Aug 24 2019

Fitting In

Did I ever tell you about the time I was mortified as a high school freshman? I made some close friends in middle school who didn’t exactly flow into being the same great friends in high school. For whatever reason – seriously none of us remember, we. just. stopped. being. friendly… I was really needing a new start with a fresh social circle as a freshman and tried out some new activities with a positive outlook (as much as a early teen with a “no one understands what I am going through” type mindset can be positive).

I joined the debate team and hit it off with a fun, more poplar than me, red headed freshman girl. Brenda spurred my interest in digging through my mom’s trunk to pull out shirts from the 70’s to wear – now that I am thinking about it, I wonder what happened to the white shirt with colorful embroidery I found and wore so much that year.

Brenda and I became debate partners and although we never hung out outside of school (or school functions), it was a budding friendship I was grateful for after the abandonment I felt from my last crew. Our very first debate tournament was in the early fall – most likely October. The debate topic for the year foreshadowed my social services career – JUVENILE CRIME. The first tournament was in Louisburg, Kansas just 30 minute drive south of our high school. Because of the proximity to the school and the type of activity, there was no team bus and everyone drove themselves and friends (upper class men) or parents picked up (freshman).

The results of the tournament are long forgotten but I can still remember Brenda and I sitting outside after our last round waiting for our rides. I was hanging out, trying to make the impression I was cool and worthy of being associated with. We sat on a cement wall watching the cars rolling up and down the long hills leading towards the school talking about whatever freshman trying to be cool talk about. Both of us quickly spotted a minivan off in the distance rolling up and down those same hills far off. It didn’t take long to recognize the van had the back completely open. We both laughed about it joking how wild it was someone could drive all that way not realizing the back was open. Up and down another big hill, the van got closer. Sure enough the van pulled into the Louisburg High School parking lot and right up in front of the school.

I said a quick good-bye to Brenda and nearly ran to the back of the van to close it before climbing inside. My mom and sister decided to stop by the Louisburg Cider Mill and pumpkin patch before picking me up. They laughed about driving all that way without recognizing the giant window agape in the back and were grateful their pumpkins didn’t fall out. At the time, I couldn’t even think to be grateful more of my new high school classmates weren’t present to witness my horrifyingly embarrassing pick-up.

Fast forward to a little over 20 years later and I am picking up my 3rd grade daughter from elementary school – her first week of school. I am chilling in the pick-up line and pull forward to see my beautiful girl in her crisp white polo and plaid jumper spot me and immediately her sweet face started frowning. She opens up the back seat to climb in and say, “Mom, what is that sound?”

“Sorry girl, there is something dragging on the bottom of the car I need to get screwed back in.” I apologize.

“You cannot pick me up like this mom, you have to get that fixed.”

And there it was, the memory of trying to fit in hit me, I was embarrassing my girl in front of her peers. I promised her I would get my car taken car of so that she could be picked up in a neutrally blending in vehicle to minimize the social impact.

Oct 12 2017

He Flies

I’ve kept this to myself for more than a year and at the risk of sounding completely delusional, I’ve decided to share my secret, I talk to flies. Not so bad? OK, it gets weirder… I talk to my dad as a fly. Yep, I warned you, now hold your judgement and let me explain.

I know a lot of people who see signs, symbols or animals and remember a loved one. Most of the time I hear butterflies or cardinals, usually creatures with less filthy and annoying reputations. My dad always wished he had the ability to fly and beginning with the day he passed it seemed he was communicating literally as a fly. After battling a cancer that ate away at his bones, robbed his ability to move comfortably and provided a hellish amount of pain, he was finally free to fly.

The police arrived after his last breath before 4 AM, a fly flew in with them. It was early spring and the first fly I had seen that year rested on the ceiling in his bedroom as I sat with my mom, numb from the previous year leading up to that moment.

Breaking the empty silence, “I still want to go on the family vacation we talked about,” Mom said. We had been trying to keep my dad encouraged during his illness by talk of taking a big trip to Machu Picchu, a place he had always wanted to see. We promised him we would all go when he regained his health, as we all believed he would. The fly took off from the ceiling and circled around the room several times before landing again. Half joking, I identified the fly as “Dad” and stated he was showing his support of us going.

