Memories of Sick Days

Since Jack started daycare in October, we've been innundated with various coughs, colds and plagues. It began with a spell of flu, and now it seems like we are bookending the flu season with another go-around with the dreaded illness. Or at least, the flu's cousin. In the past 48 hours, I've coughed, sneezed, ached and fevered. At least Jack doesn't seem to be quite as down as I am, and John doesn't appear to be sick at all. Yet.

I would say.. 50% of the days that I took as sick days as a child were probably less about being sick and more about not wanting to go to school. Unfortunately, we don't have the ability to play hooky anymore from work, nor would I really want to anymore. These are the perils of growing older and accepting responsibility. That does not mean that I don't look back on those long afternoons of laying on the couch being babyed by my mom, with great love. Even more wonderful were the "mental health" days that she afforded my in high school. There were some days that the amount of school work just seemed overbearing, so we would take the day off. Mom: You were awesome.

Jack, know this: I'm on to you. Don't even think about faking sick because I'm the one who invented it.

Memories of Shopping

When it comes to shopping habits, I have a healthy dose of my mother's shopaholic tendencies, as well as my father's spend thrift. However, this leaves me as a "guilt shopper". I won't buy anything for myself for month's on end, and then in one day, spend half a paycheck. Guiltily.

When my mom would run out of closet space (and she had the majority of my parent's walk-in closet, my father's summer suit's from the 70's and his collection of birthday-and-christmas-present won ties were eclipsed by her collection of sweaters, cocktail dresses, paint-suits, resort wear and the mountain of shoes and purses that rose from the pit of the room), she would buy my sister and myself clothing. I remember a specific outing in which she bought my sister and I matching wardrobes from The Limited: Skirts, shirts, sweater vests, sorts, sunglasses.. the whole nine yards. However, what she didn't account for was that my sister and I were deep in the middle of our "Sk8er" phase, and didn't care much for the periwinkle and yellow pallet of the mid-90's teenibopper clothes. While my sister returned her clothes in favor of a pair of JNCO jeans, I kept mine and integrated them into my wardrobe. I was wholey perplexed by the fact that she would spend so much money on stuff that my sister and I hadn't asked for.. although what I would give for it now.

Now, I haven't purchased myself clothes in months, but I find myself buying outfit after outfit for Jack. Needless to say, he is better dressed than I. But what can I say.. I get it now. Guiltfree.

Memories of Poems

My mother was a prolific poet. When we were cleaning up the house after she had passed, we had to sift through boxes and books and stacks of papers, filled to the brim with poetry. Some of it was great, some of it was good, and a whole ton of it was total crap. But this was her chosen medium to vent her feelings and frustrations. Sometimes, a poem was nothing but a pressure valve for her life.

My sister and I, always struggling for her approval (why we stuggled, I'll never know, I'm pretty sure we had it the minute we were born), always would try to churn out some poem. I admit it, Anne was better than me. But in the months following her funeral, I would often use poetry as a method to bond and remember, and let off some of the steam of pain that seemed unbearable. So, I'll post two below:

Sometimes.

I think that I am just dreaming

and once I wake up,

she will be here again.

I realize that it’s more a latent wish,

a hope that is manifesting itself

in thoughts.

When I recognize my folly, the pain hits me again

like the unrelenting current.

And I wish that it were the opposite,

when I dream of her,

and it feels so real that I could hug her,

and she would be warm

and alive again.

-----------------------------------------------

Pictures painted perfectly in my childlike eyes

Irises the sizes of fat raindrops, splashed across the pages

A new hobby, you said

A new distraction from me, I thought

Not to be dissuaded

I propped my easel next to yours

Coffee cup in hand

Only four years old, full with pretension

---------------------------

It's funny, this entry was meant to be a brainless copy and paste, and yet, it stirs up more memories than others. But that's how poetry works.

Memories of Delivery

So tomorrow is D-Day. Delivery Day. Maybe. If Jack decides to play nice. Regardless, tomorrow, labor will be induced, so it will mean that Jack will be here sometime this week. Assuming he isn't completely stubborn.

Obviously, I don't remember much about my delivery. And by much, I mean anything. I do, however know what my mom told me. I was born at around 9:45 in the morning, and my delivery was short. My parents really wanted a boy, and the doctor knew this. Everybody thought that I was a boy. When I arrived, my doctor said in a really excited voice "It's a..... IT'S A...................... ....girl." Also my hair was black and formed a widow's peak on my baby face. My parents were very confused about where their Elvis vampire baby came from. I wish I knew more.

As I look into the future and all the uncertainty of the next couple of months surrounds me, I wonder if my mother felt the same way. Granted, by the time I came around, she had already broken her teeth on Baby #1, but there must have been different uncertainties that plagued her.. How do you change the diapers for 2 babies? I know that even as we entered into adulthood, she was unsure of her ability to give both of us enough love. I wish that I had done more to reassure her that a mother's love wasn't a zero sum game, and by giving me love it didn't mean that Anne had less love and vice versa.

