Everywhere

I remember when I received the news that my grandmother had passed away.  I was living overseas when the phone rang that night.  When I took the receiver, I heard my Dad's normally stoic voice tremble.  In North Carolina, his mouth formed the words, "Momma died today," and in my dark office in Wales, my ear passed the news on to my brain.  My first reaction, being a Momma myself, was one of sadness and sympathy toward the man so far away at the other end of that receiver.  I think I said, "I'm so sorry.  Are you okay?'  Losing a Momma creates a complicated, ragged void since memories of mom are often tied to all parts of ourselves.

My grandmother had been wasting away for a few years.  After living a selfless life, she faded away painfully slowly before our eyes, so I did not feel much sadness on her behalf.  I think we all were more than a bit relieved that she had been released from what her life had become in the end.  The last time I had seen her, I remember placing my toddler in her arms as she reclined in her favorite chair.  She loved babies but panicked those last few years anytime I put one of my babies on her lap.  "Don't let me drop him!" she'd cry out, knowing that she wasn't the strong Momma that she used to be.  I remember holding her hand.  She had soft, thin, wrinkled skin and swollen knuckles, and I remember whispering to her that it was okay to go.  She was so weak.  Her medications made her cold, and she was in and out of lucidity.  So her passing was not entirely sad.

But there I was a world away feeling helpless, lost and relieved.  Add 'confused' to that list.  The 'sugar and spice and everything nice' from my childhood was no longer in this earthly world.  I wasn't really sure how I was supposed to feel.  I wasn't sure how I was going to get closure since it became obvious that I wouldn't be able to make it home for her memorial service.  So I did what I do.  I wrote.  I wrote about my grandmother and the delightfully prominent role she played in my childhood.  I remembered her goodness and her gifts.  Sparkly, soft memories of her returned to my mind and leaped onto the paper effortlessly.

I sent my written words to my family back in North Carolina, and I am told that my writing became an integral part of her eulogy, but I was not there.  I was still a world away knowing I'd never sit with her again.  I'd never again hear her sing "In the Garden" off key while she worked expertly in the kitchen to serve all of us.  I wasn't sure if anyone would ever again make me feel as adored as she did, and I knew that now I'd never be able to repay all of her kindnesses.  Perhaps I was wrong.

I spoke to my own mother on the phone shortly after I got the news.  A good mom listens, makes you feel safe, and encourages you to work things out on your own.  I heard myself tell my mother, "She isn't here anymore, but I kind of feel like she's everywhere now."  At the time I didn't really understand what those words meant even though I knew they were true.

Today they are still true, and I understand what they mean.  My grandmother, who made perfect lemon meringue pies and performed open heart surgery on my favorite stuffed Sesame Street Ernie, is everywhere.  A few nights ago, as I sat in the dark after singing a tired child to sleep, I told her so.

Mommy, I told her, you are here in the creaking of this rocking chair.

You are there anytime I, without thinking, plant double kisses on my babies' faces.

Anytime I cream butter and sugar together, you are most certainly there.

You are there when my daughter stands beside me singing off key in church,

And you are there when a crying little girl collapses into my arms

Because you showed me how loving, open arms and listening ears can ease any sorrow.

I never paid back your kindnesses, but I am passing them on.

And now I can so clearly see that the love you gave to me 

did not end when you passed from this world.

You are memories of sugar and spice, African violets, and quiet laughter.

But more than that, you are the patience that I breathe into my lungs 

when I pause in the midst of chaos.

You are the generosity I find when I hear the sound of my own voice complaining 

despite my blessings.

You are there in the dark, quiet moments when children are sleeping;

You are there when the kids are noisy and precocious and "worrying me to death,"

And you remind me that all of this is beautiful and fleeting.

You are a mother's love,

And you are everywhere.

Adeline Davis Blackburn (with newborn Emma Carson)

1914-2007

Happy Mardi Gras!

