middle of the night, the rush to the car for school in the morning because she decided to play in the bathroom instead of brush her teeth, the screaming with her brother in the car over which song to sing, who has what toy, or whatever egregious deed she accuses him of.

I can promise to treasure each moment as she grows from precocious six year old to the intelligent and creative young woman I imagine she will become. I can promise to share all of my joys and hobbies, and create memories that we can cherish together and will keep us warm when we're not.

I can promise her that I will support her through her hardships, cheer her endeavors, and relish her accomplishments. I can promise that nothing she can do or say will diminish the amount or intensity of love I feel for her today, and it will only grow stronger as time goes on. I can promise that I will never give her reason to doubt my love.

Because without love, what is there to live for?

Promises to Keep

In December of 2012, there was a shooting in a local mall and another in an elementary school in Connecticut.  During that time, we listened to NPR a lot.  Perhaps we listened to it a little too much.  My daughter, E, suddenly became obsessed with death, shooting and guns, and began to ask a lot of questions - questions I wasn't quite ready to answer, but because we had exposed her, we had to answer.

We talked a lot about choices people make, sometimes they are not friendly, and they cause a lot of people to get hurt.  We talked about death, and what it means to be dead.  She had some experience with it, since both our cats died in the years after she was born, but it was a little hard for her since she didn't quite remember the cats.  Sure, she saw pictures of them, and pictures of herself as a baby with them, so she knew they had existed, but she didn't quite get the feeling of loss, when something (or someone) you love so much is suddenly gone, and you will never get to see, touch or speak to them again.  She just didn't understand that kind of devastation.

And then one day, out of the blue, she turned to me and said "Mommy, I don't want you to ever get dead!" 

I grabbed her and held on to her as tightly as she held on to me.  She was crying and shaking, and I felt myself doing the same.

"I promise," I said, not knowing exactly how I could keep such a promise, "that I will do everything in my power to keep myself from getting dead."

We held each other a little longer.  I kissed her and stroked her hair.  I inhaled deeply as I sniffed the last little strands of innocence passing away.  My daughter finally figured it out, and realized that I could die.  That I could no longer be there to hold her, pat her back to go to sleep, take the spiders out of the house, cut her meat, or read her Charlotte's Web at bedtime, one chapter at a time.  That was heartbreaking.

In January, I started to make good on my promise.  I decided that I would take a walk on the berm trail around the Nike campus on my lunch breaks.  After all, it's right next door.   I had no idea how long the trail was, nor did I know if it was even legal to walk around it, but that is what I was planning on doing.

It was a sunny day, and unseasonably warm for January.  Come to think of it, it was unseasonably sunny for the Pacific Northwest.  It felt good.  I felt good.  I was beginning my journey to not get dead for my daughter.  I was strong and smart and capable.  As I stepped onto the trail, something came over me.  I can't describe it, nor do I know where it came from.  But what I did was a complete surprise.  What I did, was run.

I am was not a runner.  I ran cross country in high school so I wouldn't get fat, but I was the slowest person on the team.  My coach would always yell at me, telling me to "stop having conversations with the wind!"  I attempted running one day in college, and gave up immediately.  When I moved out to Portland, I tried the couch to 5k program.  I lasted a week.  I didn't like the way my body felt when I ran.  Everything hurt - my joints, my lungs, my feet, my hair - it sucked.

But there I was, running on the Nike trail, and I kind of enjoyed it.  I remembered the last time I ran, and how much I hurt.  My joints didn't seem to hurt the way they did before.  My lungs didn't feel like little knives were stabbing them from the inside.  My feet were happy.  What was this crazy dimension that I had just walked into?  Does Nike pump chemicals into the air so that anyone on campus breathing it in suddenly enjoys hard, physical work?  That had to be it.

I didn't run far, and I didn't run fast.  But I ran.  I ran until the song on my iPod was finished.  Then I walked.  When the next song came on, I decided to run again.  I continued this run/walk combo until I found my way back to the start of the loop trail.  I hadn't planned on it, but that day was the beginning of my journey to be a runner.

I returned to the trail two days later, and two days after that.  In the next few weeks, I was there every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.  I was soon able to run for two songs without stopping to walk.  Then three, and four, and then I was running the entire time.  I couldn't believe it!

I told my friends, my husband and my doctor about this new activity I had taken up.  P was pretty sure the reason I didn't find it painful this time around is because I now have the experience of childbirth, which is the gold standard of comparison to all pain.  My doctor encouraged me to sign up for the Shamrock Run.  It was a 5k - 3.1 miles.  The Nike Berm trail is 1.97 miles.  I just had to run one more mile for the race.  No problem.

The Shamrock Run was a blast.  I wanted to finish in 35 minutes, give or take, and I did.  I felt strong.  I felt accomplished.  I felt that I was not getting dead.  I was keeping my promise.

I found myself signing up for more races, and bettering my time with each one.  My children and husband were always there, my biggest fans, cheering me on.

I signed up for a race on Mother's Day, called Run Like a Mother, which is what I did.  I also wet my pants as soon as I crossed the finish line, in true motherly style.  I packed a change of clothes because I knew that would happen.

