I Would've Brought a Casserole

Grief takes your mind to some pretty peculiar places.

Since losing our 9-year-old daughter Addie, I've occasionally allowed myself to build a new reality, one in which my child is still here and this happened to someone else.

Someone else I know.

It's never anyone in particular. And it's not as if I'd ever wish for this to happen to anyone. I just wish it didn't happen to me.

With that new reality firmly in place, I think about what I would've done if I were the friend or the friend of the friend or the mere acquaintance that occasionally said hi in the grocery store. Basically, if I were anyone other than the mother of the child who was diagnosed with cancer and died. If I were this person, this magical person who still had all of her children living and breathing alongside her, what would I have done for this grieving mother and her family? Well, of this I am sure: I probably would've brought a casserole. Something cheesy, delicious, and warm. Something sure to bring comfort in a time of crisis.

And that's probably all I would've done.

Sure, I'd wonder about the family, how they were managing, if they were managing. But I would've done this from afar. Which is why I'm amazed by the people who haven't been afraid to put themselves in the eye of the storm, to get their hands dirty, to walk with us in our grief.

Early on, we were told that our address book would change. That we'd be surprised by the people who would step forward. And disappointed by those who would not. They were right. Relationships have changed, friendships have been lost. But in their place new ones have taken root.

Within a couple months of Addie's death, I received a phone call from a woman I'd met just once before. It was a casual meeting at a Saturday morning youth basketball game. She was standing on the balcony, trying to snap a pic or two of her son. I had moved to the balcony in an attempt to wrangle two very active boys who had lost interest in their big sister's basketball game. She introduced herself, we made a few connections, and that was that.

And then our world turned upside down. And out of the blue, a phone call. From her. I know we don't really know each other, she said, but I'd like to take you to lunch. I want to hear about Addie. I want to learn about you. And your family.

And for some reason, after holing up in the house for weeks, I said yes.

That afternoon I opened up about Addie - what a treasure she was - and I worked through the details of her diagnosis and the road to her death, as a platter of Mexican food sat untouched.

What makes a person do that? Get in, get all tangled up in the complicated yuck that is our grief?

Because she didn't have to.

But I'm sure glad she did.

Because even now, three years later, I can count on her to check in on me from time to time and show up on my front porch - fried chicken in tow - just because she knew I was probably having a rough day.

And there have been others.

Those whose hugs have held me together at back-to-school nights when I was almost certain I was going to break right apart. Those who've listened to me tell the same stories about Addie over and over and over again, smiling and nodding because they know the stories are numbered. Those who know I'll never quite get back to the way that I was, but love me just the same.

How do you grow a heart like that?

I wish I knew the answer.

Because I'm trying awfully hard to work on mine.

Landry's Big Girl Room Reveal

Landry spent the first eight months of her life sleeping in a crib in the corner of our bedroom. There was no chevron stripe for her. No lace detail on the lamp. No letters spelling out L-A-N-D-R-Y on the wall.

Nothing.

While I know babies don't need all that stuff and they don't know the difference, that they don't even see color until they're like four months old, I also know that moms do care about that stuff.

Only I didn't.

I couldn't.

I was still grieving the loss of my 9-year-old daughter Addie.

While I still grieve that loss every day and wish the transition from Addie's Room to Landry's Room involved simply moving a tween girl's belongings down to the basement bedroom as planned, that isn't how it shook out. The tween girl wasn't here to set up her new digs, to pick out her new bedding, to sort through her stuff. And so, I've spent the last three years working on that grief and, yes, working toward a space for Landry.

In what a part of me will always refer to as Addie's room.

I won't go into all of the work that went into arriving at a place that we felt we could do this. Notice I said we here. This was a we thing, not a me thing (well, the decorating part was). All I can say is that it was arduous - torturous at times - and I'm proud of the work we've done.

And the room turned out OK too.