Yesterday the kids had the day off, so we had some time on our hands.  I decided it would be a fantastic idea to attempt my first ever King Cake (with the help of three very eager little girls).  Turns out it was indeed a fantastic idea, but I didn't realize that it would take up a good part of our day.  A decent amount of time was spent kneading, rolling and shaping the dough, but most of the time was spent simply waiting for it to rise.  I told my kids that the dough would not rise if the house wasn't quiet, and I will stand by that statement until King Cakes go out of fashion.  Noticing how difficult it was to stay quiet as well as how beautiful and sunny it was outside, the girls decided to take a little picnic and a card game outside.

Never mind that there was still a bit of snow on the ground.  It was 40 degrees and sunny which is springtime weather in Michigan...

The picnic was glorious for about ten minutes.  Then the gang determined that it actually was a bit cold for a picnic.  They all came in for hot soup and a thrilling episode of Murder, She Wrote; it's what all the cool kids are watching these days.  When the cake had cooled, we decorated it with a sweet glaze and sugars colored the traditional Mardi Gras colors.  In case you didn't know, purple stands for justice, green for faith and gold for power.  My daughter Emma insisted on a slice decorated with gold sugar so that she could loudly proclaim at the table, "I GOT THE POWER!!"  It was 'kinda hectic', y'all.

In the end everyone gave the cake two thumbs up.  It was rather yummy with its cinnamon sugary filling, and today two girls were indeed very happy to take big slices of King Cake wrapped up in cling film in their lunch boxes.  So while little snow flakes are falling up here today, we are dreaming of N'awlinz...

"Howyamomma'an'em?" 

 "Dey fine!"

Have a super Fat Tuesday, friends!

Love,

Meredith

Downtime

 My husband and I are huge fans of downtime.  Before we had children, I was a school teacher and he was some sort of chemical engineer.  We poured ourselves into our jobs during the week, and on the weekends we seriously committed ourselves to downtime.  After sleeping rather late, I used to lie in bed all day on a Saturday and read.  Occasionally I'd take a break for snacks, or to chat with my husband, or if the plot of my novel grew particularly taxing, I'd pause to take a bubble bath.  Relaxing wasn't the only thing we found lots of time for, and consequently, I found out I was pregnant after we had been married only a few months.

My first pregnancy was rather complicated with preterm labor scares starting at around 20 weeks.  I spent four months of that pregnancy on strict bed rest.  There I seriously perfected the art of downtime.  I read countless books, learned to cross stitch, watched marathon episodes of my then-favorite TV show, Trading Spaces, and carried on long telephone conversations with friends.  (Facebook was not a "thing" yet at that point.)  I cannot say that I enjoyed my four months of forced downtime, but I was prepared for it since I had put in so much practicing on the weekends previously.

Eventually after all of that bed rest and preterm labor drama, baby number one came along just days before her due date.  She was healthy and perfect.  My mother had assured me that newborn babies slept about eighteen hours a day, so I felt confident that our downtime would not be terribly disrupted.  There would still be time to read and discuss books and to lie in bed with my husband debating which flavor of Ben and Jerry's ice cream deserved the most adoration. 

As you might expect, I was in for an incredibly rude awakening.  My baby was not one of those babies who slept all day... or even all night for that matter.  In fact, after having three babies, I am pretty sure those babies are all confined to the pages of fictional novels that I no longer had time to read.  We spent the next several years feeling incredibly sleep deprived and yearning for the downtime that we used to take for granted... which is why today all of our children are very comfortable in our bed.  We learned that if we couldn't actually be lounging or sleeping, we could still hang out in bed (with our kids).

It can be easy to hang out in bed with a newborn.  If you have the right kind of baby, a stack of diapers and a pair of working boobs, the two of you can easily hang out in bed all day.  It turns out that my first born wasn't the 'right kind of baby'.  She came equipped with a relaxation detector.  Anytime she detected that her mother was trying to relax, she would start screaming.  After the first couple of months of pacing the floor, swaying, swaddling and crying out to the gods of sleep, she chilled out, and we discovered that she could be kept entertained in bed while we sang to her, played peek-a-boo games or read her stories.

