Oyster Shell Trinket Dish

I was looking for a fun craft to do with Andrew, and I chose decoupage oyster shell trinket dishes. I've seen them in gift shops near The Red Cottage in the Northern Neck of Virginia. I got the shells from a local restaurant after Oyster Night and by asking on our local Facebook group if anyone had any. You can, of course, find them on the beach or buy them online.  

I recommend this easy craft to anyone. It is super inexpensive and as you can see from the photos, it was family fun from age 7 to 80+

Here are the steps:

1. Take clean oyster shells and paint the insides with white acrylic craft paint.

2. Take pretty paper napkins and separate the layers to just have the printed layer. Cut to the shape of your shell. I used ones I already had, and bought a few more patterns here.

3. Brush a little Mod Podge on the inside of the shell and gently place the napkin inside. The Mod Podge will glue the napkin down. Smooth it as needed, and tear or cut off any excess that hangs over the edge. Add another layer of Mod Podge on top and let dry. 

4. Paint the edge of your oyster shell with gold paint for finishing touch. I used this paint. 

While these make super-cute trinket dishes, smaller, flatter

shells would make excellent Christmas ornaments if you want to hot glue a ribbon to the back or drill a small hole for an ornament hook. Enjoy!

Note: This post contains affiliate links. 

You're My Lobster

As you may know, Margaret graduated from college last month. 

We are incredibly proud of her! She persevered despite the pandemic and other challenges, and we are excited for whatever her next chapter holds for her.

A few years ago, she mentioned that her school has a tradition of the graduates carrying mylar balloons during the procession, and that she'd like me to get her a lobster balloon. I haven't been a fan of balloons since learning the harm they do to the environment, but when she told me the balloons are collected and given to kids in the hospital, I felt better about it.

So, for years I've had a reminder on my phone to fulfill her request for a lobster balloon in honor of her brother Jack. They had some inside jokes about lobsters from their early days observing the lobster tank in the grocery store, and wishing that could save them. "You're my PAL!" Jack would say to the lobsters, in a funny voice. And even though Jack and Margaret never had the chance to watch the tv show Friends together, I loved the association that lobsters stick together for life, as in, "You're my lobster." We've always considered Jack to be Margaret's lobster. 

At least 6 months before graduation, I started looking for lobster balloons. 

Her high school and college years were a jumble to me, as I felt torn between being a baby's mom and a teenager's mom, and not always doing well at either. We didn't go on many college visits when she was a junior, and the first two years of college we were so concerned about Covid, I don't feel like we were much of a haven to come home to. I couldn't run down to see her on campus at the spur of the moment if she got lonely or sick,  I did what I could, but everything took so much COORDINATION.

But I could buy a balloon. 

So I scoured ETSY and found two contenders. One was so big I wasn't sure it would float, so naturally I bought a back-up lobster. I purchased a helium tank, not wanting to leave anything to chance. I left sticky notes around the house. LOBSTER? LOBSTER?

By the time we got down to her school the day before graduation, our nerves were fraught. Tim had expectations about the time Margaret would spend with us, and he was annoyed that this didn't match up with her plans. I was fried from arranging dog care for Charlie, packing, getting Andrew out of first grade early, and trying to run interference between Tim and Margaret. I kept checking to make sure I had the balloons. 

Mainly, I believe we felt the unspoken emotional weight of not having gone through any of this with her big brother Jack two years before. As with many families even long after the rawness of grief has subsided, celebrations can include joy and yearning. Both/And.

In her apartment, we inflated the first balloon. 

It was big!

It was gorgeous!

It didn't float.

Our helium tank said it would have enough to inflate two large balloons, so we started to fill our back-up lobster. After it was plump, and full, and floaty, we gave it one extra squirt of helium.

POP!!!!!

It felt like a tightly wound ball of grief in my chest exploded. Hot tears sprang to my eyes as I failed to provide the one thing I had promised Margaret on this day. The one thing I could do, amidst so many things I couldn't. But I didn't just want to give her a lobster balloon. I wanted Jack there for his little sister, as so many brothers were that day. Grown-up sisters and brothers together, who had paved the way and supported each other during adolescence and college, whose photos were already popping up on my phone in celebration. 

In that moment I felt sick and weary of trying to keep forging ahead in whatever life handed us. Again and again and again. Jack was her lobster, and of course the damn lobster popped. I sat quietly on the balcony as Andrew rubbed my arm to comfort me. He may not have understood all the subtext, but young kids certainly relate to the sadness that comes with the sudden pop of a balloon.