Over the months that followed, I continued to have symbolic moments with flies. Times when I was overwhelmed with sorrow, flies seemed to appear in the most unlikely or random places. I didn’t associate all flies with my dad and there was some frustration within myself for even recognizing the connection an insect could have with someone I admired so much. Generally, the disgust I had for flies and what they represented before, turned to comfort and humor when I needed it during the darkest moments of grief. An early fly memory was watching as the creature floundered in flight, wobbling like a drunk as if it were learning to fly brought a smile. I lost my natural instinct to swat away flies and instead forced me to tune into the present in those moments they appeared.

Six months after his death, I dreaded my parent’s anniversary. I knew it would be unbearable for my mom and I figured she wouldn’t want anyone around. The hopelessness I felt during his illness returned with the hopelessness I had knowing there was nothing I could do to help my mom. For the better half of the day I debated whether I should bring her the roses I knew my dad would have brought to her as he did every year. I agonized, cried and could not turn my thoughts to anything else as I sat at my kitchen table confused. Of course a fly appeared and circled around me, maybe out of anger he wasn’t physically present and my mom was suffering, I left for the opposite corner of the house to let my tears continue to flow. The damn fly immediately followed and rested on the ceiling above my head. For the first time in six months I spoke to the fly, to my dad. “Do you want me to bring her roses,” I asked. The fly left the ceiling and flew into my raw wet cheek. “Fine Dad, I will go get them.” I can’t imagine they helped Mom much that day, but Dad wanted her to have them.

Without hearing his words, the fly has been his form of communication to quiet my emotion, to remind me to breathe, at times to let me know his disapproval and more than anything to signal he is and always will be with me. As strange as I know it is, I accept my bizarre connection to this six-legged, giant eyed buzzing creature.

This past summer my uncle also passed. My cousin, sister and I all decided to get a tattoo for our dads, likely one of the last things they would have wanted us to do for them. My uncle even told his daughters “tattoos are like putting a bumper sticker on a Cadillac.” I guess I think of my body as more of a Volkswagen bus with a statement to make. Of all the words or imagines I debated to use as a tribute to my dad, one thing seemed make the most sense. The fly sits high on my left femur, the bone which broke on my dad’s way to being able to fly.

Happy Birthday Dad, the flies are not much of a substitute for being able to see you, talk to you and feel your hug. I appreciate them either way. You are free from pain and at peace now, I miss you today and always.

Sep 28 2016

Grief at Five

“We feel mad and sad,” these were the words my five year old daughter articulated to my mom’s neighbor when Mom couldn’t respond to his question the day after my dad passed. Parker’s wisdom in the moment demonstrated some maturity and emotional understanding of what we were all experiencing.

And just as everyone in the family has shown moments of strength, we have all succumb to the weight of his loss in different moments too. For my daughter, she began grieving the changes to her Papa long before he had been diagnosed with cancer.

Parker and Papa shared rituals. She would get the stick and flashlight for Papa and they would get down on their hands and knees to get kitty toys out from under the stove. She would bring him the DVD case and together they would put in a movie and she would snuggle on his lap to watch. Parker would sit with him after dinner to have dessert and he would allow her spoonfuls from his bowl of ice cream even when she had her own.

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Papa would let Parker interrupt his work in his home office to let her sit in his chair and play on the computer or make copies of her hand on his printer. She would get excited when Papa would fill up the teapot and assist by getting out the honey and a spoon then patiently waited for her helping of honey. Parker started calling him “Poppy,” a term of endearment he adored. And a favorite ritual before we left their home was for Papa to pick her up for a giant sandwich hug with Poppy and Nana.

When my dad injured his back we made modifications to the sandwich hug. Instead of getting down to play on the floor, she found joy in getting to play in his remote lift chair. She naturally became more gentle with him and found on some days when he was more comfortable, she could still snuggle in to watch a movie with him. Parker asked a lot of questions and mourned why Papa couldn’t pick her up anymore. I tried to reaffirm it would only be a matter of time, he would heal and things would be back to normal.

30 July 2015 – One month before diagnosis.

This time last year, her worry became even more evident, she questioned daily when Poppy’s back would be better. He was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma about a month shy of Parker’s fifth birthday and it seemed too complex to try to explain what was happening to her Papa. “The doctors are helping Papa because he is sick,” seemed the only rational thing to say to a five year old. Then we would talk about praying for him to heal and for his back to be all better again soon.

