Missing old friends who aren't part of our crazy little world any more. Forgiveness can replace the hurt, but sometimes they just can't be let back in.
The love is always there.
Wednesday, July 16
Missing
Missing old friends who aren't part of our crazy little world any more. Forgiveness can replace the hurt, but sometimes they just can't be let back in.
The love is always there.
Sunday, June 29
Tuesday, June 10
Home of the Whopper
I'm afraid of bridges. I think I suffer panic attacks when I have to go over them. Even riding as a passenger, I cannot look over the sides to enjoy any view. When driving, I've got a white knuckle grip at 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel, steady deep breaths, and at times get a little dizzy.
Little bridges I'm okay with. The ones on your regular day to day drives, I'm good! It's the big ones, over large bodies of water, way high up in the air that do me in. Driving around NYC. No good for me. Cape Cod. Yeah. No. Grand Island on the Niagara River. Yes, we will add them to the list.
I had to drive them this weekend. My big girls and I were headed home from a weekend of celebrating my sister and a mommy-in-the-making, and had finished enjoying a few minutes at one of our favorite spots, Niagara Falls.
Two bridges. I nearly passed out.
But, everything happens for a reason, right?
At the end of the second bridge, we approached the exit near the cemetery that my grandparents now call home. I was able to stop and say hello to them after all, something I didn't think would happen this trip.
Unprepared, I told my girls that I wished I had something to leave for them, so they would know I was there. Silly, because they always know, and likely wouldn't use my little trinket. But, still. I wanted them to know.
"Here, mommy," says my blonde smallest of the bigs, "You can give them one of my whoppers."
She handed me a little treat from her goodie bag from the baby shower.
I smiled at her sweetness, and marveled at the silliness. Growing up, my grandparents had lived right down the road from a Burger King. We would always be silly as we made our way through the parking lot to the park on the next block, often tricking the drive thru attendant with our bikes and feet.
It was perfect. I left the whopper nestled in the dirt of a potted plant, next to a sea shell someone else in my family had recently left.
The girls and I headed home after that, a long silly, loud car ride, with singing, movies, some yelling and fighting, and no more bridges to cross.
Little bridges I'm okay with. The ones on your regular day to day drives, I'm good! It's the big ones, over large bodies of water, way high up in the air that do me in. Driving around NYC. No good for me. Cape Cod. Yeah. No. Grand Island on the Niagara River. Yes, we will add them to the list.
I had to drive them this weekend. My big girls and I were headed home from a weekend of celebrating my sister and a mommy-in-the-making, and had finished enjoying a few minutes at one of our favorite spots, Niagara Falls.
Two bridges. I nearly passed out.
But, everything happens for a reason, right?
At the end of the second bridge, we approached the exit near the cemetery that my grandparents now call home. I was able to stop and say hello to them after all, something I didn't think would happen this trip.
Unprepared, I told my girls that I wished I had something to leave for them, so they would know I was there. Silly, because they always know, and likely wouldn't use my little trinket. But, still. I wanted them to know.
"Here, mommy," says my blonde smallest of the bigs, "You can give them one of my whoppers."
She handed me a little treat from her goodie bag from the baby shower.
I smiled at her sweetness, and marveled at the silliness. Growing up, my grandparents had lived right down the road from a Burger King. We would always be silly as we made our way through the parking lot to the park on the next block, often tricking the drive thru attendant with our bikes and feet.
It was perfect. I left the whopper nestled in the dirt of a potted plant, next to a sea shell someone else in my family had recently left.
The girls and I headed home after that, a long silly, loud car ride, with singing, movies, some yelling and fighting, and no more bridges to cross.
Friday, May 16
Perspective
A few months ago my cousin posted a link on FaceBook to a blog written by a family living where I grew up. The family was losing their little boy to cancer. I began to read their blog often, mesmerized, really, by the mother's faith, something I've become quite envious of, because I talk the talk but can't, or don't, really walk the walk.
Yesterday, we celebrated my baby girl's ninth birthday. My strawberry haired, blue-eyed, freckled, bespectacled and too much like me baby girl. I took cupcakes to her school, and came home with my littles. Watching them play, I read the previous day's post. And cried. A mommy was mourning her baby.
Today I read that another mommy in our little world also mourns her baby. A teacher in my girls' school, who has been helping her son fight a debilitating disease, is done with that part of the fight. And, again, I cry.
I look around at the mess that's made, the crumbs, the toys, the dishes, the laundry (oh, the laundry) strewn in this little yellow house that we desperately want to move from to a home with more space, but aren't sure we can afford to. This little yellow house desperately wants us to stay, having taken so much from us in the last few years in fixes, additions and repairs, sometimes we feel we have no choice BUT to stay. It's sucked us in.
