The Bering Blog

Blackbird Fly

My oldest daughter and I had a conversation the other night over dinner about a column I’d written about her just before she graduated from high school in 2001. Man, we see the years so differently, she and I. She sees her life as having not met any of the hopes and dreams I outlined in the column. I see her life as full of potential and completely on course, her personality leading her in the direction she needs to go. She is strong and brave and I think she’s a blackbird in flight.

From May 2001:

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, Take these broken wings and learn to fly, All your life, You were only waiting for this moment to arise."

You asked me, "What do you want, Mom? What do you think I should do?" And it was clear by the tone of your voice that you expected me to say something customary like, "I just want you to be happy," but with a choked-up guilt-ridden undertone that said "…but keep in mind I’d be happy if you stayed here in Clarion."

Weren’t you surprised when I didn’t?

I don’t have eyes in the back of my head for nothing, my daughter. Yes I want you to be happy, but I’ve learned a thing or two about you in these 18 years and I know the life you’ve secretly dreamed about for years will die if you don’t leave this town, your home, and see for yourself what lies beyond these hills.

You have an adventurous spirit and a cautious heart. The combination has served you well so far and you must trust it won’t let you down in the future. You’ve learned there is no monster under the bed, no boogey man in the closet, no sandman, and no such thing as ghosts, yet you know there are bigger mysteries to solve, other truths to uncover, out there somewhere all your own. To not live where your heart and head can be free or to deny yourself that place of self-discovery would be placing yourself on a certain and predictable course, and God knows after years of listening to me tell you what the world is like you’re entitled to discover the world for yourself.

So...what do I want? That’s a question I’ve been thinking about and trying to answer since you were born. This is what I’ve come up with so far:

I want you to be happy in your own skin, to be at peace with your decisions, to love God, and to visit the Rocky Mountains in the winter.

I want you to drink good wine and see the midnight sun and walk along the Champs-Elysées with your best friend.

I want you to have babies when you’re ready and visit your grandparents once a year. I want you to never forget your sister’s birthday and to go to Jasper once in awhile and place flowers on your dad’s grave.

I want you to never know an overdue bill, an IRS audit, or a broken tailpipe you can’t afford to fix. I want you to concentrate on what you do that makes you successful and to not dwell on failures.

I want you to come home from wherever you are when you’re homesick and to go back again feeling stronger for having been home again, because I’ll always be here for you and you can wash your clothes while I make you manicotti and chocolate cake. Your room will still be purple and I won’t rent it out or turn it into the hot tub room like I threatened.

You see, I don’t care where you go to college as long as you get the education you need to be what you want to be.

I don’t care where you lay your head at night as long as it’s warm and safe and, when it’s right, with the person who loves you more than life.

I don’t care what you do for a living as long as it doesn’t hurt other people, that it envelops your God-given talents and gifts, and that it gives you satisfaction and affords you the kind of home you can relax in at the end of the day.

I trust you. I have faith in you. But mostly I love you, and love is the reason I can let go. I’m going to hurt for awhile and I’ll probably cry all the way home after helping you move into your dorm, but I don’t want you to feel you’ve caused me pain because you will not have. Love is just like that sometimes.

I’ll miss the smell of your perfume floating up the stairs after you leave for school. I’ll miss hearing you tell me good night and feeling your kiss on my cheek before you go to bed. I’ll miss seeing your face every day, our spontaneous talks in the kitchen and the way you play with the dogs.

But while I’ll miss you very much, I know I’ll still be your mother when you’re frustrated, your mom when you need advice and your mommy when you need money or just a hug.

Your moment is here, my girl, and you’re ready to fly. And that is truly what I think you should do.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, Take these sunken eyes and learn to see, All your life, You were only waiting for this moment to be free."

Introducing: Valarie's Writing Page

I’ve known Valarie for 30 years, back when I was 14 and she was almost 16 and her sister and I were science partners.

My family moved to Minneapolis in January 1978, halfway through the school year. I was in ninth grade and lost. At Jasper High School there were 300 students in grades 7-12. At Plymouth Junior High School, there were more than 300 students in my grade. Joining them in the middle of the school year was a death sentence to any kind of social life. Friendships were established, cliques formed, lunchroom territories firmly defended. I was a country bumpkin, dressed in Levis and striped polyester shirts with snap collars. I knew nothing about Nikes or Annie Hall.