I began training for my first 10k, because I felt that it was time to move forward.  I was feeling strong, and I was certain that if I could run 3.1 miles, I could run 6.2.  I was dedicated to my training until my father passed away and I didn't have any desire to run for a while.  I also didn't have any desire to finish reading the Run Like a Mother book I had checked out from the library and hadn't put down for the two days prior to getting the news.  I had three chapters left.  I still have no desire to read it.

My father wasn't the healthiest person.  He was overweight and had heart issues which are what eventually ended his life.  It was sudden and unexpected.  It was preventable.  A few years ago, he lost a lot of weight and was able to get off some of his medication, but lately, he seemed to have put on some weight, and had some issues that he didn't really go into detail about, but they were his reason for not coming down for L's birthday party that spring.

At the Tulip Festival for L's 1st birthday 2012

My dad and I didn't have the best relationship for almost half my life.  I was so mad when he died because I felt that I had lost the best years I would have with him.  I felt robbed, and I was angry at him for not taking better care of himself.  I'm slowly getting through that, embracing and cherishing the time we did have together, because that was spectacular and special.  I've also realized that the best way to memorialize him is to keep my body and heart in good shape.  In the weeks after his death, as we made arrangements, flew down to California and laid him to rest, my daughter's plea played in my mind.  "I don't want you to ever get dead."

I started running again.  I started running while I was still in California.  I signed up for a different 10k.  I signed up for a 5k the week before that.  I trained.  I trained hard.  I was not going to get dead.  I was not going to have a weak heart.  I owed it to my daughter; I owed it to myself; and I owed it to my dad.

I completed the 10k, and got a PR that I have yet to break for the 5k I ran the week before.  This year, instead of running the Shamrock 5k, I ran the Shamrock 15k.  That's 9.3 miles.  NINE POINT THREE.  For someone who, a little over a year before, could run for only 3 1/2 minutes at a time, that's quite an accomplishment.

I love to run!

I ran like a mother again this year.  I was faster than I was last year.  More importantly, I didn't wet my pants.  I continued running after I crossed the finish line and didn't stop until I got to the bathroom, but at least I made it there.

I'm not the fastest runner, nor am I the best runner.  But I'm a runner and I'm not dead.

Mother Runners

Today would have been my dad's 70th birthday.  Had the significance of the date of the race occurred to me, I would have signed up for and run the Rock & Roll 1/2 marathon today.  I'm not sure I would have been able to make it the whole 13 miles without breaking down into a pool of emotion, so maybe that's why the date didn't strike me when people were talking about it.  I knew I had to do something physical and special, though.

Because the next race I have coming up is a trail run in Forest Park on July 16th, I decided to sign up for a free training plan on RunKeeper called "Running 4 Fat Loss."  I chose it for three reasons: 1. It's free; 2. It has speed training in it; and 3. My coworker/running buddy is doing it, too.  Today was the first workout of the plan for me.  I had to run 30 minutes at a steady pace - 70% of my max heart rate, or (since I don't have a heart rate monitor) at a pace where I can carry on a conversation.

I checked every so often to make sure I could talk out loud.  I wasn't winded or panting.  I was breathing in my nose, and had to remember to breathe out my mouth.  I felt amazing.  I felt strong.  I felt like I could run this way for a good long while.  Perhaps I could run a half marathon.  Perhaps I should have run that half marathon.

And then it was decided.  I will run a half marathon.  I don't know when I'll do it, or which one I will run, but I will run one.  I may not run one until this time next year, to commemorate my dad, but I will run one within the next calendar year.  And not only will I run a half marathon some time in the next year, I will run a half marathon when I'm 70 years old.  Because dammit, I wish my dad could have done that. (mental note: talk mom into running a half marathon)

My pace for this steady run was about the same pace I ran my first 5k.  During that first 5k, I was winded.  I was tired.  I wasn't quite sure I was going to make it to the finish.  Today, I was sure I could run that fast (or slow, however you want to look at it) for as long as I needed.  My heart is strong.  It is not going to fail me, seize up, or stop.  It will keep beating with love for my children, my husband and myself.  I will keep my promise and do everything in my power to stay alive for my children.  I know first hand how devastating it is to lose a parent. If I can prevent pain and suffering for my children, I will do it.

Today, and every May 18th, I will run.

For my dad.  

For my children.  

For my heart.  

For me. 

Let's hear it for running!

Spring Break Staycation

I don't know if people still do Staycations anymore.  I know they were the big thing a few years ago when the economy tanked and nobody had any money to pay their mortgages, much less leave town for even a short time.  I'm always a little bit late on trends.  I just joined Instagram, and I still don't understand the point of Twitter, or why the President and Pope each have a "feed." 

But that doesn't matter.  What does matter is that we can pay our mortgage and we can leave town . . . if we wanted to leave town.  The thing is, I've left town so often since my dad died in August, that I don't want to leave town for a very long time.  If I don't get on a plane for another year, I'll be pleased as punch.  So, Spring Break started this weekend, and I decided that we are going to do fun things at (and around) home.

The weekend was amazing -- blue skies, and temperatures in the mid to upper sixties.  We decided it was the perfect time to work on the garden.  Our condominium complex has a community garden.  P & I do most of the work, and because most of our neighbors are cool and don't take much, we reap most of the benefit.  This year, we created a condo-friendly greenhouse to start a bunch of seeds, and they've really taken off.  Our three dozen cucumber plants are already flowering.  We started hardening them off this week, and hopefully (fingers crossed that spring really has sprung) we'll be able to put them in the ground next weekend.

