One reason why I love my dad

My dad and I are as bull-headed as two people come, which is why we butted heads A LOT when I was growing up.

Dad likes things Dad's way, and I like things my way. 

It took me until I was 30+ years old and a mom before I finally felt like I understood my dad as a human being and as a dad. He's a reserved guy, so he doesn't share his deepest darkest fears or dreams.

He's in the hospital now, having had open heart surgery yesterday.

Last summer, his doctor asked him if he'd ever told dad that he had a heart murmur. Dad said no. 

Dad was sent to a cardiologist and after six months and many tests, the doctor determined that dad had a pretty severe leaky aortic valve. Up until December, Dad never had any symptoms.

Even after he developed symptoms, he and mom still walked every day at the mall, taking 3 laps around. Prior to this, Dad walked and went to the gym nearly every day. He also gardens and plays golf in good weather. Dad is not a sit-on-his-duff kind of guy. His doctor said had he been that way, he likely would have had to have this procedure done 10 years ago.

When he had all the pre-tests done, including checking his carotid arteries, the technician said if he was her dad, she'd have nothing to worry about. 

For being 76 years old, dad is in pretty fine shape. 

Yesterday was rough, as is any open heart surgery. 

He had 3 bypasses that the surgeon took care of, even though they were minor (50% blockage). The doctor figured if he was in there anyway and could treat them, he might as well. 

The surgeon also discovered that dad's tricuspid valve was leaking, so he repaired that. 

(Apparently, this happened as a result of the heart having to work harder because of the aortic valve issue.)

Of course, this was rough for dad since he was going through it, but he was being pumped with all sorts of sedating drugs.

My mother was not, and she is so adept at worrying she could win a gold medal if worrying was an Olympic event.

Dad was taken back into surgery last night as a precautionary measure to see if all the blood draining from his three chest tubes was an active bleed. Fortunately, it was not.

D has been up at the hospital with my mom. 

He said they gave dad a breathing apparatus to use to improve his lung function and keep goop from building up. 

The doctor told dad he'd be lucky to get to 500 today.

Dad started breathing and when D asked what he got to, Dad raised his hand up: 5 fingers. 

Don't ever tell dad he probably won't be able to do something because he will then take absolute delight in proving you wrong. 

It got him through two knee replacement surgeries. Six weeks after one of them he was hiking with the family at Empire Bluff Trail in Michigan. 

It got him through back surgery when I was a kid.

It got him through melanoma surgery when I was pregnant with G.

It got him through 20 years of ulcerative colitis and then the removal of his colon when I was newly pregnant with M. 

This determination and pig-headedness are attributes of my dad that have always driven me crazy when they interfered with my own determination and pig-headedness, but when it comes to recovering from surgery and not giving up when you can still fight, I'm so appreciative for it.  

My eulogy

So, I'm dead.

I'm writing this prior to death, so I'm not sure what did me in, but I suspect it was something I wasn't worried about, something that wasn't even remotely on my radar.

That seems to be how life does you.

As people gather together to celebrate my life (or celebrate the fact that I'm dead...whatever), there are things I want you to know or remember about me.

1. I really liked socks, especially socks with pithy quotes or cuss words on them. I had very simple pleasures and socks were one of them.

Another simple pleasure was taking the first scoop out of a new jar of peanut butter.

2. I almost always tried to give my best in most everything I did, and I blame this tendency on my dad who instilled in me a solid work ethic and a personality trait that if 100% was good, then 118.96% was even better. And if you could get to 125.32%, strive for that. (Not that my mom was a slacker, but she knew when to take it down a notch; Dad was never good at that.)

3. I always abhorred sentimentality because I thought it was profoundly incomplete.

In the deepest recesses of my heart, when I thought about the people I love, when I thought about what mattered most to me, when I considered my purpose for being on earth, I felt a hole of excessive tenderness open up in the core of my being.
A hole so big and so overpowering it felt like it could easily consume me.
All the drivel about loving people to the moon and back would not fill up a thimbleful of this hole.
Nor would the "love you mores" and all the other mess of words that people stupidly tried to make mean what love is.

So as not to be reduced to a puddle of emotional morass, I could not go near that hole.
I avoided sentimentality because it does not do that hole justice.

4. People often said that I was so funny and so honest, but I wasn't honest enough in the ways that it counted the most.
I didn't stand up for what was right as much as I should have.
I didn't speak truth to power enough.
I probably should have told more people who I knew were full of shit that they were full of shit, that they were doing hurtful things.