I was lost academically, too. Ninth grade students at JHS took earth science. Ninth grade students at PJHS took chemistry. I’d missed an entire semester and never caught on to it. Thank God for Pam. Poor dear Pam.

I’ve never asked Pam how she felt about being assigned a newbie like me as her science partner, but if she was ticked she never let on. She patiently helped me through all the experiments (meaning she did all the experiments as I looked on) and never told the teacher what a bonehead I was. The only thing I learned that entire semester was there are three states of matter: gas, liquid and solid. That’s still the extent of my chemistry knowledge. I think it’s ironic I’m married to a chemist given how I loathe the subject.

Pam and I became friends, despite her added burden of tutoring me through chemistry. She told me she had a sister named Val who dated a boy named Jay. Hmmm…I had a friend named Jay who was dating a girl named Val. Were they the same?

My mom and Jay’s mom met when they were single and working in a bank. They remained friends and our families got together frequently, either for holidays or for weekends at their lake cabin. Jay was three years older than me and I’d always had a little crush on him. He was tall and strong with dark hair and a quirky sense of humor. He always treated me like a little sister, though, so any romance was doomed from the start. But I admit I was a little jealous when I heard of this Val person. Who was she and what was she doing with my never-to-be boyfriend?

Pam invited me to her house after school one day and I met her sister who was indeed the Val dating Jay. Val was thin and lovely with whispery long blond hair. I don’t think she liked me much at first. She was a typical older sister probably because Pam was a typical little sister. They picked and teased, so mostly we stayed out of Val’s way.

Val and Jay got pregnant when Val was in high school. My memories of her pregnancy are vague. I remember watching her walk the halls alone, her head buried in a book or I'd see her eating lunch with a friend or two. She wasn’t someone you pitied, though, because she gave off a strong vibe of “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of me.” Val was a mystery to me and her pregnancy made her even more enigmatic.

Pam and I stayed friends and I’m sure she told me when Val’s baby was born, but we didn’t talk much about it. Val and Jay were married and living somewhere and that’s all I remember. After I graduated from high school, I didn’t see Pam much anymore, and I heard Val and Jay news through my mother. Val had another baby, and another, and another and another.

When I lived in Minneapolis for a few years in the mid-90s, I reconnected with Pam and we’ve stayed in contact since then. I still didn’t know much about Val or Jay or their growing family. I hate family gossip so I didn’t ask my mother much about them. Then last January, I got an email from Val:

“Hey Lynn. My sister, Pam, sent me the link to your writing a month ago, and I’ve been enjoying it very much. I’m at home with a herd of little kids, and the voice of another adult, plus it’s *your* voice, has been incredibly fun.

“When you talk about your parents, I know who they are. I can picture their mannerisms and hear their voices.  Emily is a gorgeous woman now, LOL. It’s very fun.   

“Attached is a pic for your amusement. The blonde woman second from the left is my daughter-in-law Alica, married to Dan beside her. On the far right is John with his wife Dannell in front of him and their son William hanging over her arm. The rest are our kids. 

“Sending you a real tight hug, girl. Love, Val N”

Suddenly, there she was, leaping out of mystery and into the tangible. And I was no longer Pam’s geeky little friend, but Val’s equal, although I admit for a second I was that ninth-grade dork in Levis and snap shirts with a silly crush on her husband. I shook that off and wrote back. We’ve been writing to each other ever since.

Val is confident and unique. A writer and the mother of 10 children, she writes about her family with grace and humor, but never is she condescending or preachy. She has shared her essays with me on numerous occasions and I asked her if I could share them with my blog readers.

To that end, I’ve added a new page to my blog called Valarie’s Writing Page. I’ll update it, as I do my brother’s writing page, throughout the week. I’m so glad to have another voice join me on this online journal. I hope you enjoy it, too.

Click here to read the essay I chose to introduce Val to you. She wrote it in 2001 and has had two children since then. I tell you that so you don’t think I made a typo when I said she had 10 children rather than eight.