Soon, we rallied, because that is what we do. I went to an amazing party store and got what they had left. A giant M, a Margarita for  "Margaret," and a Sponge Bob because she and Jack had watched every episode together. 

We tucked ourselves in early and left the partying to the other parents. 

The next morning, the graduates were up at 5, per tradition, heading to the strip of bars on the corner across from the university. They were a jumble of caps, gowns, champagne bottle, selfies and giant balloons. It was a gorgeous day, and during the ceremony, we were able to spot our beautiful Margaret by the balloons she carried. We listened to an amazing speech about loss and community.

Later, Margaret sent me these photos so I'd know that while her non-floating lobster may have gotten lost somewhere on the way to the procession, he had made it out for some of the early-morning hoopla with the graduates. 

Love you, Margaret!

Hot Mess Express

 In today’s episode of “Why Can’t Anna be Normal?”, whatever normal is, I’d like to take you with me on a little journey. Picture a formal event for an elementary school where all the participants will be two decades younger me. I wonder, “What is in style? Can I still rock a black-tie event? Could I ever?” I get out my favorite long blue dress from Amazon, but it becomes clear that no amount of shapewear is going to get my post-Menopausal fluff into the bottom of it. 

 

At this point I head to my happy place, the thrift store, and purchase a dress for $10, a dehumidifier, and some Pokémon paraphernalia. The dress wasn’t love at first, second, or even third sight, but I figure it will do. When I get home and try it on, I realize it needs altering. One place quotes me $90, but I eventually find someone who will add two darts to the bust for $40. 

 

$50 total for a formal dress, albeit one I don’t love, still sounds like a reasonable bargain, so I forge ahead. When I pick it up, I find that the straight strapless cut across my chest, rather than being cute, sexy, or even classy, looks like when you get out of the shower and wrap yourself in a towel. No decolletage, just a vast expanse of skin. 

 

So, my next bright idea is to get my first-ever spray tan for to make this barren wasteland more palatable. As I get dressed afterward, the technician tells me to not wear a bra for a while because it might mess up the tan. Not only was a $60 expense (plus tip) now added to my “bargain dress,” this commando commandment threatened to mess with my schedule of 1000 errands to do before school pickup. Fortunately, Virginia weather means that the morning was wintry, so I layered on two sweatshirts to try to disguise my unrestrained, pendulous appendages. 

 

What might seem like no big deal to someone in her twenties, felt like a big deal to me as I ran (gingerly) around town checking things off my To Do list. Who am I kidding? Even in my twenties this would not have been a good look for me. Sure, I was petite, but more in a “marble in a tube sock kind of way” than a perky free-spirited one.

 

All was well until the temperature started to climb, my spray tan skidded down my body faster than Rudy Giuliani’s hair dye, and I remembered the technician’s final admonishment, “Don’t sweat.” 

 

I promise I’ll put on a bra later for International Night. Follow me for more beauty and money-saving tips. 

 

Mismatched Sets

We have two sets of sheets for our bed, one robin's egg blue, one white. At some point in the distant past, whether due to a sick child or a particularly sweaty hot flash, the set became separated. A top sheet thrown in the wash, a mismatched sheet put on the bed. When I strip the bed, it's now blue and white, when I make the bed, the same.  

It's a small thing, really, and no one has noticed but me. Every once in a while I will think, "I'd like to get these sets straightened back out," but then I'll toss the mismatched ones in the wash together and put the other mismatched ones on the bed. I do this for the sake of expediency and to conserve energy, because everyone knows if you don't dress a bed right away, you're likely to find yourself at 10:30 pm looking at a bare mattress pad and choosing a fitful night's sleep over having to do ONE MORE THING. It never seems like the right time to deal with it.

I think my sheets are a bit like relationships. 

Something can be out of whack, and instead of addressing it, we keep doing the okay-but-not-quite-right-things again and again. Maybe straightening it out takes too much energy when we are already depleted. Maybe the mismatch has become comfortable or almost imperceptible. And in relationships, unlike with a bunch of balled up sheets, we run the risk of finding out that a simple fix might not be simple at all, and that's frightening.

In life we often take care of the day to day: getting to school and work on time, making sure most boxes are checked and the car registration is renewed. But there are the other things, both tangible and intangible, big and small, that pile up on sticky notes, or in sacred rooms of our brains and hearts, that we just can't seem to tackle. We put them off for another day, hoping for a burst of energy, motivation, or inspiration. We wish we could summon a laundry fairy, a relationship guru, or a virtual assistant to take care of them for us, and do what we can't seem to do for ourselves.