Repeating this conversation seemed to temporarily satisfy her and my dad improved through the autumn of 2015. He was showing signs of healing and getting around easier. Parker understood his limitations and adjusted to how their adoration for each other was changing. A huge setback came just before the new year when a lesion on his femur broke with only the weight of his body standing. With the exception of medical appointments, Papa lived in his own personal medical suite upstairs. As the months passed in late winter and early spring, Parker went upstairs less and less. I could see how nervous she felt in his presence and witnessing him suffer. I made attempts to encourage their interactions with playing games or showing him a dance she was practicing in class. Right or wrong, I tried to explain what was happening to his bones in five year old terms. For months straight she would pick out the same bedtime story “Magic School Bus: The Human Body,” and often stopped on specific pages displaying a graphic of a skeleton to talk about Papa’s bones. It was her own way of coping and trying to understand.

Dad never rebounded from the surgery, medications and treatment. He passed at home in his sleep days after Easter. Since it was early in the morning when I got the call, I left before Parker woke. My husband and I agreed not to tell her, instead sending her to school so we could have a day to sort out arrangements. The following morning, I dreaded telling Parker what happened to her beloved Poppy. I worried she wouldn’t understand what death meant as she had no memory of losing someone. We sat down with her in the kitchen and I did my best to conceal my tears and calm my voice. Her tears were immediate as though she completely understood the gravity of him being gone. We embraced and tried to turn our sadness to appreciation for him to no longer be in pain. When we told her we would be going to Nana and Papa’s house for the day Parker begged to go to school, a place where she could be happy and forget. She didn’t want to go to the house where Papa is supposed to be and him not be there.

As always, the opportunity to see her cousins and trumped the fear of the empty house. She played with her cousins while the adults seemed to float around the house without intention, numb from the turbulence of the last year. After her cousins had been gone a while in the late afternoon, Parker came running from upstairs sobbing. Mom and my dad’s sister and I all felt the ripple of emotion and broke down with her. I believe she had been upstairs to play in his lift chair, a game that was no longer fun with him gone.

In the days and weeks following we cried together frequently. We expressed gratitude he was free from pain and we talked about how he would always be with us. I encouraged Parker to know he could be with her whenever she felt she needed him. On the way to school she would say she was going to bring him with her and talked to him on our way there. She joked “He’s going the wrong way, no Poppy that’s not the right turn…” And when we talked about him being with his mom, she would sometimes bring Grame along to school too.

It seemed the tearful sadness of losing Papa was lessened during the early summer. She could talk about him without the heavy emotion and I was relieved she was coping so well. Then there were times I wondered if I was doing everything right to help a five year old with grief. On a few occasions she got stuck looking at pictures and would break down unable to catch her breath. I validated her feelings by recalling stories of him and the funny things we would remember him by to help in the moment.

I had been concerned maybe my daughter was reflecting my emotions, maybe she was feeling the grief I was immersed in and so I have been careful to not initiate her thoughts or feelings. I know her moments of grief are her own because many times I am blindsided by her eruption of sadness. Like a peaceful ride in the car interrupted by a quivering voice in the backseat “I miss Papa.” Parker recently began associating one song to Papa, a song she has loved for a long time but now can’t manage to hear without thinking of how much she misses him.There are even joyful celebrations where she turns to despair because Papa is not there to share in it.

The variety of ways Parker has expressed her heartache demonstrate how much she deeply loved her Poppy and also resemble the complicated way our whole family is coping with his loss. In the last six months there have been times when talking about him was easy and then there are days when even the sight of a bird soaring can cause hysteria. We know we each have individual triggers which can cause deep sorrow; a song, a date, a place or any synchronistic event. And then there are other waves of grief which don’t seem to have a pairing, the misery builds to a peak and subsides.

The helplessness I felt with my dad in the last year of his life has transitioned to feeling helpless to support my mom and my daughter. I want to always have the perfect words to make them hurt less. And just as there were days I couldn’t do anything but stare at my dad, there are moments I am paralyzed in the faces of my mother and my child. I am managing as best I can and accepting the unpredictable nature of grief and how it is impacting us in unique ways. I understand it will get easier over time, though the waves may be less intense or less frequent we will ride these waves of grief indefinitely.

My hope is the waves Parker experiences will calm much sooner and easier than my own. I want her to be able to remember the love he had for her without the deep sorrow of missing him. I worry her memory of their rituals will fade, though I know she will never forget how much she loved Poppy. And I know the pride he had in her will live on forever.

Apr 27 2016

How are you?

A while back a friend inquired, “Has anyone asked you any stupid questions?”