Thanks for reading. I always enjoy your comments, too. Keep them coming!

"The Wisdom That Living Brings"

I thought I wasn’t needed.

My daughter and her husband have this whole new baby thing under control. Nursing? No problem. Claire gained a pound her first week home. Nights? Piece of cake. Claire sleeps in 3- to 4-hour intervals. No real exhaustion in this house. A little projectile vomit, some outrageous poops. No problem. The dresser is filled with clean bibs and onesies and sleepers.

So why am I here in this perfectly functioning house? Because my presence is comforting. Mother the mother, a wise friend told me. So I cook a little; hold the baby so Cass can take a shower, change the laundry, go to the bathroom; sit on the couch and watch “Gilmore Girls” with my daughter as she nurses Claire and we talk about silly stuff.

Nothing about my relationship with my daughter has changed, even though I was expecting this huge shift. Shift to what I don’t know, but we talk the same, behave the same, love each other the same. We just have a new girl in our inner circle.

It's now 8:30 in the evening. Matt is sitting on the couch, legs outstretched on the cushions. Claire is snuggled in his arms and sound asleep. Cassie is sleeping on his left leg. The Pittsburgh Penguins are playing the Toronto Maple Leafs. I’m plugged into iTunes and writing. Love permeates the room and there’s nothing mysterious about it. It just is. Mother to daughter. Husband to wife. Parent to child.

I’m part of this moment and needed in this moment. It’s as close to perfect as anyone can get in this life. I’m sure of it. 

Staying One Step Ahead Of The Second Child

I enjoy reading old columns I’ve written, particularly those that pertain to my children. I wrote the one below eight years ago about my youngest daughter, who is now nursing her 12-day-old daughter in the living room as I type.

I wonder if my granddaughter will take after her mother – spontaneous and impulsive – or if she’ll exhibit traits more typical of first-born children, like her aunt Carlene – more patient and deliberate in her decisions.

Only time will tell. But there were many times I told Cassie I hoped she had five kids just like her one day. She was a tenacious handful sometimes, but mostly she made me laugh.

Here’s a little insight into my second daughter, the new mother.

NOVEMBER 1999 - Next year at this time my youngest daughter will almost be 16. She figured this out the other day while I drove her to work or cheerleading practice or a football game or maybe WalMart. I can’t remember. I just drive.

“Isn’t that exciting!” she said. “Then I can drive myself everywhere!”

She was born 20 months after her sister and ever since she’s been playing catch-up, always wanting to be her sister’s age.

When she was eight she wanted to be 10. At 11 she was convinced her life would begin at 13. Now, at 14, the magic age is 16 – the age to drive, date, and plan her life at 18.

I can understand her feeling she has an inherent right to the same timetable as her sister. As small children I did lump them together as a group rather than seeing them as individuals of differing ages.

She stopped taking naps and gave up Barbies the same time as her sister, and started listening to (and stopped listening to) New Kids On the Block when her sister did.

But age became an issue when it was time for the big stuff like staying up a half-hour later, putting on fingernail polish by herself, riding in the front seat, shaving her legs, wearing makeup, getting her ears pierced a second time, and dating. She had to wait.

“Wait?” she exclaims each time her sister gets a new privilege. “That’s not fair!”

“Those are the rules,” I explain.

“Well, when can I?”

“When you are your sister’s age.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes,” I always sigh. “I promise.”

Learn this lesson well: Never promise a child anything hoping she will forget. She won’t. And if you do promise something, make sure you write it down. Verbatim. Have it certified. Sign it in blood. Or you’ll be matching wits and memories with a kid who has documented proof you made a promise exactly as you said it years before while you were making Thanksgiving dinner for 30 or on the phone with the Internal Revenue Service and would say anything to get her out of the kitchen.

This lesson applies mostly to the second child. With a first child parents are fledglings and rarely promise anything because they have no idea what they’re doing. For example, if your oldest child asks to stay up a half-hour later you might say something like “I’ll think about it,” and then run to the bookshelf for advice as soon as she’s out of the room.

