3 Questions

Yesterday I put on the Facebook Page a post by Single Dad Laughing with 3 questions he asked more than 200 bereaved parents. I thought the responses would be meaningful to all parents.

Oh, you didn't know An Inch of Gray had a Facebook page? Just click on that picture of me over there on the right and "Like" it if you feel so inclined. Thanks!

Anyway, I got a message last night from Lori asking me how I would answer the three questions, and that's what I've been thinking about today. A lot. I have a feeling my answers will be a little longer than the ones on the Single Dad Laughing post.

WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU HAD KNOWN AS A PARENT:

Hmm. I wish I had understood that while I was trying to make Jack's life "easier" by having him conform to other people's standards, I was most likely just letting my own insecurities and pride keep me from enjoying Jack exactly as God made him.

Truthfully, I was probably just trying to make things easier on ME not him. I knew he was a thoughtful, incredible kid, but I sometimes wished he were more rough and tumble, less sensitive, less shy, and more happy go lucky.

This doesn't mean I regret any of our heart to hearts, even the ones with tears, or the way I helped equip him to learn how to make friends, handle his emotions, and cope with challenges, but I just wish I had realized, far earlier than I did, that God did not give me Jack so I could fix him or change him. He gave me Jack to love and to fight for.

I don't regret being structured, because I know that made him feel safe and loved, so you won't hear me say, "Oh I wish we had had milkshakes and Coke for dinner every night, or not had a bedtime, or just let him watch whatever was on TV" -- knowing now that the days we had together were numbered. 

But I do wish I had a crystal clear vision of what the little things were versus the big things. And I probably would have bought him a couple more Cokes.

I wish I had known not to let others guilt me or intimidate me into distrusting my instincts as a mom.


WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU HAD DONE DIFFERENTLY AS A PARENT:

Well, you KNOW I wish I hadn't encouraged my kids to go out and play in the rain that balmy afternoon. Not that seizing the moment and playing in the rain is a bad thing in itself. In fact, it is moments like those that form some of the most blessed and meaningful memories of our family's past. Moments of beauty, laughter and spontaneity. Running through a sprinkler with your clothes on because you are too lazy to change, chasing after the bell of an ice cream truck as it pulls away from the curb, finding unexpected delight in an otherwise ordinary day.

However, I wish I could have felt the axis of the earth shift ever so slightly, to know this was NOT an ordinary day. I wish I somehow had been able to put together the puzzle pieces of the strange feelings and the sense of foreboding that I had the weeks before the accident to make me just say, "NO. We're staying inside."

I wish I had used our drive home from school that afternoon for a teachable moment about flash floods and the mighty power of water. I thought about it, but I didn't want to scare the kids.

I regret being well-behaved. I think my desire to be a well-behaved people pleaser who doesn't make a scene contributed to my giving up almost immediately the night of the accident and not doing more to find Jack, even though I knew in my soul where he was.

WHAT ARE YOU THANKFUL YOU MADE SURE TO DO AS A PARENT:

Well, I know that Jack knew I loved him. I showed him this in the words I spoke every single day: "I love you. I love the way God made you. I'm so proud to be your mom" and in my actions most days.

I am so glad I took the time to snuggle and talk with him at night. I am thankful that I let the kids climb on the couch, dance on the coffee table, and jump on the bed when they were little.

I am grateful I was able to introduce him to the God who made him and who loves him even more than I do.  I am thankful that I never let the kids think that the most important things in life were things. I am thankful I wasn't too busy. I am thankful I encouraged his passions. And I am thankful I was able to help foster a loving relationship between Jack and his sister Margaret, even though it hurts so much not to have them together now.

So, those are my things.

10 Minute Project, OR, Longest Post for Shortest Project Ever

So, I'm still in  love with the house!

And my diabolical plan in posting crappy, blurry pictures has paid off because my friend Dorie, a professional photographer, saw how bad they were and offered to come over for a cup of tea sometime soon so we can chat and she can take MUCH better photos for you.

