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.

A Good Life

Two days after we lost Addie I stood at the end of our driveway with my childhood minister. There were others there of course, stopping by to offer comfort and casseroles - but the words she shared with me that day, well, those are the words that have stuck.

"Life will be good again," she said, placing her arms around me. "It will be different, but it will be good."

Life will be good again.

I can't remember if I believed her then, but I knew her words were important. Because she was speaking to me not as a minister, but as a mother.

A mother who knows.

I think of her often.

She was, after all, the one who, despite living halfway across the state, agreed to marry us 17 years ago.

I think of that hot July day often too.

Of course we knew there would be challenges, but we were banking on life's normal challenges. But we made promises that day. That we'd stick together when everything else fell apart.

And when it did, there we were making promises again in a hospital waiting room. Promises to stick out this life, to keep breathing even though both of us just wanted to stop. Promises to live for and to love our children with what was left of our hearts.

Although I can't pinpoint exactly when, I do know that somewhere along the way to making good on our promises, I began to realize my minister was right.

Life will be good again.

There are basketball games in the driveway. Walks around the loop. Cuddles before bed. And water fights.

Glimpses that life will be good again.

But there will always be a catch in my throat. A child missing. One less plate at the dinner table. And one less kiss goodnight.

Still, I have to believe it'll be good again. Different, but good.

Our Next Move

Note: This is the 13th and final update I made to Addison's CarePages site. 

Posted Jul 30, 2012 10:25am

Four months and four days have passed since we joined the club no parent ever wants to be a member of.

Birthdays have come and gone.

School dismissed for the summer.

We survived Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Barely.

And yesterday Isaac and I went on our first back-to-school shopping excursion. By excursion I mean a trip to Amigo's, Target, and Famous Footwear. (Soooo different from Addie and my annual event)

That must mean school is right around the corner.

Four months and four days have passed.

Time marches on. But how?

Today I realize it’s time for me to move my writing from the CarePages site to the blog I created when we first started our country adventure two years ago. After all, nobody visits CarePages to find out how a family is doing after the hospital stay comes to an end.

So, if you want to see how our story develops, feel free to follow us at www.halfwaybetweenhopesanddreams.blogspot.com. If you take the time to peruse previous entries, you’ll notice a much different picture of our family emerges.

My last post was December.

Before.

As a former English teacher I spent time teaching kids about the tone of a story and the voice of a writer. It doesn’t take an A+ student to realize the tone of our story has changed as has my voice.

After.

Hopefully I can provide a little insight as to how one family is handling the worst life can throw at them. I can’t promise it will always be pretty. Grief can be a dark, dark place. So, if you’re not up for it, I understand.

In time, however, I look for a story of hope to emerge. I cling to that possibility.

I can't promise I'll be the most consistent about posting either. Some days I write at a frenetic pace. I couldn't stop the words if I wanted to. Other days? Nothing.

If I understand correctly, you can subscribe to that website and email notifications will go directly to your inbox much like they do on CarePages. You’d have to ask one of my three followers for the details on that. (insert smiley face)

For now, I do want you all to know how much we appreciate the support you’ve shown us thus far. Whether it was a visit in the hospital, a note to Addie, a donation to the humane society, a meal, a hug, an ear, we are so grateful to have each of you in our lives.

www.halfwaybetweenhopesanddreams.blogspot.com

So Here's a Metaphor for Grief (Sorta)

It's no secret I'm a sucker for all things sentimental. You can read more on that here, here, and here.

So when we headed west for Colorado, I just knew I had to pay a visit to the one place that means so much to me and my family. We talk about special places. This place is not just special. It's sacred.

The first time I visited Mirror Lake I couldn't have been more than 10 years old. I suppose if I asked nicely, my mom could probably rustle up a photo or 10 from that vacation. Heck, I wouldn't even have to ask all that nicely. But I really don't think posting a picture of me at 10 years old would be doing anybody any favors (least of all me). Let's just say it was the 80s. There may have been a bad perm, bad glasses, and biker shorts involved. Oh yeah, and an overbite.

Anyway, my dad was always up for an adventure and I guess my little brother and I were too. So, we ended up on a 3.4 mile hike off Wildernest Road.

Technically, it's the Lily Pad Lake Trail and there is a lake covered with lily pads. It's pretty cool and all. But, just a stone's throw on the other side of that lake is a body of water that is absolutely breath-taking.

We call it Mirror Lake.

And here's why:

Now, we've been to Colorado many, many times since that initial hike, and it's safe to say a trip up to Mirror Lake is always on our itinerary. Obviously I'm not the only sentimental person in my family.