I’m going to let you in on a secret the books never tell you: When you render your decision about the first child’s request, your second child is taking it all in, memorizing the date, the time, the exact age of the first child (to the day) and the place you were standing when you said, “Yes, you may stay up a half-hour later tonight.”

Be prepared when your second child comes to you, detailed charts and analysis in hand, at exactly the same time in her life and asks to stay up a half-hour later. If you have forgotten when you allowed the first child the same privilege you will have no defense. God help you if you say no.

If these second-born children could apply these awesome memorization and organizational skills to their education, they’d all be rocket scientists, brain surgeons or concert pianists. However, being adamant about being right is usually reserved only for fairness (as they perceive it) in family matters.

Being driven to memorize their spelling words or the periodic table is not in the same league as showing up their mother or older sister.

Being second doesn’t always mean having to wait or being vigilant for injustices or wearing hand-me-downs, though. It does have its advantages. My youngest makes mental notes every time her sister and I have a difference of opinion and some kind of punishment is handed down. With this advanced knowledge she rarely repeats the mistakes of her sister.

Where she doesn’t avoid punishment (or at least a dirty look) is when she reminds me of mine.

The second child is almost always compared to the older child, especially if they’re the same gender. But second children rarely walk the path tread by their older sibling. My oldest is a bit reserved, a little shy, and it is my youngest who makes the most noise in our world, the one who will not be ignored, the one who will try the things her sister won’t. She is the child my mother couldn’t wait for me to have – the one who was just like me.

And I wouldn’t have her any other way. Her smile lights up a room. She can tune into a person’s emotional frequency just by looking at their face. She’ll be anything she wants to someday because she is brave and honest and can look the truth in the eye and not run away.

Yeah, so she wants to be older. Who, at 14, didn’t? If the years have taught me anything it’s that our desire to be older than we are stops at about 25, the age auto insurance rates (and some body parts) start to drop.

Besides, when she’s 25 I’ll be 45 wishing I was 35. Thank God for my grandmother who used to tell me that one day we’ll all be happy to be any age.

I Finally "Feel" Like A Grandma

I’m learning that you don’t go from not being a grandma to being the kind of grandma you imagine you should be, even when the grandbaby arrives. It’s like driving on the left side of the road. It’s nothing like you expect, and it takes a fair amount of patience and blind trust to know that what you’re feeling is OK.

I loved Claire before I met her, when she was more a thought than flesh. Esoterically, I knew that the nature of this kind of “love-in-anticipation” was to change and grow. The larger my daughter’s belly, the more complex my love for her and the growing baby. Yet intellect flies out the window when bombarded with intense emotion.

The day Claire was born, I was tired and out of any semblance of a comfort zone. Middle-of-the-night phone call, middle-of-the-night bag packing, middle-of-the-night drive to the hospital, middle-of-the-night seeing my daughter hooked up to monitors – nothing felt real. Waiting for Claire was like standing at the arrival gate at the airport to greet a relative you’d never met before and hoped you’d recognize.

All day I kept waiting to feel “grandma-like.” I expected to feel some distinct feeling that I’d inherently recognize as grandparent love. But no fairy godmother sprinkled fairy dust on my head. No brick fell. No hammer. When Claire was born, I was overwhelmed with awe that the little baby I’d known as a mere thought came out perfect with all her toes and fingers, big eyes and a little hair. I kept crying and saying, “Oh, she’s so perfect!” There was so much emotion entering the room at once that it was like grabbing Jell-O to pick one feeling to experience fully.

Some people can process their thoughts immediately. I can’t. I don’t trust those first feelings. I need to step back and examine the details, run them all through in my mind a few times before I let them sink in.

I saw Claire for awhile after she was born and then again a day later. I went to stay with Cassie and Matt and Claire for a few days and I didn’t understand why a distinct “grandma” feel hadn’t settled in yet. What I felt was fear. I was afraid of taking over, of offering advice, of being a pain-in-the-ass, of being in the way, of moving within a space so unfamiliar. I was afraid I’d love her too much. I was afraid she’d go away. I was afraid I’d fail.