But I can't invite her over yet, because that would be a reward for me. And I don't believe in rewarding bad behavior. Just go back in time and ask 4 yr old Jack if he ever got that Dora the Explorer movie he had a fit about in CVS? Ok. I know, Dora, embarrassing....

I am working from home right now, trying my hand at writing full time. In theory, breaking up with my day job in the church bookstore, though a bit sad, should provide me with ample time to write. And it does, but this time starts far too early, as we are now on the hellish Middle School sleep deprivation schedule, and ends far too soon, as in "How can school be over by 2:45? I was just getting my groove!"

And I'm in my cool new house. You know, the one that's almost exactly like the old one so there's ABSOLUTELY NOTHING that MUST be done to it? The furniture fits, the dog knows her way around, and everything was set up in a matter of days because it was all so familiar. Except there's a lot of yellow and green. And I'm a little more of a tan and gray person. Or blue. And look at those brass switch plates!  What an easy fix that would be to just swap those out on a quick trip to Home Depot....

Working from home has been wonderful, but I'm oh so easily distracted. If you have surmised that my blog productivity has plummeted in the 2 weeks in which this work at home experiment has been  in place, you would be correct oh keen observer.

So, I'm trying to bribe myself and up my productivity with little rewards related to the house. Not big,  "Let me paint the yellow master bedroom my beloved Palladian Blue" rewards or "Let me buy a new beer fridge to replace the one Margaret and her friend destroyed by accidentally puncturing the Freon with an ice pick."

No, changes of that caliber are not sanctioned until I get more writing done.

But I've been trying to build in a 20 minute reward during lunch each day. No, it's not called Facebook, although that's another distraction (addiction) I must contend with. These small rewards have something to do with the house, like sifting through artwork to decide what to hang on the walls, or organizing a shelf in the garage.

Today I took gorgeous wrapping paper and lined the back of my antique secretary. It adds a small touch of gray amidst the yellow and green, enough to tide me over until the whole house coordinates with this gray beauty:

Thank you, Kristi of Barn Owl Primitives for this incredible painting you made! Did you notice how Kristi painted "Jack" behind his favorite Bible verse? LOVE IT.

The  secretary, however, has seen better days. When my brother, sister, and I were dividing up our family furniture more than 15 years ago, it was not my first, second, or even third favorite piece from the dining room. It was the booby prize, even though it is pretty cool looking and is from the 1830's.

First of all, it has a bum leg. It has had a bum leg since my grandparents bought it in the late 60's or early 70's. This was something that was drilled into us as we were growing up that kind of took the fun out of it. Whenever we'd get close to it: "Don't lean against that thing! The leg is just propped there." I think the three of us had kind of a Pavlovian response to avoid it after all of those years.

No one ever seemed to consider getting the leg fixed. Tim and I just anchored the secretary securely  to the wall and pretty much stayed away from it..

And we've had to baby it a bit each time we moved from house to house. Not that it seemed to appreciate it one bit, delicate and persnickety as it is.  For instance, when I was sizing it up today before my quick project, a tiny piece of mahogany veneer fell off while I was looking at it.  Not touching, looking. It just kind of leapt right off and landed on the floor at my feet. This does not happen with my other furniture.

Also, those little windows make it hard to display anything inside. Currently, there's this oh-so-cute photo of my young parents on their wedding day:

There's an old family Bible from the 1830's with brittle pages bearing the birth and death dates of our relatives from Ireland. There are a few books by Dickens and Austen, a nod to the furniture's British roots, and some pretty birdies people have given me.

There's also a yellowed newspaper clipping from the 1970's from my Grandpa Harris. The clipping talks about an antique mahogany secretary that was valued at $6,000. Grandpa's note to my mother in the margin says: "Check this. We paid $200. It came from England. It was in Dr. Carter Bishop's home."

I'm pretty sure my mother never had the time, pre-Internet and mid-childrearing to check on the value of our three legged secretary, but she did tuck the note away a little hidden drawer for safekeeping.