But this time it was going to be a little tricky.

I wasn't sure I could handle a trip to Mirror Lake. Not without Addie.

Still, I found myself asking Isaac if he'd like to go on his first trip to Mirror Lake (and hoping that he'd say yes).

He did.

And while we talked about wild animals and forest fires and tree roots and everything else that interests a 7-year-old boy, this hike was also a chance for me to explain to Isaac that it really is possible for mom to be happy and sad at the exact same time. So sad that Addie wasn't there for one more hike, but so happy that Isaac was.

As I've had time to process our trip (especially this hike), I've come to realize this incredibly long and grueling grief journey is kind of like a 3.4 mile hike in the mountains. Only a whole lot longer.

So here we are at the trail head. What you don't see is the ridiculously steep incline that is the first 300 yards of this hike. It is literally an uphill climb.

And that's exactly what grief is like in the early days.

For some, it's a battle to even get out of bed in the morning.

Not for me.

I got out of bed, got the boys dressed, and sent them off to daycare (thank God for daycare).

I could not deal. With anything. With them.

For me it was a battle to get out of the chair. I'd sit there for hours, combing the Internet, looking for answers as the what-if's, the why's, and the what the hell's swirled around in my head.

The only thing that could get me out of the chair was knowing full-well that a little yellow school bus would come tooling down the lane around 3:45 p.m. each day and my daughter would not be getting off. Not that day. Not ever. Knowing this, I would retreat to my bedroom, pull the covers over my head, and wait for the sound of the bus shifting gears to fade away. I did this. Every day.

Then, you return to work. You function. Pay bills. Tuck your kids in at night. Cry. Struggle to fall asleep. Or want nothing more than to fall into your bed and never wake up.

Perhaps you even brave a trip to the grocery store where there's a favorite cereal and favorite snack at the end of every aisle. You wander aimlessly, settling on bread, macaroni, and applesauce.

It was an uphill climb and I'd just as soon stay at the bottom most days.

But somehow you make it to the top of that initial climb, and then, and only then you realize just how far you've come.

There are smiles, even laughs.

Silliness. Selfies.

And sadness.

Still.

And yet, you continue down the path. There are roots and rocks. You must tread carefully. Sometimes, the path is so treacherous, you must reach out and grasp the hand of another, just to make it across.

At times the path is smooth. We relish these times. Walk a little faster. Perhaps we've found a way to cope. We busy ourselves with projects, get lost in a book, organize our pantries, our storage rooms, our garages. Perhaps we've found a way around it all.

And then,we stumble upon rocks and roots and yes, even the occasional uphill climb.

I'm not going to lie. The past six months have been one, gigantic uphill climb.

We must slow down, rest even. Golden Oreos are completely optional (but highly recommended).

And so we continue on this path, with its rocks and its roots. We rest when we must. Reach out for help when we need it.

And when we get a brief reprieve, we must slow down and enjoy the view.

And the people we get to share it with.

All the while remembering those who gave us so much to miss.

Back to School

Note: This post was actually written a year ago when I first began teaching at Addie's school. But, I sat on it, fretted about it, and finally decided to roll with it. Especially since these days I've been feeling like I'm right back where I was. Sigh.

It’s no secret that the first week of school can be a bit of a shock to the system.

Gone are the days of spending half the day in your jammies, pinching snacks from the fridge at 10 in the morning, and lounging around the pool, or in my case, lounging on the couch with Dr. Oz and Dr. Phil.

Nope, come 8 a.m., it’s go time.

Go time for me came and went a little over a week ago.

I’m not going to lie, I had a hard time getting out of the gate.

And this had nothing to do with school itself.

It was everything else.

That’s the funny thing about grief (and I hate using that word – funny – because, really, there’s nothing funny about it). People tell you you’re strong and there are times you start to believe it a little bit and then you find yourself pinning all these inspirational messages on Pinterest and really believing it.

And then you crumble.

For me that happened two days before school was supposed to start.

At open house.

Well, after open house, technically.

During open house I stood there smiling, my throat in a vise, as I watched seventh-graders and their parents struggle with locker combinations, empty backpacks filled with school supplies, and move from classroom to classroom meeting this year’s teachers, all the while thinking about the little girl who won’t ever set foot in the seventh-grade hallway.

Let’s face it, two days before school starts isn’t exactly an opportune time to start doubting whether you can do this. Especially since Pinterest had been telling me I could do this all summer long.

Stupid Pinterest.

Stupid me.

Stupid cancer.