It's kind of funny because when I first started this blog five years ago, I'd intended for it to be a way to keep track of our home improvement projects. And here I am kind of detailing a project that sort of involves home improvement, I guess. So, I kind of feel like I need to get all bloggy sounding again. And all bloggy sounding sounds like this:

The first order of business (see how bloggy that sounds) was painting the room. OK, that's a complete load of bull because there was a lot of behind-the-scenes stuff (messy stuff) that had to take place before we got to this point. But anyway, the first thing we did was find a wonderful person to come in and paint the room for us. She was one of Addie's teachers and we knew she was the woman for the job.

Before she could touch the walls, however, we all took our turn writing notes to Addie. Everybody but Landry, of course. I didn't really want to encourage her to write on the walls. Some wrote more than others, but each note was personalized and, in my opinion, perfect.

There were a couple of DIY projects (as DIY as I get anyway). Here's a look at a bench I bought off that garage sale three years ago. I guess you'd call this the "before" shot.

And here's after:

Here's a little pair of owls I picked up for $1 at a thrift store.

Cute, huh? Here they are after:

The pink frame was a thrift store find as well. Only it wasn't pink until I got my hands on it. Notice the A and the L for my two girls. If you look real closely, you might even notice a chevron pattern on that L.

Addie continues to have a place in the space, just as she continues to have a place in our hearts.

Moosey keeps watch atop the bed.

And I'll forever believe that my two girls are in some way connected.

Overall, I'm happy with the room. It's tough enough to withstand Landry's fury and sweet enough to honor Addie's memory. And as with any space in my house, it'll continue to be a work in progress.

Just like I'm a work in progress.

My Other 'Middle' Child

Two years ago I took the time to write about Isaac, my middle child. Isaac had nearly five years with Addie before she died. Because of this, he was the one I was most concerned about, so he was the one who did the grief groups with me. He was the one with the late-night talks. The extra hugs. The extra attention.

Meanwhile, Tripp was left asking me who was going to fill his sippie cup as I lay crying on the kitchen floor.

It's Tripp's turn now and this post is long overdue.

***

Tripp was eight days away from turning 3 years old when Addie died.

Happy Birthday, Tripp. 

I remember his birthday quite well, which is nothing short of amazing considering the fog of grief and all.

Maybe I can remember the details of that day because, well, it was excruciating.

There, I said it.

My 3-year-old's birthday was excruciating.

I remember sitting on the edge of the fireplace with a video camera in my hand, watching it all unfold on my two-inch screen. He opened not one, but two Captain America action figures, and I sat there waiting for it all to be over. Waiting for an acceptable amount of time to pass so I could go back to my bed and pull the covers over my head.

I spent most of the summer like this.

I spent most of that year like this.

Oh sure I took the boys places. To the park. Swimming lessons. Museums. Even on horsey rides.

But I wasn't there.

It was like I was a spectator to my own life. I watched it; but I didn't live it.

And so, I missed Year 3 for Tripp. One of my most favorite years. That year when everything that comes out of their mouths is cute and sweet and lovely. That year when Addie couldn't say tomorrow and said 'tah-mah-wer' instead. That year when Isaac called hot dogs 'dah-dahs.'

I missed it.

Today Tripp is 6 years old and I feel like I'm just getting to know him and how remarkable he is.

I don't mean for this to be a Braggity McBrag post. I'm simply trying to capture what it's like to live within the same bubble as this little guy.

 And Tripp is just that: a little guy. He weighs maybe 40 pounds. Soaking wet.

He's actually what you might call scrappy. Just ask Isaac.

And while he has 27 t-shirts in his closet (seriously, I counted them), he never seems to have one of them on. And yet, he produces at least three "dirty" shirts each day.

He's out there. Definitely. I mean out there.

I'm not sure if he can't hear me half the time or chooses not to.

Regardless, I find myself falling deeper and deeper in love.

And here's why:

Tripp can't wait to grow up and be a chef. 

At Subway. He plans on working Mondays and Tuesdays because that way he can have a bunch of days off. He's more than a little concerned about being fired, so he plans to become a dog trainer if he ever gets canned from his cooking gig.