Through Line

A few years ago, I bought a medium pre-lit artificial tree as our sole Christmas tree, with the main purpose of cutting down on marital arguments about light stringing. No longer was there a big fresh tree for sparkly bows, birds and baubles and a kids' tree laden with macaroni ornaments, clothes pin reindeer, and construction paper chains. It became both-- a delightful mish-mash. In fact, many of my "fancier" ornaments remained tucked in plastic tubs because this tree simply isn't big enough for all of it. 

And the ornaments keep coming! 

At an advent event last night, Andrew made 6 new ornaments out of popsicle sticks, paper and felt.

With Margaret home for Thanksgiving, we were all able to decorate together. This meant so much to me, as I was able to remember how the first few years after Jack died, decorating was excruciating. I did it for Margaret, but oh how it hurt. Now, I am able to hold Jack's Baby's First Christmas Ornaments and smile. I am able to remember how I bravely put up Christmas trees during college after my mom's death, even though no one expected it of me.

This year Andrew pulled a ziploc baggie out of one of the tubs and asked me about the ornament inside. I told him that when my brother, sister, and I were kids, we each had a glass ball with our name on it in glitter. Mine shattered one year and I was distraught. My mother quickly selected another ball, wrote my name on it with Elmer's glue, and dipped it in colored sand that we somehow had in our cluttered, happy home. 

That blue ball with red sand followed me the rest of my childhood and far into adulthood. A few years ago it shattered, but instead of tossing it out, I put it in a plastic bag so each year as we decorated, I could remember the loving care of a mom who always provided me a soft place to land.

After we finished the tree this year, 6 year old Andrew called me back down to the family room. He had dug through the tubs of ornaments we weren't using, rigged an ornament hanger into the plastic bag, and hung the remains of my ornament on the tree for me. 

His loving gesture reconnected me to my mother's loving gesture over 45 years ago. 

It's the Little Things

I am a white lights on the Christmas tree kind of girl. The artificial tree I bought 2 years ago has about 7 options, including blinking (ugh!), and cycling through from white to colored and back again.

My buddy Andrew loves the colored lights, and we are in a sneaky battle with each other, changing it back and forth when we walk past to go to the bathroom, multiple times a day. We haven't spoken a word about it, and I love it so much!

It reminds me of when my teen brother used to do something similar to my mom. She was a fantastic florist, and when she would go on deliveries, she had large "Flowers by Margaret" magnetic signs on her car doors. Sometimes she'd drive around all day before realizing her signs were upside down, thanks to her firstborn pranking her.

Sometimes connection and I love you's come in funny forms.

Now when my high school boyfriend did deliveries for her and changed every single one of her radio presets from country and classical to whatever the hell he listened to, that was just plain rude.

Like, read the room, Dude.

Proud

I just spent 45 minutes in the toy section of Target looking at Legos with Andrew. It wasn't what I would have chosen for a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, but he had money burning a hole in his pocket and was excited buy something new. We compared prices, and talked pro's and cons of each Minecraft set. It was no surprise that after reading Minecraft books, hearing Andrew's running commentary about all of the characters, and watching him play for months, I was able to hold my own in the conversation.

After we checked out, I let him try some parkour moves on the giant red concrete balls out front. We've been watching American Ninja-type shows and he's developing an interest in climbing. As I watched, an old friend from the "before times" crossed the lot. We hadn't seen each other in years. We were young parents together in the same mothers' group at church. I remember when she had her third, thinking "Oh boy, Laura just set her ticket to freedom back about three years." I was so tired and so busy with two little ones, that I kept my eyes on what I thought was the prize, getting them launched someday.

As we know, I didn't get to launch Jack in the way I thought I would, my "baby" Margaret is now 21, and  launching Andrew feels like a lifetime away. 

After my friend and I chatted, Andrew and I headed to the car. He was proud of the money he'd earned selling original comic books to our friends and neighbors. He showed no regret about reducing his nest egg down to one 2 dollar bill and a Sacajawea coin. I knew the coffee table would, once again, be taken over by colorful bricks for the next days or weeks.

I gave myself a minute on the way home in the car to be proud of myself. Proud for persevering after devastating loss. Proud for embracing my 50's and 60's and beyond that will look a lot different than I thought they would, even as I acknowledge the twinge I still feel when I see my peers at different stages. Proud for being in the moment with Andrew, and fully invested in what makes him tick.

Can you think of something today that makes you proud? 

Life is not made up of grand accomplishments. Sometimes it's just waking up, showing up, and taking baby-steps, even if the baby is 35, 45, or 60.  