After the conversation, I was still left lingering on the thought. In general people make statements and ask questions which may come across as stupid, when really it’s with good intentions or out of complete ignorance. I know I am guilty of this at times too, we all have been there. When it comes to sensitive topics, these stupid questions can come across as insulting and evoke strong emotions. Fortunately, I’ve been able to brush off some comments and find the humor in them. There is always one question I get stuck on and don’t know how to answer.

“How are you?”

This usually simple question has a much different meaning to it when people look at you with their head already tilted to one side and a worried frown on their face. My mind frantically looks for a reasonable reply and I wonder if I should state my mood right in that moment, or an average of the past day or week? I give a thoughtful pause but really it’s to internally criticize my own response before it escapes my mouth. I don’t want what I say to be too positive and have someone judging me for being happy or too negative and risk they might think I’m not handling things well.

“How are you?”

Does someone really want to know it’s a struggle to drive in the car alone with your thoughts at times, that for some reason those are the moments when the regrets become their strongest? Is it okay I have had fun days full of laughter and smiles when I have been present in what’s happening in front of me? Should I tell people there are lapses in time when I have been completely numb and have proven to be ineffective at everything? When is the appropriate time to say I haven’t been able to keep myself together when my daughter is full of sorrow and I cannot possibly fix what she needs fixed? Is it unhealthy for me to have times when I think I am accepting and other times when it is unreal, it didn’t happen and it’s not true? Do people want to know I can be fine one minute and completely loose my mind in a sobbing mess all while washing dishes? Is it alright to tell someone “I was great until you asked and made me think about it”?

“How am I?”

Dad passed four weeks ago today, how I am is existing moment to moment. Sometimes I am good and sometimes I am really not. There isn’t really a consistent progression of things getting easier, one day may feel less emotional and the next day feels as raw as the day he passed. The truth is I don’t know how I am doing, I know I am doing the best I can and things will be okay.

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Mar 31 2016

My Father, My Friend

Early yesterday morning my dad passed at home in his sleep, he had been ill and fighting for his life for the past year except we didn’t know how quickly it would take him from us. How unfair it had been for him to get sick right at the time he should have been celebrating his retirement and living well-earned carefree years traveling with Mom. I keep thinking of other things I wanted to tell him, words I wanted hear from him one more time and other ways we would have handled things if we weren’t acting out of a paniced fear. My Dad and I knew each other in a way no one else on earth could relate to and I can’t think too long about how lonely life will be now without his connection.

I knew he was dying, I could see life fading away and I felt helpless to know there was nothing I could do to take the agony away from his body. He pushed his body past it’s limits while bones collapsed and broke with no effort at all. Dad’s steps became slower, his body weaker. Towards the end he was sleeping more and eating less each day. I knew he was dying, I could see life fading and I still believed I had more time. His appearance became more fragile, he avoided having visitors because he didn’t want others to see him and remember him so sick. For months I avoided being physically close to him when I came to the house, afraid I would unintentionally infect him with germs and make him feel even worse.

In the past few weeks I returned to giving him kisses on the forehead or cheek when I said goodbye. Being so close, I could feel his bones protruding through his face and still I wanted to believe he would rebound, this would not be his fate. I realize now our final interactions were my last goodbye. If I had known, I would have stayed for longer. I would have told him I’m okay with him going because I don’t want him to be in pain. I know he knows this now.

There are moments when peace calms the house and I feel reassured, Dad is not in anymore pain. He is not suffering. Our family is together now and connected by hugs, holding hands and laughter. Then there are waves of grief which catch me off guard and squeeze the air tightly from my lungs, how did we get here to this point, how could this have happened to him?

Seeing how family and friends have responded in the last day has made me observe I am not the only one who has a unique and special connection to my dad. It’s both comforting and distressing to recognize how influential my dad was to so many people. He taught life lessons, was an example for how to be genuine to people and a devoted husband, father, brother, uncle and friend. His cancer spread to impacting the lives of so many who loved and respected my dad, the grief is widespread.

In one of the moments of calm yesterday, I looked through the photos on his cell phone. As predicted there were pictures of his grandchildren, of him with my mom, of his motorcycle travels with his brother, of the only cat he says ever loved him “Mozie,” and of the countryside in Italy where he took his last international trip. Some pictures made me sob to see the joy on his face and the love in his eyes, knowing I wouldn’t ever see this in person again. Then one image seemed to stand out from the rest, a heaven sent message from my dad for exactly this moment. It hurts so much right now to think about him being gone and I know down the road everything is going to be okay, even if I can’t see it or feel it today.