He loves the Royals and sweets. Stuffed animals too. He's up for just about anything that involves a ball. Basketball, baseball, golf, you name it. He swears he's better at Isaac at certain things. He's certainly better at throwing a cheap shot or two.

I can't remember if this was the 1st, 2nd,
or 3rd time he broke his collar bone.

His favorite color is orange and his second favorite is green. Brown comes in a distant third. Somebody has to love brown, I guess.

There's a lot of emotion in that little body. In fact, he can't hardly contain it. It bubbles out at times for better or worse.

Sometimes I have to ask him if he needs a little extra love - usually after he's done something like touch little sister Landry's arm. Repeatedly. Like to the point of that sweet little girl letting out an ear-piercing scream that would be an indication that perhaps he should stop. Just stop. Touching her arm.

He's quick to laugh.

Uncontrollably.

Especially if bathroom humor is involved.

You can just about guess what he thought of
this word coming up on the iPad.

He's quick to stomp off when things don't exactly go his way.

Quick to dance.

And quick to love.

In fact, Tripp's the one who tells me on a nearly daily basis that I'm the best mom he's ever had.

Yes, you read that right.

The best mom he's ever had.

Hmmmm.

I'll Try Thanksgiving

I didn't cook my first turkey until I was 35 years old.

Hard to believe, isn't it?

Not if you live in our house.

For 35 years I'd done a pretty good job flying under the radar, bringing the green bean casserole and similar side dishes.

But then I decided to host Thanksgiving and pretend I was all grown up.

This involved getting up at 6 a.m. to prepare the bird (one word: gross).

Since this was such a momentous occasion, I convinced my mom (or maybe it was Scott?) to document it on videotape. I could tell you exactly who was behind the camera if I'd take the time to watch the tape. But, I've been off family videos for about a year now. When you're trying to hold it together for the rest of your family, function at work, and convince yourself you can do this, you do everything you can to keep up the facade. And right now that means not watching family videos. At some point I will. When I can schedule in time to fall into a puddle of tears on the floor and not come out of the house for a few days.

Anyway, back to Thanksgiving 2011.

I'm preparing the bird and Addie stumbles out of her room (it's 6 a.m. remember). She takes a look at the turkey, faces the camera and deadpans, "So I guess mom cooks now."

And I guess I don't need a videotape to remember that moment.

That's one memory fixed firmly in my mind.

I relive it often. And it makes me smile.

Laugh.

Cry.

And double over in pain.

That was the first time I cooked a turkey.

And, the last.

Thanksgiving hasn't been all that great the last two years.

Year one was a complete disaster.

I was one week postpartum and eight months out from losing Addie. I wanted nothing to do with Thanksgiving. My family was fractured.

But my mom showed up with something called a turkey loaf (because that's what moms do). She cooked it up, plus a handful of other Thanksgiving side dishes, all the while taking care of Landry and taking care of me. God. Bless. That. Woman.

The timer went off, dinner was served. I took my spot at the table and tears fell right onto the turkey loaf. This was the first time we'd sat at the table as a family without Addie.

We haven't sat down as a family since.

Year two was a bit softer. We went to my mom and dad's house, a house Addie never set foot into, which somehow makes things easier as there isn't a memory lurking around every corner. We had real turkey. It was nice, uneventful.

Now we're on year three.

And I'm trying. Really, I am.

That's the important thing, right?

I bought a turkey. A teeny-tiny 6 pound bird, but a turkey nonetheless. I bought stuffing. And a box of instant potatoes. Corn. A spice cake mix.

I know, I know. It sounds like Thanksgiving out of a box.

But this is progress.

For me.

And then I got sick. Pre-Thanksgiving diet sick.

Perhaps that was a sign.

Thanksgiving was not to be this year.

But I'd started thawing the turkey two days ago.

Aaaaand, it was still frozen as of 9 p.m. last night.

Perhaps another sign?

The turkey's sitting in cold water now.

Guess I'm still trying.

Because that's what moms do.