As we added more children to our family, and the children grew older, our games in bed evolved.  I know so many parents who are dragged out of bed at the small hours of the morning by their young children who are eager to start the day.  We simply rejected that life.  About eight years ago I seriously considered equipping our bedroom with a small fridge so that I wouldn't have to get out of bed and go downstairs on weekend mornings for milk, juice, or snacks for the short people.  Please do not tell my children that this is not normal because they have evolved and adapted with us.  It only occurred to me recently that the 'family bed' may not be the common area for most families, but my two year old will tell you that one of her favorite places in the world is "Mommydaddybed." (Yes, that's all one word.)

So over the years we have kept our kids happy in our bed using a variety of imaginative methods.  One particular game that keeps babies and big kids giggling and happy is called, "Are You My Pillow?"  In this game an exhausted parent rests his or her head on top of a kid and pretends to sleep.  When the child begins to squirm, giggle and act completely unlike an inanimate pillow, the parent will become apparently cross and reposition the 'pillow' in an attempt to get comfortable.  It helps if the parent also inquires with exasperation, "Why is my pillow (fill in the verb)-ing??"  This game can go on for quite sometime.  If more than one child is in bed, of course, more 'pillows' are then in play.  When the first pillow proves unsatisfactory, Mom or Dad can try out the other one to see if it is less animated.  Of course it never is.

I also recall playing a lot of "Make Me a Pizza" wherein one of us would pretend to make our child(ren) into a pizza.  First we'd knead them like dough and toss them gently in the air.  Then we'd top them with invisible tomato sauce, cheese and a variety of traditional and non-traditional pizza toppings.  Next the child would be placed into the oven (translated: under the covers) to cook for a few minutes.  We'd occasionally lift the blankets to check on the baking progress.  Finally, of course, the pizza would be removed from the oven and eaten.  Being eaten was always the favorite part (even when Dad had scratchy whiskers because he hadn't shaved yet).

The last game that jumps to mind is "The Three Little Pigs," and now that we actually have three little kids, all of them will still play this (even my nine year old, but don't tell her I told you that).  This game involves the telling of the traditional three pigs fairy tale while acting it out (in bed, of course).  At the appropriate point in the story, Pig #1 goes into her house made of straw (i.e. under the covers) to hide.  The Big Bad Wolf, also know as Dad, but occasionally Mom, will make a big production of huffing and puffing and blowing the covers off.  Pig #1 must then scurry off to find Pig #2  and hide under the covers... er, house made of sticks.  And on it goes.  You get the idea.  Depending on how badly one wants to stay in bed, the story can be amended to include alternate endings and more time snuggling under the covers.

One day in the future we will wake up and discover that we haven't made any pizzas in bed for a while.  We will also realize that we have ample time for reading and weekend games of touch screen solitaire.  We will be all caught up on PBS's Masterpiece Theater's latest series, and we will be able to carry on intelligent conversations about newspaper articles that we've had time to read and ponder.  And then we will yearn for the days when it required work and imagination to stay in bed all morning.  I know this is true, so I try my best to embrace the little people who constantly infringe upon my efforts to achieve downtime.  I acknowledge that our bed has become a sacred space where we play, rest, and talk about every little thing, and I will remind my kids that they are never to old to climb into "Mommydaddybed" when they need to be looked after or listened to.

Why D'ya Have to Go and Make Things So Complicated?

Valentine's Day used to be for lovers, right?  When I was a kid in elementary school, we gave out little paper cards, and somebody's mama would bring in cookies and juice.  This all took about half an hour out of our school day, and then we went right back to our math worksheets.  We knew that grown ups might have a night out on the town with champagne, roses and chocolates because Valentine's Day was primarily about romantic love, something that we, as 4th graders, had no interest in.

Somehow this has all changed.  I do not have issues with the fact that the holiday has metamorphosed into a day that embraces children as well as lovers, but I do think that we have taken Valentine's Day for children way over the top.  Yesterday at school my kids had parties that included elaborate games (Cupid's archery, anyone?), craft projects, a sugar-laden refreshment buffet, and scads of trashy, plastic party favors.  The kids all gave each other not only paper cards, but also candy and even more plastic rubbish.  I'm sorry.  Do I sound grouchy?