Somewhere in me, though, knew I loved Claire. I went home, and within a few days in my own home and surrounded by familiar things, I began to realize that what I felt for Claire was unique to me. The more I thought about Claire the more my own “grandma feel” emerged, like an early spring crocus out of the snow. I found that plane on which to move around as the grandma I’m meant to be. I found that place of peace that allows me to feel everything I need to feel and not be afraid. 

Larry and I went to see Claire yesterday and I was completely comfortable with my new-found grandma feelings. I held her with confidence, no longer fearful of her tiny body. I unconsciously moved into my own unique grandma role yesterday. I am not like any other grandparent. No grandparent is.

Claire is very alert and wiggly for an 8-day-old. Perhaps I’m just forgetting how 8-day-olds behave, but I swore she was going to push herself on the to floor today the way her legs dug into my stomach when I was holding her in my lap. Her arms flail, her head moves from side to side. She was fascinated with Grandpa Larry’s brown shirt. She stared at it for several minutes. I took video and photos, laughed with my daughters, teased my son-in-law – things are back to normal, only we have a new member on our family team.

I’m all ready for my three-day stint back at the Conti ranch. These new feelings make sense. They aren’t what I expected, but then, how boring would life be if we knew ahead of time what every life moment would feel like?

What kind of grandma would I be without photos?

     

55 Years That Began in Hawaii

It was my parents’ 55^th wedding anniversary yesterday. They were married in 1952 in Hawaii when my dad was stationed at Barbers Point Naval Base on the island of Oahu. They’d grown up in the same town, dated in high school, broke up for a spell, and then Dad must have missed Mom a whole lot because he wrote to her and asked her to marry him. She hadn’t seen him in 18 months, but she must have missed him, too, because she got on a plane and flew to Hawaii.

Here’s one of my favorite stories from my dad’s memoirs:

“Our deal was if she’d pay for a train ticket to LA, I’d buy the plane ticket to Honolulu. She went for my request and we both began our plans and aimed for October. I saved every spare nickel, and sold my neat 35mm Kodak camera with all the extra lenses and anything else I didn’t need. She was doing the same as she worked in Luverne (MN) at this time. I promised her if after 18 months of being apart she didn’t want to go through with this (when she got to Hawaii), I’d fly her home.

“Mom arrived on a Pan Am stratocruiser on Sunday, October 12. It was great to see her. I showed her where we would live, went to the base to show her off to my friends, and finally to the Broderick’s who had offered to have her stay the week before the wedding.

“We set out Monday after my work to get the marriage license. Mom already had a blood test back home as was required in Hawaii. We went to the license place and the old witch manning the place wouldn’t approve a blood test from Minnesota. So we left to find the nearest doctor. We happened on a small ‘Doctor’ sign and went in. The nurse was from St. Paul (MN) and so was the doctor. He transferred the blood test to a Hawaiian-approved form at no charge. We went back to the old witch within an hour and she couldn’t believe it, but she had to issue the license.”

My mom likes to say they “didn’t have the pot or the window.” They made due with Dad’s meager pay and by collecting pop bottles and bringing them to the store for the few-cents refund on each. They lived in rugged base housing crawling with large tropical bugs, but the ocean was their backyard and everything about the islands was still untainted by tourism. They had their first baby in Hawaii, my brother Marty, born six weeks premature. Dad could hold Marty in one hand. No wonder they talk about those two years more than any other of their married years.

The start of their married life was so different than most couples and I wonder if more marriages would survive if the first few years were lived away from everything familiar.

Mom was just 20 years old, Dad was 21. The stories they tell of their two years in Hawaii are legend in our family, and I don’t think there’s been a time in their lives since that compares. Not that they haven’t enjoyed the other 53 years together. But it was in Hawaii where they had to get to know each other without the comforts of friends and family back home.

I want to be married to Larry for 55 years. Of course I’d have to live to be 90 and he 106, but that’s doable, right? I want to know what it’s like to be with someone forever, to know them inside and out, to wake up on the morning of our anniversary knowing I’m loved by and loving the same man I loved 55 years ago. Mom says she still learns new things about Dad, things about his childhood or career that she never knew, opinions he holds that she wasn’t aware of. Larry and I have those same kinds of unfoldings, but we’re still pretty new at this marriage thing. Nine years versus 55 is but a fleeting moment, hardly a start.