We cleared some space to plant beans, peas, carrots, radish and cabbage from seed.  E loved helping drag the stick through the dirt to make a line for planting.  It wasn't always perfectly straight, but it won't matter once the beans are weighing down the plant.  L, in stereotypical boy fashion, played in the dirt, threw rocks, and nearly broke a window.  He makes me such a proud mother.

We drove to one of our favorite burger joints for lunch and ate on the patio.  Aside from spending six months hiking a very long trail, professing forever love in front of family and friends, or meeting your child for the very first time, lunch on the patio of a restaurant is one of the greatest feelings ever.  There's just something about the warm rays on your skin, iced tea in hand, and hot food made to order.  It's magical.

The magic didn't end there.  4:10 was tip-off time for the game between the University of Dayton (my alma mater) and Syracuse University.  I wasn't expecting the game to be so intense.  Or close.  Or for Dayton to win, but all of those things happened.  I don't have cable, so I was stuck listening to the game on the Westwood 1 Radio network.  It's very hard to listen to a fast paced basketball game and figure out who has the ball when you haven't paid attention to the sports team in, like, ever.  But there I was, standing in front of my laptop, listening to the streaming radio, jumping up and down like a fool, as Dayton stuck their foot into the glass slipper and danced their way into the Sweet 16.

Sunday began with a 5 mile run and more time in the garden.  I met up with an old friend to watch the Veronica Mars movie at the Living Room theater.  I had my first glass of wine in I don't know how long, and ended up with a stomach- and head-ache by bedtime.  I'm thinking my body isn't a fan of alcohol, but boy did that wine taste amazing.

Today, E insisted that we go to the zoo, so after getting some cabbage seeds into the ground, I packed up the kids for the insanity that is the Oregon Zoo on the one nice day of Spring Break.  We saw two animals -- the elephants and the lions, and then we headed home.  I don't like crowds, and neither do my kids.  But they will be damned if they don't get to see the baby elephant or lion cubs.  We have a membership, so it's no big thing to swing by for a 45 minute visit. 

E suggested we eat dinner al fresco tonight.  It was a bit chilly, since the sun was hiding in the trees, but it's supposed to rain for the rest of the week, so what the hell?  As it turns out, I love eating outside.  Even when I have to cook and serve the food myself.  Maybe it's all the time I spent backpacking, eating, sleeping, living outside.  Maybe it's the fact that I know I don't have to sweep after dinner.  Whatever the reason, I always feel happier and calmer after sharing a meal with anyone outdoors.

It didn't even bother me that my neighbor's son barfed all over the hallway when I informed him that it was almost time for my kids to get ready for bed, so it was time for him to say goodbye.  As if on cue, he projectiled at me.  Juice?  Tomatoes?  Eggs?  I don't know exactly, but I found myself holding a towel under his chin and asking (begging) if he was all done yet, thinking that if I had sent him packing when I decided to set the timer for a one minute warning, his own mother would be doing this, and I would be continuing on my staycation, not realizing the ticking time bomb that was set in our house tonight.

Tomorrow is a new day, and if my children don't wake me up in the middle of the night with vomit all over their beds, we'll probably do something fun, and vomit all over that instead.

Haunted

I'm being haunted.

It's a good thing, though.

Things are reappearing.

We got married eight years ago.  A good friend of ours, who happens to be a documentary film maker, was our videographer.  He made a pretty darn awesome wedding video - one that didn't put our friends to sleep when we showed it, like so many wedding videos.  We loved it.  We loved it so much, we brought it with us all over the country, to show our family and friends.  Somewhere along the way, it was misplaced.  We tore our house apart searching for it.  We ransacked my in-laws' house searching for it.  We dug through my mother's house searching for it.  It was nowhere to be found.  Vanished in thin air -- for over five years.

In June of last year, my husband started the Specific Carbohydrate Diet in an attempt to help out his autoimmune disease.  He lost a lot of weight.  So much weight, that his wedding band fell off his hand on more than one occasion.  One such occasion happened to be while he was walking in a parking lot.  He heard a tinkling sound and noticed something shiny bouncing ahead of him.  It was his ring.  Good thing it was sunny that day.

So, six months ago, he couldn't find his ring.  He thought he may have left it on the windowsill of the kitchen, where he keeps it when he cooks.  Nope.  Then he thought maybe it was on the windowsill of the bathroom, where he keeps it when he takes a shower.  Not there, either.  He checked next to the bed, and the windowsill in the bedroom (because he seems to like to put his ring on windowsills), and he had no luck.  He figured he took it off at work and left it on his desk.  He couldn't find it there, either.  The only other explanation was that it fell off his finger, and this time he didn't hear it tinkling, or see it shimmering

He bought a new one.  In eight years, the price of our particular wedding ring has tripled.  I told him to make an insurance claim.  He never did, because he figured he was an imbecile and it was all his fault.