Dec 16 2015

The Egg Holiday

Nearly every morning of the year Mom would be the one waking me up, with the exception of Christmas. It seems kids just don’t get much sleep with the anticipation of stockings and presents. In the wee hours of the morning we had to stay in bed giddy with excitement for as long as we could stand it before going to wake up our parents. I don’t recall who of the three siblings would have the courage to jump out of bed first, though, as soon as one set of footprints hit the floor the others would follow quickly.

We’d preview the fireplace where the stockings were hung to run downstairs to wake Mom and Dad. Both sluggishly bundled in terry clothe robes as we’d hurry them back to the living room. Christmas morning always started with the stockings and the aroma of cinnamon rolls baking in the oven.

Christmas morning of 1987 was no different. The three of us gathered around the intricately carved coffee table eager to pour out the contents of our stockings. The suspense building as we waited for them to be removed from the fireplace and set into our three, five and seven year old hands. At last it seemed Christmas had begun when we were in possession of these lovingly hand-made felt stockings and my full attention was on the trinkets and treats inside. I hadn’t been paying attention to my parents seated behind me until I had touched every item and spied all of what my brother and sister had gotten.

When I did notice my parents it was when my mom was holding a simple plastic Easter egg. Looking back it makes sense because my dad never learned how to wrap a present, I suppose he reached for the first container he could find to place this gift. My mom burst into tears when she cracked the egg open. What kind of rotten egg is this? I wondered as I jumped up to console her and ask what was wrong.

“Happy tears,” she reassured, “These are happy tears.”

Although I was too young to read and I never really learned what specifically was written inside the silly Easter egg, that Christmas Dad gave Mom a vacation to England and Scotland. The holiday egg was the moment I learned tears are not just for when we are sad, they are for when we are really happy too.

Christmas 1987

Jan 16 2015

Kid Art

Each child is exceptionally unique in so many ways. One thing which makes my daughter unique from other typical four year olds is her artwork. I began noticing this difference when she plays with other kids, paper and a box of crayons. While most kids near this age are focused on stick figures, my girl is coloring abstract shapes. Even with piles of coloring books, this kid would prefer a blank sheet of paper to color her own abstract designs.

Sometimes I ask her what she is drawing and she always has an explanation. “It’s a map to Aunt Bev’s house, and here is the park, and a dog, and a tree.” All of which are blobs of color in a neatly connected Crayola collage. She always has an explanation for everything so I never know if she is actually imagining these things as she is drawing or if when pressured to come up with an answer – makes it up on the fly.

Curious about her unique work lead me to inquiring with an art therapist friend and several Google searching sessions. All of which lead me to no definitive answers.

Some sites claimed too much use of red and black has indications of anger or depression, then other sites added blue, brown and orange into this as well. Other sources stated black equals dominance while red demonstrates excitement. Contradictions in interpretation are confusing, especially if the explanation really has more to do with a child’s favorite color being red or black. There may be parents out there freaking out with a child only drawing in red and missing the fact that it is the only available crayon not broken.

There was also some indications about the meaning of where the drawings are typically located, my daughter’s coloring is almost always oriented towards the top left part of a page. Unfortunately, there was not a lot of consistency in this either. Some references stated the left is often associated with mom or nurturing, whereas right is for dad’s. Additionally left might be related to considering the past while right side is future thinking, then again another source reported drawings oriented to the top of the page indicate future thinking and confidence.

No matter what search terms I came up with I couldn’t find anything explaining what it means for my child to draw abstract patterns instead of the pre-schematic drawings typical for most four year olds. Then, just like she does when I think I have any pattern of behavior established, she switches it up… This morning while cleaning up the kitchen I glanced around the corner where she was quietly occupied on her dry erase board. For the first time in nearly 6 months, she had drawn a pre-schematic drawing.

As my art therapist friend stated she does during her sessions, I simply asked her about her drawing. “It’s me and you, Mommy.”

Now, I am not sure what a professional kids’ art interpreter would say this sketch means, to me it’s pretty clear. Obviously that’s me on the left and a pretty accurate depiction if I say so myself. Eyes so large they make half of my face, a skinny (stick-like) body and big ol jugs. Then with her hand on like me, (as she usually is hanging, holding or laying on me somehow) you can see her little body has wings since she is my little angel. Her other hand in the drawing appears to be holding something and I am pretty sure I see a dollar sign, meaning this girl brings a wealth of happiness wherever she goes.