I do know that tomorrow, she will be with me, as a mother's love doesn't end with death.

Memories of Baby Years

Now that I'm pregnant, I'm a bit lost without mom. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing or feeling, and all the books that I'm reading scare me more than reassure me. Everytime something hurts, I just want to ask her "did this happen to you too?"... "Is this normal?"... "Will we survive?".. granted, I've always been a little more than over dramatic. I have the feeling that my questions for her will only mulitply when Jack comes. I don't even know how to freaking hold a baby, nevertheless, be the only line between survival and perishing. Why can't babies just emerge walking and talking?

My earliest memories are a bit jumbled together in my mind, so I have no idea to determine which was the earliest. I can only benchmark them against the developmental baseline which I learned in the 6th grade Home Economics unit on family life. I have dozens of solid memories of life in the little brick ranch house on Anchorage Drive, where my dad lived when he met my mother, where they spent their first married years together and where we continued to live until I was about four. There are memories of the hobby horse in the basement, my sister cutting out the pink satin bear from my baby blanket, potty training, eating bologna and american cheese sandwiches while watching "Belle and Sebastian" on cable t.v. (a luxury not afforded to us from ages 4-14), barfing on my carpet in my room and birthday parties in the back yard. In all those memories, my mother plays a dominant role. How could she not? I barely started to go to Pre-Kindergarden when we moved, and she was basically the sun upon which my world revolved.

One paticular memory sticks out. I must have been a toddler. I was still young enough to be in a crib, but almost to big to be out of it. My mom was putting me down for a nap and for some reason (I don't remember being hungry), I wanted a bottle. I think it was more for the comfort of it. She was annoyed but finally conceeded. I remember staring up at the mobile, waiting for my mom to hurry up and get me my baba. And the feeling of gratitude and happiness when she gave it to me.

That's the kind of mom that I had. She wasn't always super pumped to do what she had to in order to give us stuff that we wanted (not needed), but she always provided. I hope I can pull threads of wisdom from her actions in my memories in order to be just as good of a mother to Jack.

Memories of Early Christmas Presents

My mom loved spoiling us for Christmas. Or rather, she put in a lot of effort to make sure that we had fantastic Christmases. She was always given a budget (set by dad), which she always supplimented with her own meager income. There were always the same amount of presents for both my sister and I, which cost the exact same amount. Talking to my friends once I left the home, I was shocked to hear that most people didn't get 7 gifts, and a never-ending stocking for Christmas. I had always assumed that my mother's effort was normal.

One particular event stands out for some reason. I was in middle school, and it was December, and I had "NOTHING TO WEAR!! (ZOOMMG!!)". I was standing in the kitchen, crying while I was tearing through the clean clothes pile (which usually encased half of the kitchen table.. our family was never on it when it came to folding clothes), looking for something "Cool" to wear. My mom watched me, distraught for a couple minutes before saying "Okay, Libby... I'll give you one of your Christmas presents early" and went into the garage, emerging with a shipping box. Out she pulled the most beautiful red and blue plaid shirt that I had ever seen (note, this was around 1991). I waltzed into school that day feeling like a million dollars, as my mom must have known that I would have.

Basically, my mom went above and beyond to embody the Christmas Spirit for us all. And she realized that it wasn't just the day that matters, its how you make each other feel all year round. I just hope that I am able to embody the same selflessness when it comes time to spoil my children.

(Author's note: I'm starting to realize that this blog might in fact, do more to expose what a brat I was as a child. Future children of mine, take note: Don't even think about it.)

Memories of Veterans

Happy Veteran's Day everyone! Not only am I thankful of Veterans because I love quite a few (John, my father, both grandfathers, John's father all have served in the Navy at some point), but I'm thankful for what they do for the nation and appreciative of the risks that they make to ensure our safety and well being. Not to mention, I'm sure they had something to do with foiling the plot to blow up cargo planes over the Eastern Seaboard the day before my wedding.

To the right is a picture of my Grandfather (Mom's Dad) who served during the Korean War and WWII. My knowledge of the facts are a little hazy, but I know that he was enrolled in Syracuse University and left to join WWII, while my grandmother remained as a nurse in New York (I'm not actually sure if they were together at this point). Afterwards, they moved together to Florida and Texas, where Robert was a flight instructor, accumulating 5 little girls along the way.

What I do know is that my mother was very very proud of her father. In a move that I only fully understand the implications of now, she set up an award in his name at the Naval Academy. Every year, the freshman with the most improvement receives an award in the name of Robert Williams and a copy of the Old Man and the Sea. I remember being annoyed at being forced to go to the first award ceremony, with its long winded speeches and cold air and itchy tights. I didn't see the point of having a silly award for some silly young sailor that I didn't know. Although I'm sure that my mother did appreciate the freshman awardees, I can see now that it was less about them and more about wanting to preserve the memory of her father and spread her admiration for him. That, I can totally understand.