Last month, my car was broken into.  The glove box was opened, and the broken GPS was taken, along with the broken GPS's power cord.  When I realized that what the thieves took was a crappy piece of electronics that was simply taking up space in my glove box, I laughed.  And then I remembered that E had an MP3 player in the back seat.  I looked in her cupholder.  Gone.  I found her headphones and sighed.  I pulled on the cord with hope.  It was light, and as I came to the end, my fear was realized.  Lizzie's MP3 was gone.  Stolen by middle school thugs who have nothing to do on a Saturday night except wander through a condominium parking lot trying the doors of every car until one opens, and taking the one thing a five year old girl looks forward to during a long car ride.  Fuckheads.  Bastards.  Cum Wads!

It's no secret that 2013 was a terrible year for me.  2014 wasn't looking very rosey, either.

And then one day in the middle of February, I decided to go shopping at Natural Grocers.  They are a little grocery nearby that has organic hippie food.  They also don't put your food into bags, so if you don't bring your own, you have to carry your food out in a cardboard box.  Not wanting to deal with the box of shame, I opened the back of the car, and emptied out the one bag that we had, containing an assortment of tools, twine and rope.  I heard a tinkling.  I saw something sparkly bounce in front of me.  It was a wedding band.  I thought it was mine.  I looked at my finger.  My ring was there.  I looked at the ring in the back of my car.  Could it be?  No...  how could it have gotten here?  I picked it up, and sure enough, it was the missing wedding band.  No. Fucking. Way.

The next week, as I was putting L into his car seat for the five hundred and four millionth time, I noticed there was something black stuck between his car seat and the seat back.  He is still rear-facing, because I'm one of those parents (I should wear a t-shirt that says "Talk to me about extended breastfeeding, babywearing, cloth diapering and rear-facing car seats!"), so noticing some strange object between the car seat and the seat back shouldn't be that difficult.  This strange object just happened to be in the exact spot where I put my hand to loosen the car seat strap. I loosen the car seat strap every time I get him out of his car seat.  How did I not notice this strange black object before?  I picked it up, and was surprised to realize it was the stolen MP3 player!  For a nanosecond, I actually thought that the thieves felt remorse for what they had done, broke into my car a second time, and stuck the MP3 player in that spot so it would seem like it was just misplaced.

And then, last week, the most insane of all things to ever happen in this house happened.  P had spent half the week in Seattle at a conference.  He was in the bedroom, putting away his suitcase in the closet.  As he was moving an old bag that we haven't used in years, in order to make room for his bag, he heard a strange sound coming from one of the pockets.  He pulled down the bag and opened the pocket.  Inside was a giant ziplock bag.  Inside the giant ziplock bag were four DVD's.  Two were documentaries about the PCT that our friend and videographer made.  One was a video slideshow of photos compiled from a bunch of people who hiked the PCT in 2003.  The last DVD was the one and only copy of Camp Belchigator shenanigans.  It was truly unbelievable.

He didn't tell me right away.  He kept it a secret.  In fact, this was the day we had the big fight.

That night, as I was about to play another episode of Weeds, he said "No, let's watch a movie instead."

"OK.  What movie?" I asked.

"I have one," was his reply as he sauntered toward the bedroom.  He popped it into the computer before I could see what it was.

I thought he'd gotten Squatch to make another copy, since we had just seen him.  Either way, it was so nice to relive those happy moments, especially after our fight.  I only cried once, during the father/daughter dance.

I try not to get ethereal on my blog, or think about other worldly things in general.  I can't explain them, and while I've considered my own mortality and that of my mother, siblings and children fairly regularly since Labor Day, I still can't fathom what happens in the end.  I can only hope.  For the past month, as items that I thought were gone for good find their way back to me, my hope grows -- hope that there is something beyond this life; that my dad, grandmother, grandfather, former pets, teachers, friends, and others who have touched my life have found peace, are happy, and are never very far away.

What once was lost now is found.

The Hardest Word

My husband and I got into a fight today.  It’s not unusual.  We’ve been together for over 10 years, and married for over 8.  It’s bound to happen.  It happens every time I’m PMS-ing (which is now), and every time one of us comes back from a trip (also now).

I honestly can’t remember the exact reason we were fighting, and it really doesn’t matter.  It simply matters that we were fighting – yelling and screaming at each other, saying hurtful things, swearing; and we did this in front of our children.  I know E was very upset over this, and asked us to stop.  L simply cried while clinging to my leg.  I remember peeling him off before I dramatically stomped into the bedroom and carefully closed the door so I wouldn’t smush any tiny fingers.  P yelled one more hurtful thing at the closed door before walking away.  I thought 15 hurtful things in my head and cried for a while.  

But while we think and say hurtful things to each other, we really don’t mean it.  We love each other and would go to the ends of the earth for each other.  The trouble is, how do you reassure your children of this, when they have born witness to the slaughter of your feelings?

I’ve heard people say you should never fight in front of the children, and I remember having friends in high school who were blindsided by their parents’ divorce because they never saw it coming.  By the same token, I’ve also heard friends wonder why their parents weren’t divorced, since all they did was fight.  When we got engaged, P told me that we would end up hating each other, but that it would all work out in the end, because that’s what happened to his parents.

My parents divorced when I was one, so I have no idea how parents are supposed to handle stress and disagreement in front of their children.  I knew my parents didn’t like each other from the moment I remember, and the divorce papers were proof.  They did eventually allow time and physical distance move that water under the bridge, and a couple years before my dad passed away, they were cordial with each other (they became Facebook friends, and may have even sent each other letters.  In the mail).