A Walk in the Woods

A good friend and I were taking a walk when she asked if I'd like to explore a path near her house. It wasn't until about 10 minutes in that I realized we were headed right into the woods behind my old neighborhood, the woods where Jack died. 

I hadn't been back there in many years. I didn't want to make my friend feel bad for not connecting the dots that her neighborhood eventually ran into my former one. She's been going through a rough time, and I'd wanted the focus of our time to be on her, not on me.

As we walked beside the empty creek bed, noticeably dry even after 5 straight days of storms, I was transported back to the terrifying afternoon and evening 11 years ago when Jack fell in the creek and drowned. 

As my friend and I spoke of other things, I silently checked in with my feelings, letting thoughts pass in and out of my head: 

"There's the house where it happened." 

"I wish no one had let them to play back there."

Then, as we followed the long path parallel to the creek, traversing the distance between where Jack fell in and where he was found, I thought of his small body hurtling through the churning water.

"This is really far. Wow. This is even farther than I remembered." 

In checking in with myself, I found that I was okay. I wasn't stuffing my grief down. I was acknowledging the significance of the location, while still able to stay present with my friend with genuine interest and concern. I then shared some personal difficulties I'm having and got wise counsel from her. 

Both of these things felt significant. 

First, it was a gift that I was able to truly care about another's situation, because in the early days of grief, that seemed impossible. Back then, I couldn't imagine the ticker tape in my mind or heart saying anything other than "Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack" for the rest of my days. 

Second, I was able to talk about problems I'm currently facing in the life I have, not just the pain of Jack's death and the life I thought I would have.

We made it to the end of the path, retraced our steps, and ended up back at her house. 

I don't know whether this experience is helpful to anyone in early grief because frankly, thinking about years and years down the road was distasteful and scary to me at that time. It was torture to consider living so long without Jack's physical presence, and the impossible concept of healing or "getting better" provided no comfort whatsoever.

Eleven years??? 

I was worried about 11 seconds! 

Surviving grief is not about years, months, weeks, or even days. Sometimes it is a moment by moment slog in which your brain tries to process your new, unwanted reality, while also being forced to remain tethered to the rest of the world. 

This walk made me think about how amazing it is that pain can lessen and soften-- although not through sheer will, or the desire of others for us to "get better." 

In my case, it lessened through being acknowledged. Through glimmers of hope. Through my understanding that love never dies. And yes, through time. Lots of time. 

I am no longer a raw, exposed nerve-ending. I am a person who can take a walk in the woods with a friend on a gorgeous fall day, appreciating the crunch of leaves under my feet, while living in this moment, being supportive, and being supported as well. 

11 Years

 11 years ago today my 12 year old son died.

Depending on the year, the "crapiversary" is about reflection, memorializing Jack, muddling through, being grateful, or sitting in anger and jealousy. It all depends. Lately it's been about shuttling Andrew here or there, trying to keep him entertained, and whispering a "Thank you, I love you," to my Jack.

Today is different. Coming off a difficult summer, I'm home with my first case of COVID. Andrew is sick too, although testing negative, and our lives have been reduced to one bed, like the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but with screens. A lot of screens. This limited sphere, as well as the misery in my body, made Sept 8 sneak up on me, sidling up to my sick bed in the night. I knew it was coming. It loomed. I felt it in my soul for weeks, but it whispered, "Trudge, Anna, trudge. This is your life now. Just deal."

In a way, the sick bed represents how I've been feeling for a long while: depleted, limited, trapped. "Trudge, Anna, trudge. This is your life now. Just deal."

If you are looking for a tribute to my amazing Jack today, I can't even muster it. My heart, my soul, my person, how could this be? Yet his memory flits away from me as the demands of the here and now keep me rooted as if my legs are half-sunk in concrete.

I have no guilt over this, for I know I can't disappoint my boy. I know that he sees me struggle and cheers me on, just as I supported him through every struggle he faced on earth.

While certain memories fail, I'll never forget how he made me feel-- like the best mother in the world. In the 34 years since my own mother went to heaven, what remains is how she made me feel: SAFE and BELOVED.

I know I'll feel better soon. I know Andrew will go to school and I can reclaim some autonomy and find my spark again.

Maybe then I will write a beautiful tribute post to a 12 year old who changed so many lives.

But today I will whisper, "Thank you Jack. I love you" and I will think about how even in my weakness, when I can't control ANYTHING, I can consider how I make people feel, and put that into the world.

The Von Trapp Family Swimmers?