The use of only orange is a good indication she didn’t bother to remove the caps off any other markers. And the random letters show how she loves to practice letters and is excited about words, though is stubborn about asking for help with spelling. She chooses to write letters and hopes her random guessing will turn out something readable.

Who knows what her next art project with look like? I think instead of figuring it out, I will just stand back and appreciate her uniqueness.

Nov 27 2014

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving is here to celebrate!

It’s not about the Turkey on your plate,

It’s not about watching football,

Or a late night shopping trip to the mall,

Thanksgiving is time to appreciate,

Be thankful and know life is great.

From Inspired Living we send,

Wishes for happy times with family and friends.

Since I am lacking in skill in the kitchen, Parker and I worked on a crafty project in preparation for Thanksgiving. We painted her hands and printed cards for her family and a few friends. She wrote out her name (in her sweet four year old print) on hearts and we pasted the turkeys, hearts, pictures and a simple poem onto cards. Parker stickered up the envelopes while I printed out the addresses and sent them across town and across the country.

Parker and I talked about her cousins and her family, she was excited knowing her thoughtful piece of mail would make them smile. As Thanksgiving seems less and less about being thankful, and more and more about consumerism and holiday shopping – I want to ensure she knows the holiday is dedicated to family time. I want her to spend time appreciating the people around us who help make our life wonderful.

Nov 6 2014

Catskills: Part I

What do you mean you pack for him? The criticism was at the forefront of my mind as the cabin doors were closing and I stared at the vacant seat across the aisle from me. I had chuckled at the idea of my friend packing for her husband on their trips, believing a grown man should be doing this for himself. Except in the moment when my husband was still maneuvering TSA and our flight was securing its doors, I wished I had just packed his bag.

We arrived at the airport early, like the kind of early I will only wake for travel. We were traveling as a family with my parents to my sister’s wedding in the Catskills of New York. To say I was eager to get there is minimizing the feeling, I was ecstatic, the wedding celebrations were all I had been thinking about for weeks. The anticipation of a year and a half engagement, ten-year relationship and all the suspense in sharing details for where in the world the ceremony would be had amounted to the peak of mania. Who would have known the airport would have been buzzing with business before six o’clock AM, lines seemed longer than I’ve seen them in years for our convenient Midwestern airport. My parents and I adjusted baggage, ensured my four year-old Parker was holding a hand and prepared to find our way to the terminal. My husband slowed with a look of confused concern, “I have to check my bag.” He borrowed a garment bag for the trip so that he could carry his suit neatly for the wedding. My mom stepped in to reassure him the bag can be a carry-on and will fit in the overhead bin. The concerned expression continued as he realized even if the size would fit he made packing errors which would make it impossible to bring it as a carry-on and began making his trek to the airline counter.

Security agents and airline personnel were as pleasant and accommodating as a box of hungry hedgehogs. We watched him through the glass standing in the TSA line making slow progress to get closer to where we were. I boarded the plane with Parker and my parents knowing my husband had not yet taken his shoes off but was literally a few sprints from where I sat. The stewardess ignored my attention seeking as if it was impossible to stop checking seat belts to address a customer. When she finally returned to my panic, she frankly reported “The plane is finished boarding.” On the phone, my husband’s irritation was growing as he explained how they had only one line to accommodate security screens and chose him for a random search. He added he was one of six people getting slowed down by processes who were meant to board the same flight.

By the time the flight was in the air I was fighting tears, all the excitement I had building about this amazing weekend were starting with a major absence. I didn’t know what to be more mad about: TSA for only having one line to screen people, the airline for not ushering people who needed to get to flights, the fact that more than 2 oz of body wash is treated like gun powder to carry onto the plane, my perfectly-planned-for-travel pixie pants creating a sad muffin top or that I should have just packed the damn bag and avoided this. By the time we got to flying over Washington DC (our connecting airport) and circling over for twenty minutes, then landing only to taxi for an additional 15 minutes; I decided my aggression was focused on US Airlines for insisting we had an on-time departure from Kansas City and leaving behind 6 passengers the 35 wasted minutes could have helped.