I certainly don’t want my children to think that we hate each other.  At the same time, I don’t want them to think that everything is coming up roses when a family of moles has moved in.  So we fight, scream, yell, say hurtful things in front of our children.  The children do the same thing to each other in front of us.  They probably have some empathy in that regard.  We live in a 950 square foot condo.  There really isn’t much room to escape, especially when the Pacific Northwest Winter is bearing down and your road has become the new off-shoot of the local creek.  

One thing we do, however, that I think is hard to do in front of other people, is that we make up in front of our children.  It could be the fact that we live in a shoebox, so they are subjected to the good, bad and ugly in our marriage.  It could be the fact that we don’t want them to think that we actually hate each other, because we don’t.  We all have bad days.  We all lose it, and we all say things we don’t mean.  We’re human.   Our children should be witness to that.  They should know that everyone, even parents make mistakes.  And what’s more, they should be witness to the make-ups, not just to be reassured that their world will not be falling apart any time soon, but to learn that crucial part of making relationships last:  Saying “I’m Sorry.”

New Year, New Hope

Welcome to 2014.  The world as we knew it ended in December of 2012.  I think that explains why 2013 fucked me up so much.

I was not prepared.

This year, I'm preparing for anything.  I'm glancing over my shoulder, expecting the absolute worst to happen, like it will tap me from behind and say "surprise!"  I hold my breath when I answer the phone and my mother says "Dawn," in a very concerning way, like she has the worst news in the world to tell me... even though the worst news has already been delivered, and that she could not deliver the news that would be unfathomably worse than that.

I started my period yesterday, which is pretty apropos.  When I lived in New York and worked for Bankers Trust, I worked with a guy named Aramis Perez.  He wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree, and I always thought the following comment proved such, but tonight, or this morning (however you want to look at it), I'm thinking there may be something to it.  One day, after a blood drive, he mentioned that men needed to donate blood because women at least had their periods, so they got their monthly cleansing.  I never thought much about bloodletting, nor about the fact that I do it regularly.  And this month, I've been especially PMS-y, so this bloodletting has been a huge emotional release.

But then, I've been an emotional volcano since August.  Turning 40 and losing both my father and grandmother within a month of each other has forced me to face the reality of my own mortality.  While I know it may not come for another 40 or 50 years, or could happen before I finish this sentence, I have faced, called into conference, sent to detention, contemplated, considered, denied, accepted, denied again, blamed, hated, pined for, and entertained the thought of death for the last quarter of 2013.  The last week has been the most difficult.  I returned to the place where I first learned of my father's passing.

Colville, WA was once our oasis.  In fact, when we were so full of stress and screaming at each other and our children on our way out the door for Labor Day Weekend, Paul and I were both longing to get to my in-laws' place, as it's our emotional center, drawing us away from the crazy of city life, work, and commercialism, taking us back to the simpler times of daily chores, cultivating food, and preparing for the near future.  Little did I know as we were pulling away from the city, leaving our cares behind, that my oasis would soon become my misery.  I didn't realize until I was there for Christmas, just how much I had been undone in such a short, painful weekend.

Last year, we spent the week sledding, building a snowman and tromping through the hundreds of acres in the snow.  This year, I didn't leave the house.  I couldn't convince myself to do so.  Even though the trees were bending to the weight of the ice and snow, begging me to photograph them in their brilliance, I couldn't do it.  I couldn't make that mistake again.  I couldn't enjoy myself while someone so dear to me left the earth with nothing more than a random passing thought while pulling up my pants in the bathroom.

Did I not mention that yet?  The day my father died, before I went for a hike with my brand new camera in hand, I had a crazy thought go through my head as I glanced at myself in the mirror in the bathroom.  I thought "You know, one of these days you're going to get old and die.  It happens to all of us."  I looked at myself and gave a shy smile, not knowing why the thought came to my mind.  And then I thought "Don't look in my closet," thinking about my "sewing room" that I created out of a closet.  In addition to all the sewing supplies, I keep a random assortment of shit in there.  It's a wasteland... a garbage dump of stuff I can't quite figure out what to do with but can't seem to let go of and toss.  And there I was, at the moment of my dad's demise, thinking that I didn't want anyone rooting through my closet should I pass.

And the next week, I was rooting through my dad's closet, which, minus the sewing supplies, was just like mine.

It gives me comfort to think that my dad may have tried to notify me in an ethereal way, to say goodbye in the only way he was able.  But this time, I waited to hear something new, something more comforting, and expected more pain, another message from another loved one's passing.  Instead, I merely felt the echo in the memory of the old thought, and this time, all I could think was "death and taxes, death and taxes," over and over.  All weekend.  No matter where I was -- bathroom, kitchen, or bed, between the legs of my husband.

I was a sentry, waiting for a message, not leaving my post, lest I miss important orders.  At night, I dreamt of losing family members - one night it was my mother.  Another night, my brother.  I was on high alert, keeping my phone with me at all times, expecting a call I should never expect, jumping at every ring.