Menopause slapped me with a 20 lb weight gain, and I had to update my swimming wardrobe. So in April, before a trip to Tim's parents' house in Florida, I bought a Lands End tummy control swim dress. It covered everything I wanted to cover and squeezed in everything I wanted to be squeezed. Getting that thing on and off was like wrestling a walrus, and I had to resort to the pull-over method in order to pee in the pool bathroom, but I was pleased with my purchase.

With whatever breath I could manage to exhale while squeezed in my suit, I breathed a sigh of relief that Andrew is a boy and he likely won't give me as much of a hard time about my wardrobe choices as a little girl would. I've been down that road and it was brutal. So far, he hasn't seemed to notice that I'm older than his friends' parents, that I don't rock a bikini, or that I put my bathrobe on around 5 pm each day (ok, 4 in winter).

Tim, however, may have pushed things a little too far. After wearing thrifted brown and orange swim trunks for over 15 years, he decided this summer was the time to go wild with a new bathing suit before dry rot set in. I told him Lands End was having a sale, and he could likely find something for less than 20 bucks.

Imagine my surprise when, utterly clueless, he pulled out swim trunks that match the suit I've been wearing for 4 straight months. I've often said he would not notice my being injured if I weren't bleeding from the head, but now I wonder about even that. 

And poor Andrew. 

Do we wear these to the pool together? 

Do we see if they come in kids' sizes and just embrace the WEIRD? 

It's one thing when your mom listens to 80's music that makes your friends groan in the camp carpool. Or when she consistently has 2-3 inches of gray roots. But your mom and Dad wearing matching bathing suits? 

What do YOU think? 

(Photo credit to the 6 year old who could use his nails clipped)

P.S. do you think Tim will notice my new pajamas?

Liz's Eulogy for Jack

Do you follow writer/podcaster/thinker Kelly Corrigan? She has an amazing podcast, a PBS show, and several wonderful books. 

On Sundays she has been reading eulogies aloud, and yesterday she read the eulogy my sister Liz wrote for Jack 10 years ago. I can't believe my precious sister had the presence of mind to write something so beautiful and eloquent just a day or so after Jack's shocking death. 

Hearing it again reminded me there is still much to learn from my boy. I'd love for you to take a listen!

Living Your Dash

 What an honor it was to speak at Full Circle Grief Center's Live Your Dash Luncheon! 

This fundraiser helps Full Circle provide comprehensive grief support for those in the Richmond, VA area. When Jack died, I was in too much shock to even look for or access this kind of grief support. If you are grieving, or know someone who is grieving, I'd encourage you to see whether there is a grief center in your area. They often offer individual counseling and family groups and activities. 

By just EXISTING, grief centers help acknowledge to our world that grief is a real issue that lasts well beyond the few days between a death and a funeral. 

Something really special happened after my speech last Friday. The setting was a super fancy country club, and many of the servers were young adults. After the luncheon, 5 of the servers came up to me to share how my speech impacted them. We often wonder about this next generation, but let me say, they are all right! They were on the clock, working, but they let themselves open up and be touched by my words and then took the time to share with me their impact. Wow! I am so grateful.

The theme of the luncheon was Living your Dash, and it refers to the dash on a gravestone between the birth date and the death date. 

I'be been putting too much pressure on myself lately about what I'm going to do with my dash during this  short and precious life. It's overwhelming and I feel burnt out and ineffective. 

Maybe you do too.

So today I will just try to do one small thing: be kind.

My Latest Article on Today Parenting

 I thought you might enjoy reading my latest article on Today Parenting, about raising kids with a large age gap. Maybe Britney will call me for advice!

https://www.today.com/parents/essay/britney-spears-kids-age-gap-rcna24275

It Ain't Easy Being Green

This is the face of a kid who did not enjoy soccer. But this post isn’t about soccer.

As we walked into the gym, he saw other kids coming out of the building wearing medals. His ass-dragging mopey-ness transformed into a spring in his step as he contemplated getting a medal of his own.

Mom was a bit worried because say all you will about the worth of participant medals, this guy barely participated, yet she hoped he’d get a too.

He participated slightly more than usual on this day, and his mom breathed a sigh of relief that the season was over as they gathered for the bestowing of the medals.

Except there was another team on the other side of the gym receiving trophies rather than medals, and the medals immediately lost any appeal they had once had. This guy, and the one next to him, we’re not pleased.

Have you ever been satisfied, even excited by something in your life, only to be immediately brought low when you see someone who has more?

This mom sure has. Many, many times.

I don't love this about myself, but I try to show myself the same grace I showed this little guy.

Showing up for Someone

I thought I'd share one of the most beautiful examples of holding space for someone that I've come across in my grief work. I hope it will inspire you today the way it did me.