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. Your love is as true now as it was in Hawaii. Thank you for sharing your stories because it is through your stories that I know you both as more than parents.

Sorry For The 5-Day Hiatus

I suck at multi-tasking. Grandmothering and blogging is tough. But I’ve felt so tense today and I know it’s because there are so many words backed up in my brain and they’re riding on my nerves demanding to be let out.

Thing is, I have no idea how to say all the things I want to say. I wrote a column about Claire a few days ago for publication in the paper tomorrow and it’s not even CLOSE to what I wanted to say. I guess when I go through a huge emotional event, no matter how wonderful and joyous, I need time to digest it all.

Damn….I’m a grandma!

I came home yesterday so my daughter and her husband could have some time alone with their baby. OK, that’s kind of a lie. I came home because I had a hair appointment. The gray was taking over my head, and while I love being a grandmother, I don’t want to look like one.

Back to multi-tasking. I discovered yesterday that you really can drive and eat an omelet at the same time. I had to leave P’burgh at 9:45 to get to my hair appointment in time. I opted to sit around holding Claire rather than pack, cook and eat my breakfast like a normal person, so I either had to take it on the road or starve. I threw together an egg-white and cheese omelet, wrapped it in a paper towel with eight grape tomatoes and set it on the passenger seat. Fortunately, omelets cool into a solid mass, at least the one I made yesterday did. I can’t imagine it would if I stuffed it with mushrooms, spinach and onions.

Anyway, I took a bite of omelet and popped a tomato in my mouth and it was almost like eating a real omelet, only I was driving. Oh, and talking on the phone, too! I forgot about that part. I really can multi-task.

I also came home because I needed to sleep in my own bed, pet my dogs, hug my husband, clean my kitchen, do normal things like that. I was in such a surreal world the last few days that I needed to sort through it all by immersing myself in the same old same old.

It’s the middle of October and I was so happy to see things are still growing and blooming in my garden. Mums, dahlias and some strange lovely purple flower that I’m calling my Claire flower since I have no idea what it is, like I didn’t know if she was a boy or girl before she was born. It’s from a bulb I got from a neighbor who also had no idea what it was.

A little bird had slipped himself inside the empty bird feeder, kind of like I did once back in the day when airport toilet stalls cost a dime to open. True story: I was 7 years old and I was waiting with my mom in the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport for my dad’s flight back from Rome. I had no money when I went into the bathroom so I got on my belly and slid under the door. I didn’t realize you could just open it from the inside to get out and so I got back on my belly and slid myself out of the stall only to be chastised by the cleaning lady.

Anyway, back to the bird. Man, was he pissed being stuck inside the bird feeder. I lifted one of the plastic sides and he flew away, chiding me until he reached the tree, like I’d put him in there in the first place. Whatever. I’m a grandma. He can think what he wants. He’s free. I’m happy.

I met a friend for lunch and then went to the hospital to visit my friend Pam who had a baby yesterday. I answered some email, told my neighbors about Claire, called Cassie to check on Claire. Hmmm. Maybe I’m sucking less at multi-tasking. The tension is easing. I’m writing this blog, although it probably doesn’t make much sense. But at least words aren’t bursting out my head anymore.

Be sure to check out my brother’s writing page. He wrote two new entries while I was busy grandparenting and I finally updated his site. Click here to read them.

Thanks for your patience. I promise to get back in the blogging groove.

Her Name Is Claire

What a day, what a change in the way I look at life. Little Claire Raelyn is perfect. She was born at 12:02 p.m. today. She weighs 6 pounds 13 ounces and is 18 inches long. She has big dark eyes and black hair, her mother's long narrow feet and fingers and thick earlobes and her father's nose. Her skin is porcelain pink and soft and flawless and she pooped three times the first hour of her life. Watching her birth and holding her for the first time changed my life in ways I can't even ingest yet. I love her in a deep and gentle way.

I'm tired. I need to sleep. But before I go, here are a few photos of my lovely granddaughter. '

Today is G-Baby’s Birthday!!

I’m blogging this morning from the hospital in Pittsburgh where Cassie is laying in a bed a few feet away from me, happy from an epidural. Nothing like wireless in the room so I can write this. I’m so excited I’m ready to explode.