5. If I ever came across as ornery, it was not because I was willingly being so; it was because I didn't feel comfortable doing what I was expected to do.

As you all sit here at my funeral, you may have known me but not my kids and not my husband. Maybe you only knew my mom and dad, and you would feel awkward saying something to my husband. You might say something to my husband just to be polite; I didn't do stuff like this just because politeness may have dictated it.

I did what I felt comfortable doing and what felt meaningful to me. I often stewed over it later and wondered whether everyone thought I was rude or weird; in the moment, though, I did what felt right and after a good talking to, I got my head screwed back on straight and said, "Eff you, uncomfortable politeness that definitely made me feel awkward and probably made the other person feel awkward, too." I was always, always more focused on meaning than on propriety.

6. I was pretty good about telling the people I loved that I loved them, but I would not tell people I didn't love that I loved them. Not even in that "I love ya" casual kind of way.  If I didn't feel it in my heart, the words would not come out of my mouth or my fingertips. I loved very few people in a deep way. I liked and cared about a lot of people in general.

7. Even though I sometimes made myself the black sheep because I didn't feel comfortable doing certain things, I also really liked being the black sheep. I liked standing apart. I liked being the person with purple hair. I liked being the one who didn't bow her head to pray. I liked being the person who kept her name when other married women took their husbands' names. But that goes back to what was meaningful over what was proper or polite. I always knew I was listening to my own drumming beat.

8. Please don't drivel on about me being in the folds of Jesus' arms right now because I was never, ever all that sure about any of it. I did a piss-poor job being a Catholic or a Christian, but I tried my darndest to be a good person. To help old people in distress. To keep my mouth shut when nothing I had to say was helpful (except maybe on this blog). To talk to my kids openly and lovingly. To be a stable and reliable person that others could depend on. To enjoy the moment and be thankful for every good thing I had.

I don't know if I'm in heaven or hell or in a parallel dimension or just dead. I daresay you shouldn't spend too much time worrying about it.

9. There are things that, if I'm able to actually miss, I will miss. Among these things are
--having a kitty cat on my lap while I'm reading a book
--having M twiddle my ears
--seeing G enjoy a book I've convinced him to let me read to him and ask to read more
--hugs from N
--getting to hear D's occasional unintended hilarious statements that make me glad I married him despite the fact that he can't cook
--hot fudge
--seeing money save up in the bank
--discussing books with friends
--teaching students
--being outside in the woods
--watching the ocean waves come in

10.  If you're sad now, you'll get over it. And if you don't get over it, go see a doctor and get some medicine to get over it. Everything changes. I got more used to that the older I got. A house that never changes is dead. A life that never changes is dead. A heart that never changes is dead. I'm now dead; you're not. So allow any sadness you feel to make way for happiness again.

You're fifteen (minutes of fame) (It's like something you'd read on Facebook)

Dear N,

Fifteen seems big...perhaps even bigger than 16.
But maybe that's just me.
I had a much harder time turning 29 than I did turning 30.
I guess it's the cusp of things that get me all discombobulated.

You were babysitting but made sure to get a photo with the dog. 

Fear not, though.
Your mother will not get all grossly sentimental because that's not my style.

You are halfway through your freshman year, and you've had an easy and fun time of it, I think.
Making the field hockey team and earning good grades your first semester and joining a new Girl Scout troop and playing in an orchestral ensemble.
All good things.
A boyfriend entered the picture this fall, a situation I took better than you did.
You were terrified by how I would react.
I was like, "Why are you crying? Is he a serial killer?"
But I followed up with, "Honey, this is normal."

You looked stunning for the homecoming dance. 

Or as normal as anything is.
In this family, we have a pretty large sliding scale for normal.

You're an easy kid to parent.
Mostly.
About the biggest gripe I have is that you're a chronic putzer.
You putz in the morning, which is understandable, but you putz at all other times of the day, too.
Perhaps the most frequent phrases I hear from you are, "I'm tired" and "Can I have a hug?"

I guess another small "issue" I have is 

how many photos I find that 

you've snapped when you 

secretly grab my phone. Weirdo.

I predict the next year will see you come even more into your own person, perhaps figuring out some interests you have that you could envision yourself doing as an adult.
Or not.
This might be the area in which you take after your mom, not figuring out what you want to do until your mid-20s and only sorta sticking with it in your mid-40s.

You won a major award!

You already seem pretty comfortable in your own skin.
I've seen you walk out of the house some days and think to myself, "She really and truly does not care in the least what anyone thinks of her."
This is a good state of mind to have.
I hope you keep it forever.