You may be wondering if I think antiques such are too dear to be tampered with. Nah! In fact, there is still sticky residue on the shelves and the back from when my mom covered them with harvest gold contact paper circa 1977.

So much so that when I cut the gray wrapping paper to size, I barely had to use any tape (yep, scotch tape) to hold it up. The 40 year old stickiness pretty much did the trick.

So, there you have it. A long-winded post about a short little project.

Measure. Cut. Stick. Admire. Go back to writing.

And if any of you find there's a seller's market for sticky 3-legged 1830's mahogany secretaries let me know. I have a few house-related projects to fund.

New Digs

So we made it through Sunday, Sept 8 which was the 2nd Crapiversary of losing Jack.

Thank you for your prayers and support. We had a quiet day at home. The past week meant moving, having Margaret start a new school and "age past" her older brother, and of course, the big crapiversary. The dread was palpable in the days leading up to it, but the only way out is through.

We received kind email and Facebook messages, as well as cards in the mail and other gestures of remembrance. THANK YOU.

Last week also meant my cell phone dying, and my getting shingles for the 3rd time! My head and back are sore and really itch. I'm recovering and trying to rest, so I may be scarce around here for a little while.

To tide us all over I thought I'd post some dark, blurry, cell phone pics of our new house.  Because that's what we are all looking for this Tuesday afternoon, right?

Good.

Dining room:

 Office:

Kids' Pictures and jar of cicada exoskeletons:

 Office floor before:

 Office floor after. Will those piles of papers become a book?

 Living Room:

Family room. Not really crooked in person, I hope.

 Kitchen:

 Kitchen:

 

 Tufted titmouse out kitchen window. Hi little guy!

 

 

I'd love a do-over with the pics when I'm feeling better, okay? In person, the house is bright and cheery and much less blurry, I hope.

 



 

New Home Sweet Home

We are in our new house, and it feels really, really good.

Moving was a trial, and a few times I thought I'd be crushed under the weight of our junk, of both the physical and emotional nature.

When I went to the shed where I'd stored Jack's  Legos, complete with original boxes and directions, I discovered they were covered with ants and ant larvae. Teeming waves of black covered every box, inside and out. I was so angry and defeated. "How much, Oh Lord, How much?" I groaned as I spread everything in the yard and started clean up. Then I saw the mouse droppings. Really???

Around me, neighborhood kids played and squealed, enjoying the last days of summer, and hot tears sprang into my eyes as I thought ALL OF THIS -- this move, this day, this life--- should not be going down this way!

Yet it is.

It took 8 movers 10 hours to load and unload our stuff, even though I thought I'd done a lot of culling beforehand.  That's a lot of junk. I found I was much more willing to let go of things on a steamy moving day than I had been just a few months ago. So I started piling stuff in the carport to get rid of. And I just let myself be led. Because pages of Jack's doodles might look junky to someone else but are important to me, while some wedding presents, or an uncomfortable chair, barely used these last 17 years, were better off going to new homes.

There is something about this new house that feels gracious and good.

I'm not sure what it is. It's not much different from our old one, with the exception of a massive master bedroom and bathroom. Was there a lot of frolicking and cavorting going on in master suites toward the end of the Carter administration when this house was built? Because these rooms are JUMBO.

The main living areas are smaller, cozier, and situated pretty much exactly like the old house, so I was able to quickly figure out where to place things. Old me would have relished the challenge of a new floor plan. Anna 2.0 was just glad that the paint colors were non-offensive and I didn't have too many decisions to make. I do hope I'll have some small projects to share with you in the months to come.

I worked round the clock emptying boxes even as my shoulders ached. This is the kind of work I like. Sorting, organizing, beating a stack of boxes into submission. Seeing tangible progress. Moving things here and there and back again.

The spiritual, emotional work comes less readily, and is easy to avoid it under an armload of boxes or yet another "quick trip" to Home Depot.

That is the work that says: Today is the first day of school. Today is the day I should have become a high school mom. In just a few days Margaret will outlive her older brother. How does that feel? What do I do with that? How do we integrate Jack into our new home? Did I run away from our old house? Will I be able to write a book that in some way captures what all of this is like?