I got the warning call at 10:30 last night. Cassie’s water broke. She’d call me from the hospital. I went back to sleep wondering what I should wear. The phone rang at 12:30. “It’s baby time!” she said. I packed a bag, called Carlene, and got in the old Jeep and drove 68 minutes to Carlene’s apartment. There were no cars on the road and I made great time, despite the rain.

I’m tired. Carlene and I shared the couch in the room while Matt tried to sleep in the chair. We all drifted a little, but mostly we laid awake and quiet, listening to the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor.

Matt just called Cassie a “little talk machine.” Her student nurse was just in and they were chatting like they were old friends. I love that kid.

There are nurses everywhere in here now and Cassie wants to watch “Saved By the Bell.” I love watching Matt love Cassie.

I’ll write more later.

Here are a few photos.

 

Saying Goodbye Gets Harder Every Time

I met my pregnant daughter for breakfast at “Bobby E’s” this morning after her doctor’s appointment. We like to meet at Bob Evans because it’s close to her house, their oatmeal is almost as good as Clarion’s County Seat restaurant – not overcooked, perfectly sticky and chewy – but mostly because we always meet there. It’s tradition. I’ll take g-baby there on those mornings when it’s just the two of us, like my father used to bring me to Dud’s in Jasper for pancakes. I shared Dad with four siblings, my mom, and a 60-hour-a-week job. Our restaurant time was super-condensed “us” time.

We left my car at the restaurant (because Cassie, even though her belly almost meets the steering wheel, insists on driving in P’burgh) and went shopping. She needed a few things before the baby arrives anytime now. We went to Motherhood Maternity for some nursing “necessities,” and we thought about buying her sister some PeePee Teepees just in case the baby is a boy. Carlene babysat a lot when she was a teenager and was peed on by many a little baby boy. You pop one of these cutely decorated teepees over a baby boy’s little winkie and, if he gets a chill before you get that diaper on, you won’t get shot in the eye. For $10 it will be a good investment, but I’ll wait to buy them until I know if G-baby has a winkie or not.

We met Carlene for lunch and the three of us talked and laughed like we always do, in shorthand language that most people can’t decipher. Carlene had to get back to work after 30 minutes and I missed her the second she walked out the door. Same feeling different day. It’s that ache and drop in your stomach. You know the one. It happens every time you say goodbye to someone you love and won’t see for a few days, a few months, or a few years. It hurts and there’s no escaping it.

Cassie and I drove back to Bob Evans and I loaded my bags in my car (obviously I “needed” a few things, too), hugged her goodbye, patted her tummy, and got in my car. She drove away just ahead of me, and where I turned right to get on the highway, she went straight, and my heart ached and I wanted to follow her home and hang out a little longer and not have to say goodbye so soon. But she needed a nap and I needed to get home and I reminded myself that I’ll be back there on Saturday and the week after that and the week after that. But it didn’t make the missing her go away.

God I’m getting sappy in my old age.

I just love my kids so much. I remember waking up the morning after giving birth to Carlene and thinking, “Hmmm…something’s different. Wait! I had a baby last night!” And the love affair began. Now Cassie is on the verge of feeling the same way. And what about how I’ll feel about G-baby? How will I ever be able to leave him and drive 70 miles home? I’m beginning to understand how my mother felt when I left Minnesota and moved her granddaughters to Pennsylvania 17 years ago. She told me she cried for weeks, the ache in her heart was so overwhelming.

I know lots of folks whose grandkids live hundreds and thousands of miles away. That’s gotta damn near kill them saying goodbye. Because if it’s anything like saying goodbye to my children, I’m in trouble.

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P.S. I want to say a very special thank you to all of the overwhelming support you sent after I posted my “Windshield” blog. I am humbled and grateful for your emails. Sometimes I feel like I write in a vacuum, only because it’s just me and a keyboard and three sleeping dogs at my feet in my dining room during the blog writing and posting process. But you assured me I’m not alone and that my words matter. I promise not to be the yellow finch who flies away. Again, thank you for your kindness. I was feeling so very low and your words were a huge comfort.