They try to give their kids Thanksgiving, this holiday they've been learning about at school all week. Our boys need a frame of reference, they need a story similar to the ones their classmates have at school.

So, I try even though Thanksgiving at our house is nothing like Thanksgiving at theirs.

I'll give them Thanksgiving.

And I'll keep saying it over and over and over again.

So I guess mom cooks now.

'The Best Vacation Ever'

According to 5-year-old Tripp, last week's little jaunt to Colorado was, in fact, the best vacation ever.

He proclaimed this from a mountain top.

After bouncing up and down on a bungee trampoline at Peak 8.

The best vacation ever, huh.

Compared to what?

You see, this poor guy has spent half his life on the after side of death. Gosh that sounds awful, doesn't it? But, anyone who has ever suffered the loss of a child knows time is divided in two parts: before and after. And these parts are not equal. Not at all.

The last great vacation took place in June 2011. And it was just that: great.

But little man was only 2 years old.

So we started planning this vacation a couple of months ago. There was no intention of making it the best vacation ever. That was an added bonus, I guess. We simply wanted the boys to know that mountains exist. Seriously.

And so, we headed to our old familiar Summit County, knowing full-well the trip would pretty much plan itself.

It did.

There was swimming.

A little hiking.

Chipmunk feeding.

Sliding and jumping.

As well as general lounging around, shopping, playing air hockey, and introducing the boys to the classic film The Sandlot.

And Isaac, of course, asking, "Why do those boys say so many mean words?"

Stay innocent, Isaac. And don't you ever call your brother crapface (or any other name you picked up while watching that DVD not once, not twice, but three times in three days).

So, was it the best vacation ever?

There was more good than bad.

And that's something.

Moving Forward, Looking Back

Every now and again I find myself remembering what I like to call Little Addie.

Addie at age 3 decked out in her best princess attire.

Addie at age 4 making the shirt her dad wore with pride for so many years.

Addie at age 5 learning to ride her bike.

Addie at age 6 with a baseball cap on her head, glove in her hand, and gap-toothed smile across her face.

Addie at age 8 riding her scooter around the block.

Fueled by video tape footage, pictures in an album, or something as simple as a pair of Tripp's outgrown pajama bottoms, I travel back to a time when our days were filled with Dora the Explorer and nights were spent enjoying each other's company and popsicles on the front steps.

Lately, I've found my mind settling back into my old classroom in Gretna with a 7-year-old Addie by my side.

One of the perks of being a teacher was the fact that the buses would transport all the teachers' kids from their schools to ours after school. So there she'd sit, eating a snack, thumbing through her backpack, while kids who were there on their own accord (and those who were not) worked on their assignments.

She'd doodle on the board, sigh a few times, and eventually ask, "When are we going home?"

Ten more minutes, I'd say. And when those 10 minutes were up, it'd be 10 more.

And when it was finally time to go, we'd lock my classroom door, head toward the car, and more often than not, end with a conversation that went something like this:

"Mom, when I'm in high school, I hope I have your class last."

Pause.

"That way I can walk home with you."

I know what you're thinking (it's probably what I and the scores of other people I've shared this particular story with were thinking too).

We all agreed that 7-year-old Addie's sentiment might change when she's, oh, 17.

Seventeen.

What I wouldn't give to have 17-year-old Addie.

Even when I switched jobs three years ago and took an assignment at an elementary school, she always wondered why I couldn't teach at her school.

Now I can.

I recently accepted a position teaching at Addie's School (that's how the boys refer to it when we drive by each day). And as with everything these days, accepting that position was bittersweet.

Sweet because that's what she always wanted.

Bitter because she's not there.

Or here.

Addie, me, and my first teaching certificate.

Save the Date

If you've been keeping tabs on this pregnancy, then you're well aware that this baby's due date is rapidly approaching.

In like 16 days.

And if you haven't been keeping tabs on this pregnancy, don't feel bad. I haven't either.