The spiritual work follows me as I assure Margaret I will spend much of the day praying for her, and then she asks me, "Do you do that every first day of school?" "Yes." An unasked follow-up question hangs in the air between us, "Did you do it two years ago?" And I think of the mysterious nature of God, because of course I prayed for them both. For their health. And their safety. And their friendships. And their growth.

The mystery follows us outside when we take our traditional First Day of School pictures on the stoop, our new front stoop, and an enormous praying mantis is in Jack's space to the side of the door, right where he would be standing, and I smile and wonder about this crazy life. Praying mantis. Praying. Yes, there will be lots of prayers for this little girl today. And some will be answered the way we want while others may not.

This blog is the place where I do a lot of the emotional and spiritual work. It has been tough to be away from it and from you. But the boxes are now broken down, I can find my devotional books and most of my underwear, and I'm enjoying the calm, peaceful setting and being here with you.

Bearing Up Under Stress

If we know each other in “real life” please do not read the rest of this post. Because if you read the following story and I swear you to secrecy, you may have the best intentions, but something could go awry. You could see Margaret and me in the grocery store or at Taco Bell and instead of remembering NOT to talk about her hamster, you might see her and then get hamster on the brain. Suddenly, we’ll be chatting about hamster wheels and hamster treats, and her hamster named Bear.

Or, like me, you could get the urge to blurt out “Hamster!” as soon as you see us, just because it’s forbidden, the way I used to want to hurl my purse over a rickety bridge near my grandparents’ house every darn time I crossed over it. And I would tell myself, “I will not think of hurling my purse over the edge this time,” but then I’d get to the bridge and all I could think of was “Purse! Purse! Throw the purse!” I know I'm not alone in this, right?

So if we know each other in real life, and if the purse story hasn’t freaked you out so much that you wish to "unknow" me, please read no further.

Ok? Great.

So, I decided to clean Margaret’s pet hamster’s cage for her as a love gift. This is along the same lines as when my mother would approach me, hands outstretched, to collect my contact lenses from me and give them their monthly enzyme treatment, because although I was fully capable of doing it myself, she wanted to do something for me.

 

So, feeling virtuous and generous, I decided to clean the cage while Margaret and Tim were at the neighbors’ house. I popped “Bear” into his plastic ball and set about cleaning the cage until it sparkled. Then I got distracted and started packing some more boxes and taping them up. Then I got myself some tea. Perhaps I cruised Facebook. Perhaps.

When I remembered what I’d been doing, I hustled back upstairs to get Bear. My heart sank. All I saw was an empty yellow ball. Empty! My eyes scanned Jack’s room where Bear had been rolling so happily just moments (minutes? A half hour? Days?) before. I felt panic grip my chest.

We cannot lose Bear.

He has been such a bright spot in our lives.  I’m already praying he far outlives his life expectancy. My sister bought him for Margaret a few days after Jack’s accident. He was four months old, and that was almost two years ago. Hamsters live 2-2.5 years. Oh my. He seems pretty spry, and with the exception of his uh, male undercarriage, growing exceedingly large, he looks about how he did when we got him.

Anyway, I started scouring the room in a panic. I couldn’t think straight. I looked at the weird 3 inch gap under the door that a freakin’ hedge hog could probably squeeze through. I thought of the chaos all over the house, from the bedrooms down to the basement. If Bear found a cozy box to crawl into, and I taped him in there, what kind of surprise would we find when we moved in a week or so? Or, what if we didn’t find ever find him? What if the new owners, sensing a rodent on the loose, set out a mousetrap and? And? Did I tell you they have two cats? Or what if Shadow the dog had already gulped him down in one bite while I’d been enjoying my tea? Did she look full? Did she look guiltily satisfied?

I wasn’t sure how to start looking, because I had Shadow in her usual location-- up my skirt. Everywhere I looked, she looked too. If I tried to shut her up in another room so I could search more quickly, what if I shut her up with Bear?