I couldn't wait to get home, away from the memory of that day, when I got the phone call from my brother while we were in the driveway, and for some strange reason I finally had good cell phone service up there.  I remember asking him to repeat himself a few times.  It didn't compute that my dad.  MY DAD was dead.  Even now, I expect a phone call or letter from him.  After all, it's Christmas, isn't it?

At the hotel on the trip home, I found myself loathing the morbidly obese man at the breakfast bar who was unquestionably larger and unhealthier than my father.  How dare he be alive when my father is not!  I found myself asking nobody in particular in my head why that man couldn't have died instead, and then immediately felt guilty for wishing such.

Now we're home and I'm surrounded by his memory -- all the things I took from his place, for Christmas craft projects I didn't have the strength to make.  Pillows from his old t-shirts, hats and bookmarks from his old sweaters, copies of his AA testimonies on CD.  All of these things in neat boxes added to my closet -- my closet that I hope nobody has to go through should I leave this earth.  My shit is now his shit.  His shit is now my shit.  Our shit.  No wonder he pops into my head every time I'm in the throes of ecstasy with my husband.  I thought I was just really fucked up.  I am really fucked up, but maybe not as much as I thought Freud would think I am.

So here I am, standing on the precipice between 2013 and 2014.  I'm so ready to jump, to leave behind the pain and suffering that I remember from the last year.  I can't remember being happy.  I'm sure I was at some point, but the lingering pain snuffs it out so quickly.  I'm also terrified to move on, as I can imagine even more terrible hardships ahead.  I've lived a charmed life for the past 10 years, and now things are beginning to crumble away.  December is crumbling away at my feet.  If I don't jump into January, I'll fall into it with no bearings or footing.

So here goes, 2014.  I'll jump, face forward, feet first.  I'm tear-stained, battered, bruised, beaten and tired.  But I'm also strong, secure, and brave (if only on paper), and I have a lot of love around me.  I'm coming through, not the other way around.  Make way, and let me have my time, my love and my peace.  If you bring me as much hardship and strife, I may leave you fading into history blood smeared and splattered like I did your predecessor, even if it is only on the absorbent layer of the pantyliner left in the trashcan of yesteryear.





And 2013,  Fuck.  You.

Camping With Kids

I know it's technically not winter, but in NW Oregon, we have two seasons: Rain, and Going to Rain Soon.  When the rains come, it's officially winter in my book.  And what does a parent with two young children do during the 6-8 months of rain?  Pack them up in the car and head to the coast for some camping, that's what!

I know you just blinked your eyes, swallowed hard and said "What the what?"  in your head.  But "winter" camping on the Oregon coast is nothing like "winter" camping anywhere else.  For one thing, it rarely gets below freezing out here, and for another, we don't use tents.  We use yurts.  According to Wikipedia, "A yurt is a portable, bent dwelling structure traditionally used by nomads in the steppes of Central Asia."  The state park system of Oregon realized the benefits of having such in their campgrounds, and we discovered them many years ago.  They're cheaper than a hotel, and warmer than a tent.  Once we had kids, we realized it was the best way to camp.  It's kind of like RV camping but without the RV (or the satellite dish).  It's so freaking awesome.  If you have kids and live in Oregon, I highly recommend you look into it.

This past weekend we stayed at Ft. Stevens State Park.  We've never been to this particular park before.  I imagine it's insane in the summertime.  The campground part of the park is gigantic, with loops running the entire range of the alphabet.  The nice part about camping in the off season is that half the campground is empty, so you can let the kids run around with wild abandon.  Our yurt was on a hill, and the kids had a great time running up and down.

We packed in a hurry Friday night, and kind of forgot a few things.  Some things, like my camera and E's headlamp weren't terribly important.  Others, like our dutch oven and L's pants, were.  So Saturday morning, we drove into Astoria to get some breakfast and do some thrift-store shopping.

We found a quaint restaurant with views of the bridge.  The kids ate french toast with two kinds of syrup.  They thought they had died and gone to heaven.  We visited two different thrift stores.  The first, just around the corner from the restaurant, was a bust.  The second, located between Astoria and Ft. Stevens, was un-fucking-believable.  If I had realized I would be writing a blog about it, I would have taken a picture of it.  I would have taken TEN pictures of it.  It's called Penny-Wise Thrift Store, and it's amazing.  It's like everyone in the Astoria/Warrenton/Seaside area of Oregon cleaned out their garages and brought the stuff to Pennywise.  There is sooo much stuff!  You couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a toddler ride-on toy, and when I couldn't find any kid clothing, the guy told me "That's next door."  I was confused, and then he explained that they had a second building where they keep women's & children's clothing and toys.  He gave us a key and we walked over.  The other building was a house.  The entire downstairs was filled with clothing and toys.  So many toys.  E wanted everything.  We had to remind her that we were there for pants for L.  But we ended up at the cash register with some pots and pans, pants, a musical jewelery box, a puzzle and alphabet stamps.  Nothing had price tags on them.  When we asked the woman about it, she said in a very cute New Zealand accent (I only recognize it as a New Zealand accent because she sounded exactly like my neighbors when I was growing up, who just happened to be from New Zealand), "That's because we have so much stuff and we're all volunteers, dear.  We can't put prices on everything.  All this benefits mental health, dear.  It looks like you have about $15 worth."  Paul looked in his wallet.  He had eleven.  I had conveniently left my purse in the yurt for the day, but remembered that we had a bunch of quarters in the car from when we were without a dryer for 6 months.  Paul really didn't want to do that, but the woman was excited, because "the fishermen are always looking for quarters to do their laundry.  They wipe us out all the time."  She offered us Dum Dum lollipops (which E insisted are "suckers" and definitely NOT "lollipops"), and was impressed when L took two, offered one to Daddy, and when Daddy said "Thanks, but no thanks," he put one back.  "You're doing a great job!" she said.  Thanks, lovely lady at the thrift shop, because I'm pretty sure I was doing a terrible job the night before when we realized we had nothing to feed them.  And I probably yelled at them about something stupid that morning.  I always yell in the morning.