Yesterday I posted about the difficulty of grievers to identify and express specific needs they have, and how sometimes that makes people (me!) make vague offers to help that end up sounding empty and not actually supporting anyone.

These vague offers often feel too risky, because they lack specifics ("Let me know if you need anything"), and the griever doesn't know whether their request will be accepted or rejected, if they ever muster up the energy to put a request out there at all. Grievers already feel incredibly vulnerable, and this can make it worse.

Years ago, right after Rare Bird came out, I met with a newly bereaved mom and dad in their home. Their 15 year old daughter died by suicide, and they wanted to talk to someone a little farther down the road of grief.

The mom told me that 2 friends from church, in those early days of shock and despair, told her they would be available to take a walk with her two days a week.

They said they would show up at the end of her driveway every Tuesday and Thursday at 9 am. If the mom felt up to it, she could come out and walk with them. They could talk about her daughter, talk about insignificant things, or not talk at all. If she didn't feel like walking that day, no hard feelings, but they would keep showing up.

Then, they went to the family calendar hanging on the kitchen wall and wrote "Walk 9am" on all the Tuesdays and Thursdays for the next several months.

When we feel supported, we can use our depleted energy to grieve, process, remember, and ultimately find a path forward. When we don't feel supported, we can expend our precious energy being angry at the people who let us down. Believe me, I've been there! This is why support is crucial.

This mom felt seen and supported. She got out of the house into the sunshine and the rain at time when walking on her own may have made her feel too exposed and vulnerable. Her friends' commitment to showing up and spending this time with her week after week, month after month, was an important acknowledgment that something significant and earth shattering had taken place. Not just in her family, but in the world, because we are all connected.

They bore witness to her pain.

Doing so is not easy, by any means, but it is loving and often remarkable.

Board Games for Days!

Most days are Monopoly Days around here, and Monopoly Empire is our favorite. Yesterday, we tried Sorry. I'm glad the thrift shop has a constant supply of games. 

Anyone Want to Help Me Move a Couch?

 I’ve mentioned before that I have decided quit waiting for enthusiastic buy-in from my husband. 

 

It's frustrating to think it took me almost 30 years to figure this out. I had hints when it was time to get our first dog. The months dragged on as I waited for Tim to show a modicum of enthusiasm. Finally, a one year old chocolate lab fell in our laps, I arranged it, and Shadow joined the family. Guess who was Shadow's number one person? Tim. Years later, we went through the same thing with Charlie. What a love affair! If Tim talked to me and cuddled with me the way he does with Charlie, it would be Valentine's Day every day over here. I’m not saying I did these things behind Tim’s back. I got his less than enthusiastic, barely perceptible buy-in and then ran with it.

 

What made me think of this today? Well, despite my bad back, I swapped our kitchen and dining room tables by myself. It doesn't look great, and will probably only stay this way a week, but I don't care. I was feeling itchy in these four walls, and sometimes you just want to move shit around. When it comes to house stuff, if I didn’t get the ball rolling, we’d be in a state of stasis forever. Men, don't often wake up and say, "I wonder if that couch would look better by the window." My latest project is getting a tree cut down, and I've set a goal for myself to on figure that out this week. Tim will know, but I won’t wait for him to high-five me on it. Few things turn a man into an ardent conservationist or decorating purist than saying you want to cut down a tree, or, God forbid, paint wood paneling. 

 

I'm not saying men shouldn't have a say in anything. I'm just preaching to myself here, REMINDING MYSELF not to use Tim's general lack of enthusiasm as an excuse, when I really could pick up that paintbrush, move that table, plan that trip, or do that next thing. 

 

99.9% of the time, he likes what I've done. He becomes the dog's best friend. He appreciates having appliances that aren't broken. He thinks white paint really brightens the space. He’s glad we went on those trips. Now I know I’m probably mashing everything up because it’s Monday morning and I haven’t had my third cup of tea yet, but it kind of reminds me of fooling around. I may be less than thrilled about the prospect, but afterward I’m always glad to have participated. Sure, there’s buy-in from me, but sometimes the enthusiasm comes later. 

 

Let’s hope Tim feels the same way about the tree. 

5 Ways You Can Help a Grieving Friend

It seems like an important time to share this again. Grief is disorienting and lonely. You can make a difference.

Note: *for health and safety reasons, during the pandemic, you may need to be creative in the ways you reach out. 