So I grabbed Shadow by the collar and dragged her to each pile of boxes, clothes and the stacks of crumpled packing paper. Even in his chubby state, I knew Bear could probably run fast and that my time was running out. I grabbed the phone and called Tim and told him to come help me. I forbade him to tell Margaret what was going on.

He calmly walked in the room and said everything was going to be fine.

Did he not see the boxes everywhere? The air vents of death? The dresser drawers? Did he not know that with both a move and middle school looming, we do not need a dead hamster?

We moved Jack’s bed away from the wall. Would we find him driving a toy car or running through a Lego scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark? No dice.

Tim leaned under Jack’s dresser. “I see him. He’s fine.” And he was.

Thank you, Jesus. Yes, I’d prayed about a hamster. In fact, I have no qualms if we ALL pray that Bear sets a hamster longevity record.

I haven’t told Margaret anything, and I’m thinking it’s in my best interest not to.

I just wish I didn’t want to blurt out, “HAMSTER!” every time I saw her.

 

Choices

 

I have no control over what happened to Jack. I can only control my reaction to it. I used to whine to my mom about my sister, “Mom, Liz makes me so mad!” Mom’s annoying response was always the same, “No one can make you mad. You choose how to react.” I knew it was true, and I’m sure she did to, but that calm philosophy didn’t always work for me, and it didn’t keep Mom herself from crying in the car when the three of us kids pushed her right over the edge. “I’m just so upset! I’m sorry I yelled at you kids. I know I don’t have a u-ter-us anymore, but if I did have a u-ter-us”-- weep, gasp, snuffle—“I think maybe I’d be men-stru-a-ting right now.”

Not sure what was worse, seeing my mom cry, or having her discuss lady parts in front of my brother.  Another day we sat lined up 1-2-3 on the brown tweed couch in the living room. “I want to talk to you about something very natural called “nocturnal emissions.” They are a normal part of getting older and are nothing to be ashamed of.” I’m sure my brother wanted to crawl under the couch and die. I was confused and would spend a few years wondering if I was ever going to get what mom had told us could also be called, “A Wet Dream.”

I read a quote from a blogger Jennifer Boykin: “I am responsible for everything that stays in my life.” It reminds me of my mother telling me I can choose how to react. But to the death of my son? Hmmm. I don’t feel like there are a lot of choices here.  Sure, I chose to stay positive after my mom died when I was a teenager. I  had pushed through as “brave,” and “strong,” and "positive." I dealt with the painful secondary losses of other important relationships that followed. Sometimes I felt very much alone.

I yearned for big family reunions and multi-generational beach trips, and someone to watch my babies so I could take a class, get my hair colored, or sleep. But I knew that my ultimate goal was to have a family and be a mom, the kind of imperfectly wonderful my mom was to me. And I got that. Jack and Margaret helped redeem that early, painful loss.

It hasn’t really felt like I’ve had much of a choice in how to react since Jack’s death. It’s been more like a “hang the hell on and don’t get sucked so far into the depths that I can’t get out” kind of thing.

But I guess there always is a choice, and this path, whatever it is I’m choosing-- whether it’s called being positive, clinging to joy, or whatever-- beats the alternative.

I think of our traditional Christmas Eve movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life” and I’m taken aback by Old Mrs. Bailey who has lost her only son to an accident. She has always seemed scary, bitter, shriveled and a bit wild to me. And I know that's an option.

But I do not choose that. Not today at least.

What do you choose today?

Moving on Up

So, we're moving.

I've been waiting to tell you until the sale on our current house was final, but it's been so hard not to share what these past months have been like. You, my dears, are such a huge support to this family, and I want you to be in the know.

On surface it would be pretty easy to say, "Oh, good. Their old house probably has a lot of painful memories and it's great for them to get a fresh start." But the thing is, this house doesn't hold a lot of painful memories. It holds memories of a lot of laughter and love, which thankfully continue today. This house helps me feel close to the family that we once were, back before we knew the things we know now.