There was nothing I could do to remedy the situation so I focused on making sure Parker was comfortable with the flying experience, thankfully she laid her head in my lap and caught up on the early morning missed sleep. One more quick flight and we landed in Albany for the long anticipated weekend. We drove south down the interstate and then west to our destination in the Catskills. I don’t think I had clearly envisioned what it would be like in upstate New York, though I would have been wrong in a lot of ways. The rolling hills of bright autumn leaves, picture perfect streams and creeks in the valleys all seemed familiar and foreign at the same time. And even though my searches on maps and for rental properties showed limited occupied area, I guess I still imagined New York as a heavily populated land mass and was shocked at how rural living looked in the state. The rich fall colors still clung to some trees when we arrived and by the end of the weekend most seemed to have fallen.

We checked into our hotel and waited for my sister and her fiancé to meet us after their wedding prep errands. She was radiating energy to see us, screams of excitement and long tight-squeezing hugs. Even her fiancé, with a typical all about business demeanor, showed a glowing smile of enthusiasm which stayed joyfully plastered throughout the weekend. We followed them into Phoenicia, the nearest town where the main street consisted of a few restaurants, some gift shops and one pitiful grocery store. My sister pointed out where we would be eating for dinner on Friday night at Brio’s. I quickly realized the Brio in the Catskills is nothing like the Brio in Kansas City and I seriously overestimated the formality of my wardrobe.

The infinitely happy couple had dreamed of having their wedding ceremony in this outdoorsy romantic location. They wanted their vows to be spoken in front of immediate family on the deck of his uncles’ resort like cabin retreat from city life. All of the planning and organizing was finally coming to fruition, they were busy with final arrangements and checking into their own secluded cabin to meet up with us later.

In the haze of fatigue and frustration from the missed flight fiasco I omitted the discussion of plans for the evening and focused on the relief of knowing my husband would be flying out on the next available flight in the morning. (This was paid for by the airline for recognizing their error in abandoning six passengers.) Finally when I clued in that dinner plans needed to be created a quick search lead me to finding a restaurant my sister and fiancé had never tried in their trips to the upstate getaway.

We met up with them for dinner at Peekamoose, an adorable spot further up 28. The restaurant had a dining room, a playroom, a tavern and a patio off the side where you could enjoy a complimentary s’more after a meal. We sat in the tavern where unique furniture, an eclectic grouping of artwork and tree trunks tastefully strung with white lights made for cozy gathering spaces. The food exceeded expectations

A meal described as the cheese part of ravioli without the confinement of the pasta. Yum!

starting with appetizers, bread and spreads. I even took a picture of my meal, uncharacteristic of me, in the pleasure of the restaurant, the trip and the pending event. Topping of the décor and the food was the entertainment of the night. My daughter, deliriously excited and tired, interacting with her equally excited uncle. At some points it was difficult to tell who was laughing more and by the end it was contagious to other tables at Peekamoose.

Parker and I went directly to bed after dinner and both slept a solid twelve hours. In the morning when we were nearly ready my parents came into the hotel room talking on speaker phone with my sister. She added her fiancé’s uncle to the conversation to provide directions to the cabin where we would help them with wedding set-up. He described turns, streets, crossing bridges, up hills, down hills and crossing back bridges. Between mascara brushes I watched my parents listening intently as the directions continued to mount. Our morning chore was to pick up pumpkins before going to the cabin. We found a market on the side of the highway to buy pumpkins and have a photo-op with a bear. Then fearing my parents didn’t write a thing down in addition to no cell phone reception in these remote parts of New York, I didn’t think we would make it to the cabin. To my surprise, like a comedic skit about two people who have been married for forty years, they bantered about the directions all the way up the mountain following my mom’s lead until we pulled into the driveway of the cabin – not making a single mistake.

Sister, fiancé and uncle were outdoors and dirty to greet us in the middle of potting flowers for the deck. Not long after we arrived the fiancé’s family, also traveled the day before from Kansas City, got to the cabin. After all the greeting and explaining why my hubby was not present, everyone jumped into tasks of moving, mowing, and decorating. The cabin in the woods had a stunning kitchen, a magazine quality bathroom with soaker tub and the deck opened to views of a pond complete with a fountain. My dad took my husband’s travel delay as an opportunity to escape the wedding prep and we left for lunch at the Phoenicia Diner and then a trip back to Albany with Parker. At the Peekamoose I was impressed by the emphasis on local foods, then at the diner I realized this was just the norm in the area.