1. Show up. Go to her house for a hug and show of support. Make visits brief, and look for cues as to whether it’s time to leave. If you see a tangible need, whether it’s for a jumbo pack of toilet paper or a dress for her daughter for the funeral, take care of it. I’ll never forget my friend Robin taking my broken glasses out of my hand and getting me a new pair to wear to my mother’s funeral. Go to the funeral, whether in person or virtually. You may feel like just a face in the crowd, but your presence is important. Then, mark your calendar for a few days or a week afterward to show up in a different way, such as stopping by with a latte and a hug. Do it again. Your friend will likely need you to initiate for a while, but if you remind yourself to “Just Show Up” physically and emotionally, you will help her heal.
2. Memorialize and honor. Honor your friend’s loved one by attending events such as a vigil and any charity events held in his or her name. If you knew the loved one, write down your memories and give it to your friend. But it’s okay if you didn’t know the loved one—you are here to support your friend.  You belong! Yours could be the face she needs to see. As you support your friend in her grief, you will get to know more about her loved one, and that will help guide you in other ways to reach out such as donating to charity, planting a tree, giving a book to a library, or through a small gift. A special piece of jewelry, a book, a candle, a photograph of her loved one, or even a cozy robe in her loved one’s favorite color help your friend feel closer to her loved one, even as their tangible connection feels like it is slipping away.
3. Listen. Your quiet presence or silent hug means more to your friend than any grand gesture or the "perfect" words. Showing up for a friend is scary because we are terrified of saying the wrong thing. That’s okay.  Words are next to useless at a time like this, so give yourself a break. A simple “I’m so sorry” or "I love you" and your presence are priceless. Your intention is pure, and your friend will be able to sense that. “Do you want to tell me what these past few days have been like?” might be a way to give her permission to open up if she wants to. But silence is okay, too. If you feel the words "At Least" moving from your brain to your mouth, force yourself to be silent.
4. Remember: Remember the birthday of the deceased, and the anniversary or the time of year of his or her death. Call, text, or send a card. “I’m thinking of you today as you miss your mom.” Or, make a note to reach out on important holidays such as Mother’s Day or Father’s Day or other holidays that would be particularly meaningful to your friend. This could be the first day of school, or the opening day of baseball season. Don’t worry that you will be reminding your friend of her loss on those days. She is already thinking about it, and your quick card, email, or text will let her know you are too. Find a way to bring up the loved one’s name in conversation. The more you do it, the easier it gets, “I watched the Yankees play last week and thought of Jack.” “Your mom really loved summer, didn’t she?”  This helps your friend know that even though time has passed, you still remember that her life has changed.
5. Don’t give up: Your friendship may feel one sided for a while. You may be tempted to back off, give your friend space, or let your friend reach out to you once she knows what she needs. You may even feel a bit let down that she seems to be relating to others more than you these days. Perhaps she has formed bonds with others who have experienced a similar loss and you are wondering what this means for your friendship. The key is to keep letting your friend know you care. Let go of expectations of how/if she will respond. Grief is extremely isolating and lonely, and if you can stave off some of that by being consistently present even if that is through texts, and (unreturned) phone messages.  Yes, your friend has changed due to her experience, but she still loves and needs you. And if you are willing to walk beside her in her grief, you both will be richer for it.

Show up.

Memorialize and Honor.

Listen.

Remember.

Don’t Give Up.

Birthday Season

 This is my birthday week, and birthdays invite contemplation.

I'm in a weird in-between place. Trying to make friends 15 years younger than I am, while also maintaining relationships with old friends who have moved to the next stage of life. New friends may not think I can relate to them. Old friends can love me and wave to me in the rear view mirror, but we just aren't on the same path. 

It's hard not to think of what life would look like if our nest had emptied in 2019, as was our plan. Would Tim be able to work less without the financial pressure of expanding our family? Would I be able to work more without the emotional pressure raising a child right now entails? Would both of us feel like we "fit in" a little better in our worlds? Would we be more rested? 

I'll be six years older than my mom was when she died. In many ways I still feel like the 18 year old whose mother went to heaven on a hot May day. I'm so proud of myself for all I've made it through: grief upon grief, difficult relationships, and feeling on my own much of the time. 

When my mom and Jack died, I was so hurt and angry for all they would miss out on. My mother never got to travel, enjoy an empty nest, or grandparent. Jack? Well, there are so many things you don't get to do when you die at 12. 

Over time, I've come to believe they are missing absolutely nothing! First, because I know the veil is thin and even though their physical bodies are dead, their souls are alive and right here with us. Second, because I believe there is no LACK in the afterlife. They are MORE than okay!