And then, school started.

My first go with a group of Addie’s classmates was a little awkward.

It was a five-minute exchange before they checked out books.

I was nervous. So I snapped into teacher mode. I may have even avoided eye contact.

And that felt awful.

Who was this person standing in front of them?

It wasn’t me.

And who were these kids staring back at me?

Her friends. The girls who suckered me into filming a staged video that they were certain would win them $10,000 on America’s Funniest Home Videos (it didn’t). The girls who convinced me kittens were trapped inside our walls (they weren’t). The girls who swore they beat Scott and me in a dance-off on Just Dance 2 (they most certainly did not). 

Their Mii’s are still on our Wii console, their notes and phone numbers and proclamations of being BFF’s are secured safely among Addie’s keepsakes, and their acts of friendship - in the face of the absolute worst - will forever be written on my heart.  

These are her friends.

Luckily, the next go-around was markedly better. I kicked the teacher to the curb and decided to just go with me.

I asked for a show of hands to see who already knew who I was.

Silly question.

I’m Addie’s Mom.

And I can do this.

Right?

'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.

This is Me Being a Parent

By this time tomorrow, these two lovely ladies (plus a whole other cast of characters) and I will be setting up for the second annual Live Like Addie Run.

I'd like to publicly thank these two for, well, everything, and I'd like to personally thank the 583 people who've already registered for the run. So, if I don't get to speak with you personally tomorrow, please know that I appreciate you coming out for the run so much. I'm continually amazed at the amount of support our friends, our family and this community continues to give to us.

A-mazed.

And that's what this run is really about: Giving back to the community that's been so good to us.

It's about remembering Addie, a little girl who gave us so much to remember.

But for me, it's about a little bit more.

This run is me being a parent.

This run is my basketball tournament on a Sunday afternoon.

My piano lessons.

Orthodontic appointments.

The time I spend typing in registration forms for the run is the time I would've spent staying up all hours of the night with Addie so we could create the perfect volcano for her sixth grade science project.

This is my time spent shopping for birthday presents - for the friend parties she would've been invited to and for the one she'll never have.

This is my "Addie, it's time to get up" each morning and my "I love you" each night.

This is it.

This is me being a parent.

To a child I have to remember through pictures and videos and notes I come across while cleaning out the playroom.

This is me being a parent.

To a child I can hold only in my heart.

This run is me filling my time because, believe it or not, even with wiping and re-wiping runny noses, changing diapers, checking over first grade math homework, curbing meltdowns over ill-fitting socks, intervening in the most irritating of shouting matches, and putting various little ones in time out and to bed, I still find that I have an inordinate amount of time on my hands.

Time that should be taken up by the schedules, the wants and whims of four beautiful children, not three.

And I've got to fill it.

Time.

Or it fills me.

With thoughts I can't escape.

And questions.

It takes me there.

And there. And there.

And I'm there often enough.

So this sitting in on a city council meeting to get the run approved, overhauling a website, putting together a flyer, asking businesses to please display them, going over the details of the run on a Sunday afternoon, sorting through t-shirts, fielding texts and emails from people wondering whether there's still time to register, that's me filling my time.

But mostly, it's me being a parent.

Days Like These

On days like these I'm thankful.

Thankful for videos.

For they allow me to relive the best years of my life through the lens of a Sony camera.

The year was 2003. Addie was 1; I was much, much younger. Thinner. Innocent.

There were no Smart phones or Facebook; no Instagram, nothing to steal my attention from the sweet curve of her cheek, the curl in her hair, or the way she'd say "a-woof" when I asked her what sound does the doggie make.

On days like these I'm thankful for laughter. The sound of Scott and me cracking up over a 14-month-old shoving waffles under the tray of her high chair.

On days like these I'm thankful for smiles.

A social calendar that was all but blank, for that gave Scott and me and Addie and our dog B all the time in the world to capture the mundane things on film.

Vaccuuming. Dancing. Singing. Living.

On days like these I'm thankful for the sound of my grandma and grandpa's voices in the background. For Scott's grandma asking the question we all do, "where has the time gone?"

On days like these I'm thankful for the itsy-bitsy spider and soooo big.

For linoleum floors in desperate need of a good scrubbing, beat-up woodwork, and an old house on Westplains Road.

I'm thankful we didn't have money to spare, for that meant we had to stay in.  And staying in always ended with a stroll around the neighborhood. I'm thankful for those strolls, the ones where we'd map out our dreams, not realizing our dreams were playing out right before our very eyes.

On days like these I'm thankful.

Thankful for videos.