After our trip, we decided to take a walk.  The sky was blue, and we figured we had a very short window of time to do much.  Within two minutes of leaving the yurt, the skies opened and down came the hail.  The kids didn't seem to mind.  They happily ran through it, tried to catch it on their tongues, jumped in puddles, examined leaves on the ground, and simply enjoyed the simplicity of being outside, in the rain, in the clouds, in the hail, in the wind.

Catching raindrops

Simple Pleasures

We roasted marshmallows after dinner, in the 30 minute rain reprieve before bedtime.

 

This morning, after packing up the car, we checked out the shipwreck of the Peter Iredale.  It ran aground in 1906, and the skeleton of its hull still stands at the beach, a constant reminder of the power of the sea.  Even though I grew up on the ocean, the Pacific still scares me.  The rocky beaches, freezing cold water, "sneaker waves," and this...

The Atlantic's got nothing on the Pacific

Please note that this photo was taken from quite a long distance away.  The wind was really whipping and I didn't want to get any closer.  Some day when we return and I have my good camera, I hope to go down there during low tide and get some awesome shots.  For now, you'll have to settle for crappy cell phone photos from 1000 feet.

We also took some photos to commemorate dragging the kids out in the whipping cold wind and rain.  This is what makes the memories, kids.

 Next, we went to the fort.  L fell asleep in the car in the five minutes to get there, so E & I walked into the museum together.  There was a gigantic diorama of the fort during WWII, and with the push of a button, a little train chugged down the line.  It was a hit with E.  After L woke up, we walked around the old fort, and found a lookout tower that offered some cover for our lunch.

I swear, my family is not homeless

We returned to the museum, played with the diorama again, and looked at the displays.  One of my favorites was of a letter a woman had written about the attack of Ft. Stevens by a Japanese submarine.  Not only was it amazing to read the first-hand account of what it was like to be attacked, it was amazing to read it in her handwriting.  I felt a closeness to her in reading the words that she penned, in trying to decipher her script.  How amazing and frightening that time must have been.

The Jetty & Mouth of the Columbia in the distance

West Battery

 

 

 

 

 

Climbing down the stairs from the watch tower

Google does this really cool thing when you upload photos.  If they're taken in quick succession, they get put together into an animated gif.  Well, here's one that was made today when my photos were uploaded from my phone.  It looks like the Jeep is moving!

 

A Day of Thanks

Ahhh, November.  It's the month of Thanksgiving, so naturally social media is filled with "30 days of thanks."  And naturally, I fell for it, trying to post daily one thing that I could think of that I was actually thankful for that day.  Cutting back on my social media time has made it more difficult to post, yet not so difficult to think of things I'm thankful for.  Today being Veterans' Day, my thoughts and thanks go toward my grandfather, Sgt. Michael Hreha, a decorated WWII veteran.  While I'm thankful for his service to our country, I'm much more thankful for the life and memories I have of him growing up.  He was a kind, gentle and patient man who loved unconditionally and found joy in the simple and everyday.

I have an immense amount of respect for him.  He was in the first wave of the D-Day invasion in Normandy, landing on Omaha beach, a member of the 29th infantry division.    He was wounded twice, and when he took his last breath of life at the age of 89, still had shrapnel in his chest.

He didn't speak much about his time in the war.  One of the stories I do remember involved him getting shot from behind, and being saved by his bible...and shovel.  My mother had not yet been born when he left for the war, and she was two when he returned.  When he did return, she greeted him by pushing him back toward the door, saying "No man!  No man!"

How extremely heartbreaking it must have been, to spend that many years away, miss the birth and first two years of your first child's life, witness God knows what on the battlefield, escape death, be wounded, and return home to rejection from your baby girl.

It didn't last long, as my mother grew up adoring her father, but still.  It couldn't have been easy.

And I'm sure the years to come were difficult.  He most likely was dealing with PTSD, and in retrospect, I'm not sure he was over it in the 1980's, when I was growing up.  I remember grandma telling me one day when there was a terrible thunderstorm that grampa always went into the bedroom during thunderstorms because the noise reminded him of the war.  She said his friend was killed on the battlefield.  I always imagined it like a football field, with rain coming down and his friend being struck by lightning.  I'm sure it was just as intense, but I think it played out a little differently, and after reading the history of D-Day, I imagine there was more than one friend he watched die in front of him, or next to him.  Because he never really spoke of that day, I wonder how many hands he held as lives slipped away right before him.  I wonder how many times he was convinced he was dead, or going to die.