Part of this is the fact that this is our fourth child. I'll be the first to admit I was one of those moms who faithfully read the weekly updates in my own personal copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting during pregnancies No. 1 and 2. Not so much with No. 3. And with No. 4, I'm pretty sure my copy is sitting on the shelves of a Goodwill store somewhere.

And part of the reason I haven't been able tell you exactly how many weeks along I am is, well, I haven't been able to admit time marches on.

Apparently, it does.

I realized this last week when my OB asked whether we were going to induce or not.

Ugh.

Don't get me wrong. I'm tired of being pregnant. The heartburn. The swollen hands. The lack of sleep. The 45-pound 46-pound weight gain. But, once this little one arrives, there's no turning back. We'll have to deal with happiness, sadness, and half a dozen other emotions. Plus, it means I'll have one other person to love. And fear losing.

"What would you like me to do?" I asked.

"I'd like you to induce."

She wants to do this because I've reached "advanced maternal age." In other words, I'm old. Funny, I used to think I was old, but now I feel so incredibly young - considering the fact that I'll most likely have to wait another 50 years to see my Addie again.

I digress.

Truth be told, I probably will opt for induction.

I've done it twice before and I'll be the first to admit my reasons for doing so weren't exactly medical. Isaac and Tripp were both April babies. Do you know what it's like to be a teacher in April? Let me tell you, it's enough to make you want to induce a week early.

So I did.

But this time around I'm just not so sure.

If you know how I feel about certain dates, then you'll understand why picking one is so dang hard.

But I also know over the course of three babies I've cut my labors from 14 hours to four. And I know that we now live about an hour away from the hospital. And I also had the distinct pleasure of Scott hitting every single red light on 144th Street last Saturday. Not a good plan for a mom in labor.

So what if this baby chooses to have a mind of her own and opts to arrive on one of those bad days?

Well, then maybe that day will be a little bit better.

Finding Our Way

"Just keep swimming."

"Just keep swimming."

"Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming..."

Words made famous by a little blue fish named Dorie in the 2003 hit movie Finding Nemo.

If you think this post is going to be about how our family has adopted little blue's sing song-y mantra as our own, it's not.

This post is about choices.

Specifically, the choices we make as parents.

You see, Nemo was Addie's baby-sitter all-time favorite movie from age 18 months to probably about age 4. Pop that baby in and you knew you could get a little work done around the house - if you didn't get sucked into watching it too. Shark Bait, Hoo-Ha-Ha.

But, being the cautious parents that we were, Scott and I always went to great lengths to start that DVD at Chapter 2. If you're at all familiar with the movie, then you know the opening scene shows Nemo's parents, Marlin and Coral, scoping out their new digs. Then a big, bad fish swoops in, eats all but one of the 'lil fish eggs, and mom.

Yes, mom.

Our little girl was not going to play witness to that.

Too scary.

Fast-forward a few years to Marley and Me.

Oh, Marley and Me. I've only seen that tear-jerker once and once was enough.

Even though we have it stored on DVR, Addie the animal lover, never got to see it. Because her parents said she couldn't.

Too sad.

These were the choices we, as parents, made to protect our little girl - along with keeping up with childhood immunizations and enforcing the look both ways before you cross the street rule. Heck, we even kept all of children in rear-facing car seats way past the guidelines just to be safe.

Safe.

What's that?

There's nothing safe with a cancer diagnosis, but there's a whole lot of scary. And sad.

I'm often left to wonder how this will affect the choices we make in regards to Isaac, Tripp, and Baby No. 4. It sure seemed like we did everything "right" and yet we still ended up with a pretty crappy deal.

What more can we do?

Routine blood draws, I guess. I'm only half-serious. It's not as if I take the boys in every month and request a CBC. But I'd be lying if I said they haven't each had one.

So what about Nemo?

Do they get to see it in its entirety? Yes. But let's face it. We'd relaxed (a bit) in our parenting ways long before this.

And Marley?

Lucky for us, we have a few more years before we have to address that one.

But it's not as if my boys don't know sad.

And that, to me, is sad.