Learning to cook so that you can learn to drive. 

(Cause that's the rule.)

Of course, I wish only good things for you, but there will be unpleasantries.
There could be heartbreaks or friendship changes or crappy classes or less-than-stellar grades,
but I think you know that your dad and I are always here, always willing to help you figure things out, usually by handing you the reigns.

You nailed 80s day. 

We hit the daughter jackpot with you.

Love always,
Momma

I'm raising Eric Cartman

Sometimes, in the midst of having one child come crying over suckers, you get a chuckle out of another child.

It's not a "legitimately funny haha" chuckle.
More of a "Jesus....(insert eye roll)" chuckle that comes from knowing your child's personality quirks and finding something funny to make these quirks tolerable.

G and M went to a neighbor friend's house with another boy, and they all (evidently) decided to play basketball.

Now, my boys are not athletic in the least, although M could be athletic.
G is an amalgam of all the two-left-footed people in our genealogical history combined into one human.

So when the four boys agreed to play basketball (inside), G thought it was supreme unfairness for him to have to play against either of the other boys who aren't his brother because he knows he sucks. He also knows his brother has a malleable personality. G could tell M, "Let me make this shot," and M would stand back and let him have the shot.

I texted the boys to come home for dinner and M texted back,
"G is coming home because X and Y don't agree with him on basketball."

And the first thing that popped into my head was this:

I shared a shorter version with the boys.

M replied, "Well, yeah."

We love our G, but we also know what we're dealing with.

The particular sadness of strawberry suckers

A number of years ago, I read a novel titled The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake. The premise was that a girl and her brother had unusual gifts; hers was that if she tasted a food, she would feel the emotions that the person who made it experienced as they were making it.

Yesterday, M came to me crying because of a strawberry sucker.

He said the particular strawberry flavor of this sucker reminded him of when he was little, and I kept suckers in the glove box of the car. If we had to be in the car longer than expected or the kids got cranky, I would sometimes offer them a sucker from the stash.

M said he remembered asking for a sucker and me saying yes.

He cried on my shoulder and said he didn't want to eat suckers again.

I asked him if his memories of the sucker stash and being in the car were good or bad, and he said good. It just made him sad to think about it.

I didn't (and don't) know what to make of this little episode other than to say I think M is the point of his development when he's realizing the power of feeling multiple emotions at the same time and being a little overwhelmed by the experience.

His mom is experiencing this in reaction to his experience.

God don't care what you wear, and neither do I

This is what I said to my 9-year-old today before church.

He wore a red shirt, blue shorts, and tennis shoes with no socks to church today (February--still definitely winter although a balmy 60 degrees today).

His clothes are clean.
He took a shower and washed his hair yesterday.
He did not actually brush his hair today, though.
I'm 99% certain he had not brushed his teeth before church.

Provided things (except teeth, I guess) are clean and do not have offensive stuff on them, I don't care what my kids wear.
(If a person is offended because my kids don't dress up for church, though, I can't help 'em.)

I am finding myself even changing my mind about what a person wears to a funeral home wake.

I used to be pretty rigid in my opinion that a person shouldn't wear jeans, but I've since decided that the most important thing is to show up and offer your love to the people who have experienced loss. They probably don't pay attention to what anyone is wearing; the day is generally a blur, so why worry if you have jeans on?
Just show up.

Same rules apply at church.
Just show up.

Basically, my rules of attire can be summed up by Kurt Cobain: "Come as you are."

This general "meh" attitude about dressing made M's George Washington project for school a bit tricky.
This coming week he has to dress up as ole George,



and George was a pretty swanky dresser, at least in this picture.

So I turned to Pinterest and very quickly decided that I had to go the lazy Pinterest route. The non-glitter, non-extra, non-sewing, and mostly non-caring-that-much route.

M will wear this getup for his 5-minute presentation and then it will be done. Preserved for eternity in the district's digital backpack and otherwise forgotten by him and me.

So I turned to a friend whose children are much better dressed than mine to borrow a blue blazer.
I found an old doily and tacked it to a strip of fabric I found for the cravat.
I made epaulets from yellow cardstock and strips of yellow yarn and tacked those on the shoulders (I do own needles and thread and I can do the most basic of tacking and stitching.)
Shoe buckles are yellow cardstock, too.

I was not about to go buy a white dress shirt, so we're using a plaid shirt and some khaki pants that my brother has handed down from his boys.

He looks pretty adorable to me, especially for a brief speech.
And, fortunately, M is unlike G in that he doesn't care that much either.