There was no chain restaurants and no franchise locations near the Catskills, it was a refreshing reprieve from my normal. Except on the way back from Albany, after being reunited with my husband, I needed to kill my chai craving and made my dad stop at Starbucks. I guess others felt the same withdrawal from franchise addictions because it was the longest lines and wait of any Starbucks I have been to.

By the time we made it back to the cabin, wedding preparations were complete for the day and there wasn’t anything to do except wait for dinner. My sister was proposed to on her fiancé’s birthday and together they thought it would be fitting to get married on her birthday. Since there wouldn’t be an opportunity on Saturday for the birthday celebration, we all planned to gather for a thirtieth birthday dinner in town on Friday night. I left the dress I had brought hanging in the closet and opted for a more casual “weekend in the woods,” attire. At Brio, our long table of family enjoyed beer and pizza. Parker plopped herself down in the chair by her cousins where she colored and played contently throughout the meal. My sister opened gifts and blew out candles. It was clear her thirtieth birthday would be an unforgettable celebration and it was barely getting started.

Next: The Wedding Day

Nov 5 2014

Red Hair Equals Mermaid

I will admit, Halloween really crept up on me this year. I know, it’s the same October 31st I look forward to every year, except this year we had taken three trips out of town in two months and had what felt like the rest of the month of October absorbed in my sister’s wedding. It was the weekend before Halloween when people started questioning my daughter what she was going to be for Halloween when I figured I had better pull something together.

She wavered between costume ideas, initially stating her destiny to be a princess. Of course not related to any of the princess costumes we already have at home to regularly get dressed up in. Then one morning during our typical getting the hair done routine… This consists of PJ isolated sitting on the dresser, holding my phone tuned into Youtube Cimorelli videos (Cimorelli is a girls group from California who cover major pop songs in a PG version – perfect for little ears – and Parker learns and loves all of these pop songs.) After the combing, pulling, braiding, twisting and rubber bands she eventually earns a marshmallow for cooperating. During this morning, as she is scrolling through videos and singing along to the teen lyrics in a slurred unclear of all the words kind of way, I asked her if she wanted to be a pop star for Halloween.

Of course the answer was yes. And then it was up to me to figure out what a pop star looks like in age appropriate four-year old kind of way. I figured she had some pop-star-ish clothes and we could just pick up some accessories like a microphone, play jewelry, and a wig. With her participation, she was getting into the idea of what a singer would wear on stage and loved picking out some blingy $0.50 rings.

On Friday afternoon I took Parker to school to trick or treat with her class. She had already made it clear she was not a fan of the wig during our trying out the costume at home so I brought bobby pins to staple it to her head. And when the moment came to walk into her school she began refusing the rest of her costume accessories fusing about the headphones, jewelry and handed me her microphone. In her classroom she appeared as the whiny girl, fashionable dressed with red hair – to which most people assumed she was going as Ariel the Little Mermaid. I’ve never seen Ariel in a cheetah print top, but lesson learned red hair equates to mermaid.

On Friday evening I had high hopes of capturing an image to show the true pop star image my four-year old can emulate. I imagined a scene with her in the foreground posing as she loves to do garnishing all of the pop star accessories we had planned. She’s pop out her hip, throw her arms in the air and belt out a song. Then in the background her daddy would be dressed as the bodyguard in his decade old workout shirt labeled “SECURITY,” a dark suit jacket, sunglasses and an ear piece. Then I would be standing next to him as the manager holding a clipboard, two phones and talking on one more. I envisioned this legendary Halloween 2014 picture and when it came down to it all I got was one cranky looking wild girl ready to go out and hit the streets for candy. Oh well, there’s always next year.

On Saturday we had a family adventure to the Louisburg Cider Mill. It was their final weekend for the fall festivities so PJ got ample time on the jumping pillow; it was nice to be able to stand on the sidelines and watch her enjoying herself without having to be holding hands with her. We took a hay rack ride, I found out it is my husband’s favorite fall activity. And we found our way through the giant corn maze. We let Parker take the lead and choose the paths, my husband and I played behind her tossing dried corn cobs at each other. I may have chucked one a touch too hard and his retaliation cob throw ended up with a rip in the back of my pants. “It’s not so bad, you’re wearing pink underwear right?” he said. Unfortunately it was my bare butt and a day I wish I had worn a longer shirt. The adventure ended with hot cider and apple cider donuts which made up for the end of life for my pants.

Inspired Living KC

Inspiration can come from everywhere, you just have to slow down and notice it..

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