So today, as the weather grows cooler and I grow a year older, I miss them. I miss them for what they could be, physically, for US, more than for them. I miss Jack most of all for Margaret. And my mother? I miss her for myself. I miss the vast, accepting love of a mom who knows you and loves you regardless of where you fit in, even in middle age.

 Deep down, I think perhaps I just want to be mothered. 

Life is Weird: When Worlds Collide

 

Sunday, Tim took Margaret down to college to get set up in a new apartment. In another life, I would have gone too, helping her organize her closet, treating her to lunch, maybe taking Charlie for a walk around a local winery. You know, grown-up, empty-nest stuff. 

Instead, I was on Andrew-duty. I'd hoped for a sweet mother-son day since he's been really busy with outdoor camp this summer. While he still loves me, he hasn't been trying to climb back into my uterus like last year.  Instead, he has become friend-obsessed. To his great disappointment, all the neighbors were either on outings, at the pool, or out of town. I remember this developmental stage with Jack, when he would peer out our kitchen window to see if his buddy across the driveway was awake. He'd run out the door in his pj's to greet him, often forgetting to put on shoes. Margaret was more content to stay home, or participate in whatever fun Jack drummed up.

So as Andrew and I rode scooters up and down the street, looking for someone to play with, I thought about how weird life is. A tired, sweaty 51 year old on her dead son's Razor scooter, trying to keep up with her 5 year old on his new, entirely too-fast one. Hours later he would smash his head on a driveway, at the exact spot his helmet did not protect, but that is a story and a worry for another day.

I remembered how Jack considered it a good day when his special friend was available, and a bad day if  he wasn't. I remembered how the worst day of all of our lives was a day that same little boy was available  when he normally wouldn't have been. And how playing outside that late afternoon changed everything. 

I realized how if it weren't for that moment, we wouldn't be experiencing this one.

I could feel September creeping into my bones. The dread and weepiness, largely kept at bay, but arriving early this year. Maybe because of menopause or the fact that Andrew is about to start Kindergarten. Maybe it's due to a year and 1/2 of worry, weariness, grief and disruption because of Covid. Yet most likely it's because the 10 year mark looms. 

I hesitate to write about that creeping feeling, because I don't want dear ones who are early on their paths of grief to recoil and feel they are doomed to despair so far down a road that seems almost inconceivable to them. For now they must operate in the day by day, and the hour by hour. Secondary losses will pile up in their own time, and no one needs my gloomy rumination to take them further into the pit than they already are. My passion and privilege these past 10 years has been showing that healing, peace, and even (real, unforced!) joy are possible after great loss. I'm a regular, flawed person who keeps showing up for life-- not the one I thought I'd have, but the one I do have. And I am utterly convinced that Jack is happy and he is right here with me. 

Most days I am even grateful to be parenting a little one, but it's something I have to dig deep for. It's no joke to parent again right when your nurturing and caregiving hormones have exited the building, and when your friends are "finding themselves"-- in new careers, relationships, or exotic locales. It's harder than I thought, and I thought it would be pretty hard.

Anyway, because I'm a woman and can keep 1,000 tabs open in my brain at once, all of these thoughts were on my mind as I walked, scootered, and watched for cars. A young man left my neighbor's house and climbed into his car. I had Andrew pull to the side so the car could pull out. The young man flashed a mega-watt smile as I waved him past, and all of my weird worlds collided at once. 

He wasn't just anyone; he was the special friend, the one whose days with Jack were his very best days, until the one that was everyone's worst. I don't know what the chances were for this encounter after so many years, in a different neighborhood, right at the moment I was pondering the intensity of young friendships, the potential (no, the certainty) of pain, and wondering if I'd have the strength to navigate it all again. I wondered what the young man was thinking, especially when he saw Jack's mini-me. What did he remember from those hot days so long ago? What did he make of me, a decade older, once a daily presence in his life, but then suddenly no more, because I needed to deal with my own family's trauma and let others tend to his?

I felt the sting of tears in my eyes, but kept on. We didn't find anyone to play with, so we ended up going to mini-golf, the ice cream shop, and the dollar store. Our very long day was a mix of highs and lows-- loneliness, hurt feelings, a tantrum, a scooter crash, deliciously sticky fingers, and a hole in one. 

I think in the coming weeks I will try to emulate early-grievers and re-learn to take things hour by hour and day by day. 

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IMPORTANT: If you subscribe to this blog by email, that feature is being disabled by the blog company in a few days. I do have your emails and will try to send posts to you that way, but it will no longer be automatic, and I am technologically impaired, so I can't promise I'll figure it out. I'm usually over on facebook at An Inch of Gray and Instagram @annawhistondonaldson and would love keep in touch that way too. XOXO