And I wonder how, after all of that, could he have been such a sweet, loving man my entire life.

As a parent of two small children, some days all the patience I have won't fill up a postage stamp.  After experiencing the sudden, unexpected death of my father, followed closely behind by the death of my dear grandmother, I found expecting postage-stamp sized patience was probably expecting too much from me.  I imagine grampa probably had the same trouble in the days and years following the war.

But I wasn't there, and I didn't know him then.  I didn't know him as Mike Hreha, or Sgt Hreha, or Dad.  I knew him as Grampa.  Who he was and what he did prior to becoming Grampa is important, as it shaped him into who I remember, but it is not as important to me, since who he was when we were both alive together is the most important thing.

I remember snuggling with him on the couch as he watched TV, with my head in his lap, resting my ear against his belly, the rhythmic up and down that corresponded with the breathing that I heard from the inside (a little rattle in his chest, thanks to smoking), lulling me to sleep.  I remember that he always smelled like tobacco, and it was always comforting.

I remember living down the street from my grandparents, having him walk me home after spending the night over there, and trying to keep up.  He always started out on his left foot, a habit from the military, he said.  His palms were rough, and the hair on the back of his hands was jet black and wiry, some strands standing straight up, at attention.

I remember watching him stand over the hood of his car, just looking, tinkering, changing a spark-plug or two.  I remember watching him build a fence, paint the shed, lay concrete, and turn the carport of our house into an extra room.  Grampa could build anything.

I remember bringing broken things to his house: toys, electronics, tools, furniture, you name it.  He would fix it.  He was the king of splicing.  Just about every item in our house that had a plug had a new plug spliced onto its cord when it stopped working, thanks to us kids pulling the plugs out of the wall by their cords.

I remember every piece of artwork I made getting a frame, and every puzzle I completed getting painstakingly glued, piece by piece, to a piece of cardboard or plywood.  I remember getting my hair cut off outside in the back yard when I had lice.  I remember countless pick ups and drop offs at school, work, play practice and cross country meets.

I remember Grampa's laugh -- it started as a wheeze, and would shake every part of him as he "heed" and "hawed" over and over again.

I remember Grampa building the dome for the new church, and seeing his picture with it in a supermarket tabloid of all places.  Who says they don't write the truth?

I remember jumping off the self-propelled merry-go-round contraption at the park, falling backwards and cutting my forehead at my eyebrow.  Grampa picked me up, and stopped the bleeding with his handkerchief.  As we pulled into the driveway, mom and Gramma were there, pale as ghosts, since the handkerchief was pretty bloody.

"It's OK, Mommy," I replied, "Grampa bought me a cheeseburger!"  He knew exactly how to make me feel better.
 
I remember the poem he wrote about me, and how much I loved and hated it when he wrote it, and how the hate dissipated as time passed, and I find myself reciting it whenever I need a laugh and a little encouragement.

I remember playing Uno with him on the back porch during hot summer nights.  No matter how many times we played, he never quite understood how the game worked, and always ended up with tons of cards in his hand at the end of the game.

I remember swimming in the pool as he got the grill started.  I remember the delicious smell of lighter fluid, charcoal, burgers, chlorine, Hawaiian Tropic and sunshine.  I remember eating the burgers while listening to WNDB, "The Music of Your Life," and Gramma insisting that the song about watching the girls go by was his favorite.

I remember how much I loved his delicious sauteed cabbage dish that I have yet to figure out how to replicate.

And my most favorite memory, or group of memories, will always be when he would pick me up from dance class on Saturdays when I was in elementary school.  We always stopped at McDonalds.  He'd order a cheeseburger happy meal with milk, and two hamburgers and two coffees.  We'd get it to go, and at his house, we'd all sit down at the table.  Gramma would pull out her green, plastic placemats with leaf designs that I spent much of my childhood tracing with my finger.  She'd open up my happy meal and pass me my cheeseburger and milk.  Then she'd dole out the fries.  She'd take two (she was on Weight Watchers), and split the rest evenly between Grampa and me.  I loved sharing my fries with Grampa.  He always seemed genuinely grateful to get those fries and I loved making him feel that good.

I don't remember seeing Grampa get mad or yell.  I was pretty sure he was incapable of such things.  I know it happened, and if I dig hard, I could probably find one or two examples, but that's not what I want to remember.  I want to remember how he hugged me, how the stubble on his face would scratch me when I kissed him, how that one stray eyebrow hair always stuck out, and how his toenails were so long and thick.  I want to remember how he would always crack a smile when Billy sang "Go go go Grandpa!" to the Godzilla song.  I want to remember the way his hands looked when he started his car, the Galaxy 500.  I want to remember the skinny legs and boney knees that came out of his swim trunks, the only time he ever wore shorts.  I want to remember his wheezy laugh.  And I want to remember his love.  He had a lot of it, and I am ever so thankful that I got it.

So on Veteran's Day, and every day, I am thankful that I got to be part of Michael Hreha's life, and I'm thankful he got to be part of mine.  I love you, Grandpa.

And because you're probably wondering about that poem, here it is.

Dawn Stringer
was a singer.
She sang like a bird
that nobody heard.
She danced on a stage
and she was a rage.
She also smoked a pipe
that nooooobody liked.