Crumbs and toys and mess and noise and laundry will follow us, regardless of size and color of our home. In the matter of 24 hours I've learned of two mothers whose houses suddenly got bigger, and not because they changed addresses. Not because of anything of their choosing. Even attempting the thought of trying to picture this little yellow house without all of the littles just takes my breath away. But those two moms keep breathing. They have other littles, too.
In a few hours extra girls will descend our little yellow house to spend the night in our crazy zoo and celebrate the blue eyed blonde who is too much like me. It will be loud, it will be hard, it will be messy.
But I've got to keep it in perspective.
Yesterday, we celebrated my baby girl's ninth birthday. My strawberry haired, blue-eyed, freckled, bespectacled and too much like me baby girl. I took cupcakes to her school, and came home with my littles. Watching them play, I read the previous day's post. And cried. A mommy was mourning her baby.
Today I read that another mommy in our little world also mourns her baby. A teacher in my girls' school, who has been helping her son fight a debilitating disease, is done with that part of the fight. And, again, I cry.
I look around at the mess that's made, the crumbs, the toys, the dishes, the laundry (oh, the laundry) strewn in this little yellow house that we desperately want to move from to a home with more space, but aren't sure we can afford to. This little yellow house desperately wants us to stay, having taken so much from us in the last few years in fixes, additions and repairs, sometimes we feel we have no choice BUT to stay. It's sucked us in.
Crumbs and toys and mess and noise and laundry will follow us, regardless of size and color of our home. In the matter of 24 hours I've learned of two mothers whose houses suddenly got bigger, and not because they changed addresses. Not because of anything of their choosing. Even attempting the thought of trying to picture this little yellow house without all of the littles just takes my breath away. But those two moms keep breathing. They have other littles, too.
In a few hours extra girls will descend our little yellow house to spend the night in our crazy zoo and celebrate the blue eyed blonde who is too much like me. It will be loud, it will be hard, it will be messy.
But I've got to keep it in perspective.
Tuesday, May 6
Don't Ask
I've always been turned off by certain questions. Enough so that I learned not to ask them.
Many years ago people would ask me and my long-time boyfriend when we were going to get married. Truth be told I eventually began wondering that myself! It wasn't until after we were married, when questions continued, that I began to realize how much asking what is perceived as an innocent question can actually cause hurt.
"When are you going to buy a house?"
"When are you going to get a new car?"
"Are you planning to look for a new job?"
"You'd better start a family soon, don't you think?"
Curiosity driven, innocent sounding questions, that can cut like a knife, and stir up emotions that you have no idea are sitting under the surface.
I learned not to ask questions like that. One, because it's really none of my business. And two, because we knew, and continue to know, the hurts that come with questions like those. I never wanted to be the cause of someone feeling that sort of hurt.
So that question that you might want to ask, or have asked, or will ask.... don't. Not unless you are ready for me to tell you maybe something you don't want to hear.
Many years ago people would ask me and my long-time boyfriend when we were going to get married. Truth be told I eventually began wondering that myself! It wasn't until after we were married, when questions continued, that I began to realize how much asking what is perceived as an innocent question can actually cause hurt.
"When are you going to buy a house?"
"When are you going to get a new car?"
"Are you planning to look for a new job?"
"You'd better start a family soon, don't you think?"
Curiosity driven, innocent sounding questions, that can cut like a knife, and stir up emotions that you have no idea are sitting under the surface.
I learned not to ask questions like that. One, because it's really none of my business. And two, because we knew, and continue to know, the hurts that come with questions like those. I never wanted to be the cause of someone feeling that sort of hurt.
So that question that you might want to ask, or have asked, or will ask.... don't. Not unless you are ready for me to tell you maybe something you don't want to hear.
Monday, April 28
Sunday, April 27
Dance Like You're 8
At the start of the weekend, I took two of my girls to an 80s-themed mother-daughter dance. We dressed up in 80s-ish attire, colored our hair and set out to party.
I was nervous about the night, because we don't have the best track record at these sort of things. But my girls surprised me.
We saw a few friends, but mostly hung out with each other. My eight year old surprised me, dancing and letting lose in a way I haven't really seen her. She's goofy in private at home, but not so much in public.
She danced. Wonderfully, crazy, danced. I took videos as proof. And blackmail.
But I also took a cue. I danced like she was, like I was 8. I let it all out and let it go (yeah, they sang that, too...). And we didn't stop. And it was wonderful.
I was nervous about the night, because we don't have the best track record at these sort of things. But my girls surprised me.
We saw a few friends, but mostly hung out with each other. My eight year old surprised me, dancing and letting lose in a way I haven't really seen her. She's goofy in private at home, but not so much in public.
She danced. Wonderfully, crazy, danced. I took videos as proof. And blackmail.
But I also took a cue. I danced like she was, like I was 8. I let it all out and let it go (yeah, they sang that, too...). And we didn't stop. And it was wonderful.
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