I keep telling my kids those, "Back When I Was Your Age..." stories, and they listen sympathetically.  I told them last week, "Now I feel like if I want to do a little something for you for Valentine's Day, it will mean nothing because at school everyone gets a personal chocolate fountain and a pony with wings.  My small gesture will mean nothing."  Poor mom.

I decided to take Valentine's Day in a different direction this year.  None of my children needed any presents, but they did appreciate my time and thoughtfulness.  The night of February 13th, I got busy cutting out colorful construction paper hearts.  Then I covered each girls' bathroom mirror with loving Valentine affirmations...

Emma wasn't supposed to see her mirror until the morning, but since she is a night owl and requires only about half as much sleep as I do, she stood in her bathroom and took it all in at about 11 pm.  The next morning she told me, "I went to bed feeling so happy and loved after I read all of those things."  Then my big rock star of a nine-year-old said, "Thank you, Mommy."
so...  Happy Valentine's Day to me!

After school Sophie went to a friend's house for more sugar and giggling.  That meant that I was able to spend some quality time with my oldest girl.  Despite what any of them may tell you, quality time is the gift your kids want the most... but you, of course, know that.  Quality time is especially enjoyable when it incorporates chocolate, and while you are busy "having quality time," your kids will tell you their deepest, darkest secrets.  True story.  Yesterday after school my daughter Emma and I made these adorable (and delicious) little treats together...

 

Valentine Pretzel Buttons

...and she told me a few secrets.

My husband and I also did a few nice things for each other, but he has never been an exceptionally big fan of Valentine's Day.  He enjoys being romantic on days when it isn't expected.  So neither of us mind sharing the love with the shorter people who live at our house.  We just like to share it in simpler, less commercialized ways.  Dad always brings all of his girls flowers on Valentine's Day, and we don't discourage that one bit!

"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you till China and Africa meet and the river jumps over the mountain and the salmon sing in the street." W. H. Auden

Happy Valentine's Day, Friends.

Love, Meredith

The Pancake at the End of the Tunnel

There has been far too much vomiting, aching, moaning and gnashing of teeth at my house this week.  One after another this hateful plague hit each of us.  For the first half of the week, I did laundry, regularly soaped up and scalded my hands, and fought the good fight.  Occasionally I'd recoil after touching an apparently innocuous household object, and suspiciously ask the nearest sick person, "Did you touch this, breathe on this, or lick this?"  Without waiting for a reply, I'd chuck it into the closest sink or laundry basket to be washed.  I was slightly maniacal, but I was healthy... until Wednesday evening.

On Wednesday afternoon I left my dying husband at home in bed with a seven year old who swore she would look after him while I was gone.  Then I took my oldest daughter and the tag-along toddler with a mad case of cabin fever to Urgent Care where it was confirmed that, on top of a raunchy stomach virus, my daughter Emma also had Strep throat.  I pulled on my Wonder Woman underpants, and took that grouchy lot to the nearest pharmacy for antibiotics and Popsicles.  (We also came home with bandages and cherry flavored throat lozenges since my two year old opened up their packages and scattered the contents all over aisle 7.)   Back at home I made dinner, did all of the dishes, read bedtime stories and tucked a few people into bed.  I tried to ignore the nasty rumbling feeling in my stomach.

Then it all caught up with me.  I think the fact that I had already seen everyone else through it made it even worse since I could keenly anticipate the next horrible symptom that was on the horizon as the virus progressed.  You've all been there, so I won't describe for you how dismal it is to be ill.

On a positive note, after a long week, we all seem to be pulling our way out of it.  This was most obvious yesterday morning when I came into the kitchen to discover that my husband had pulled out the griddle and was taking pancake requests.  My two-year-old's voice must have been the loudest and most compelling because this weekend's pancakes looked like this...

"P" is for pancake; that's good enough for me.

I am the official pancake photographer since I can't ever seem to get excited about eating them.

To be clear I am the ONLY one who doesn't find Dad's colorful breakfast appetizing.

And while no one was paying attention, my daughter Sophie made a pancake resembling her favorite Saturday morning character...

...Dad!

Stay well, my friends!

Love,

Meredith