There's the thread still hanging on the back of my bedroom door where we attempted to pull out Margaret's first loose tooth, with Jack jumping up and down in excitement, Shadow getting her nose all up in the video camera, and Margaret shrieking with delight and terror as we slammed the door shut and...nothing happened. It would be at least a week before the tooth finally gave up the ghost.

There's the basement where Tim and the kids would set up games of "Rat Race," making tunnels out of sheets and chairs, and chase each other on their bellies through the maze, pelting each other with wadded up socks. There's the family room with the leather couch where we always sat lined up in a row: Margaret, Tim, Anna, Jack to watch America's Got Talent. There's this office, that used to be a laundry room, where for some reason in January 2008 I thought it might be fun to write down some thoughts about parenting and share a few house projects on something weird called a Blog. And of course there's the kitchen counter where the kids sat on stools and did their homework, or stood on their stools and told me about their days. And don't even get me started about the yard and the climbing trees.

Tim, Margaret, and I are "bloom where you are planted" people. So was Jack. I guess the fact that I live in my hometown even though I have no relatives left here, go to the church where I grew up, and even work there part-time, could be an indication of this. Jack loved this house and neighborhood so much that he didn't even like to leave it and his friends to spend a day at our pool across town. Whenever we traveled as a family, our first words in the door were, "It's good to be home." And this is our home. And it makes me smile.

So the decision to move was hard. I don't want to leave Jack's bedroom! I don't want to leave what we had here! I don't want to put our lives in boxes because it will become clear in the next house that some of the boxes don't need to be opened again, and I hate that. But the decision was mine, and I didn't come to it quickly or easily. There were just certain aspects of staying here that kept me from blooming and I don't think that was good for any of us.

Back in January we found a house that we loved that would enable us to be on a street with many of the friends who have walked beside us in our pain. Who knew Jack and know our story. There would be cool house projects to help get my decorating mojo back. It felt like we were running TO something positive rather than AWAY from something, and that felt good. Until the deal fell through.

Then we lost another one.

For a while the only house available in our price range was our current one, which sort of defeated the purpose. Tensions ran high.

We jumped on the next one that became available. Jumped! Which is unlike slowpokes like us, but we were anxious to be settled before school starts for Margaret, and it was getting too close for comfort. It's a lovely, well cared for house. The master bathroom will make you drool.

It's farther out than we were looking for, which takes us out of our immediate circle of friends. That makes me nervous, because we've grown very close to our friends since the accident. It will mean introducing ourselves and answering the question, "How many kids do you have?"

The funny thing is, the new house is almost the exact floor plan of our current house! I think that's what helped us jump on it and make a quick deal in a very competitive housing market, like within MINUTES. Margaret got on board because she could picture it,  you know? We could already figure out where the Christmas tree would go. My office is right here, just over there. So it's kind of like our house was plopped down somewhere else. Interesting.

If I'd been able to share this BIG news with you earlier, you would have had to go through the stress of getting our house ready to sell, seen where Tim and I drew the battle lines with each other as we spackled far into the night, and rooted for Margaret as she had to adapt to a reality she didn't want to face. That we really are moving and she's coming with us.

I don't know what the next weeks hold, but I have some specific things I would LOVE for you to pray about.

1) That moving does not end up being THE THING. I keep wondering what the thing will be that will ultimately push me over the edge. That will extinguish the flicker of hope that has been present since day one, even in tragedy. Maybe there won't be a THING. But I am a bit worried.

2) In the space of one week we will move from the only home Margaret remembers, she will start middle school at a new school (!), and on the 2nd day of 7th grade she will outlive her OLDER brother.

I know. It's a lot.

It's easy to second guess. It's easy to sit here at my desk and say of course we should stay. We are comfortable here. This house is what we know. That it's been almost two years and we really can handle anything at this point, so why not stay?

And what if we feel even more disconnected from Jack there? To live in a house where he's never been is kind of like starting a new year that he's never been in. Suckish. But do-able.

So there's a lot to pray about.

I guess the biggest prayer is that we will BLOOM.