Rosie, Get on Board

This is the story of a dog, and a special one at that.

A rescue dog, sent to rescue a family who, in the past two years, has lost a dog, two cats, a frog, and, a little girl.

Addie.

Addie, the animal lover. Addie, the little girl with big plans. To be a vet (with summers off, of course). To rescue animals both tame and wild. To foster dogs like the ones she read about in Ellen Miles' Puppy Place books. To work tirelessly for animal rights, much like the officers she saw on the TV show Animal Cops Houston, which, by the way, she watched religiously.

Addie, the advocate, who convinced her friend to mix up some sweet lemonade with her one summer day and sell it and send all the profits to the Humane Society.

Who prompted an entire community to get out and give big to the Humane Society in the days following her death.

So, when it came time to get another dog - and, let's be honest, that time came a little bit sooner for the boys than it did for mom and dad, we knew we wanted to adopt one from the Humane Society.

We just didn't know Addie would have a hand in picking her out.

Here's the story:

As we were getting ready to go on a hike in Colorado, I dug deep into the pockets of the diaper bag, searching for the bottle of sunscreen. What I found was this:

A little in-church illustration Addie had made to pass the time. I'm sure it got shoved in the bottom of the bag, along with the church bulletin, half a dozen Matchbox cars, and Tripp's supply of Cheerios. And it chose to surface on that particular day, which, I know, doesn't seem like a big deal. But it is. Because just that week I'd run across a dog - named Rosie BTW - on the Humane Society's website.

Cut to July 31 and Isaac, Tripp, Landry, my mom and I walking out of the Humane Society with this little gal (not before sending a quick text to Scott that said something like "oh yes we did").

So, like I said: this is a story of a rescue dog sent to rescue us. And I'd like to wrap up the story all nice and tidy and end it right here.

But I can't.

Because there have been days when I've wondered if Addie was playing a big, fat joke on us.

Days like these:

Landry's learned how to string two sentences together since
Rosie's arrival. "Ro-Ro, no. Cage."

Not to mention escape attempts 1, 2, and 3.

Imagine my surprise when I locked Rosie in her cage, took Isaac, Tripp, and Landry into town for all of 30 minutes only to return to a Beagle's nose pressed up against our living room window. A good blogger would have taken pictures of this as well as the mangled cage, but I was too busy cleaning up No. 1 and No. 2 in my bedroom.

I guess that's not really an escape attempt, huh?

Then there was the string of counter-jumping incidents, complete with broken dishes and a shredded Pringles can.

Here's the loaf of bread she retrieved from our pantry. And sampled.

And then there's the fact she hasn't exactly been Scott's biggest fan - even though he's the one who feeds her and walks her every morning. She howls and growls just about every time he walks through the door. And Scott's resorted to howling and growling back.

But I think she's coming around.

In all seriousness, Rosie is a great dog, and I do believe she was meant to be our dog.

Thanks, Addie, for giving us the nudge and always reminding us that "animals are people too."

(Almost) Home

You might say I'm a sucker for signs. Especially those that are painted and a little bit primitive. I have them all around my house.

See:

And, at various points in my life, each sign - with its simple message - has served as a mantra of sorts.

So when it came time to finally cover up an enormous nail hole select the perfect piece to go above our fireplace, I just knew a sign was the way to go.

But, considering all that's happened, what's my mantra now?

Life was good. And then it wasn't.

Don't worry. It'll all be over soon.

I'm kidding. Sort of.

Obviously, I needed something a bit more, um, inspirational, something that wouldn't make guests do a double-take when they entered our home. And, I needed something that said this is our family.

And what worked for us before just doesn't cut it anymore.

Sigh.

So, I spent a weekend tossing around a few ideas (nothing really worth mentioning here) and one in particular just stuck. It was this idea of home and what home should be.

Before all of this, home wasn't half-bad. Sure it was loud and it was messy. You can read more about that here and here. But it was also beautiful because everybody that I loved was right here, within arm's reach.

Without Addie, I'm not sure it'll ever quite get back to the way that it was.

It's home, but it's not.

The noise has resumed. The messes too. In fact, I'm not sure either ever really went away. But, there is a voice missing. There's one less baby to tuck in and kiss goodnight, one less plate at the dinner table. We smile for the camera, but it'll never be quite right.

It'll never be home.

So, we settle for what we have in our almost home. And we realize this place where we live and work and love really isn't our home at all. Never has that been more apparent to me than it is right now.

I could try to put into words exactly what it is I'm talking about, but I'm not going to do that. What I've realized (and I'm really trying to avoid going all Mary Katherine Gallagher on you now) can best be summed up in the song Blessings by Laura Story.

What if my greatest disappointments or the aching of this life is

the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy?

I have a deep-seated need to have my family all good and whole again. And, there is no substitute for that. I do believe things will be good again (they are at times), but I know our lives will never be right until we're Home.

So, until then, we're almost Home.

Plus, that sounds so much better than that it'll all be over soon stuff.

So, about the actual sign.

I contacted Deb from Deb Hrabik Designs and gave her the scoop on what I wanted.. We tossed around a few ideas, traded a few emails. She painted. I waited. And within a couple weeks time it was here. 

What can I say? I. Love. It.

And here's why:

It's beautiful (obviously). It's big. And it's bold.

It says and does everything I wanted it to. It even hides the incredibly large nail hole, so that's a bonus.

But here's the best part: there's a piece of Addie in that sign. 

That, my friends, is Addie's handwriting (and all Deb's idea) taken from a story she had written in fourth grade.

We are well-aware of the huge, gaping hole that's been left in our hearts and our lives, but seeing that little piece of Addie on my wall every day makes me feel like she's saying, "It's OK, mom. You're doing alright. You're almost there."

Almost.

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.

Melodies and Memories

It's no secret music can evoke all sorts of memories.

Country music star Eric Church sings about it in his song Springsteen, which, while released in 2011, didn't see much air play until Summer 2012 - after Addie was gone. If you don't believe me on my dates, look it up. After months of not listening to anything but the sound of my own voice asking why, why, why, I found myself driving down the road one day and flipping on the radio and hearing Church sing about the power and pull one song can have.

Funny how a melody sounds like a memory, like a soundtrack to a 
July Saturday Night.

It's true, you know.

Whether it's an opening riff or a refrain we just can't get out of our heads, songs can take us back to another time and another place where, maybe, we were entirely different people.

I know if I hear Juice Newton's Queen of Hearts I'm instantly transported back to 1983. There I sit, wedged between mom and dad in the front seat of our old Pontiac as we wind our way down a mountain road. There's me hitting the rewind button over and over again, listening to the sound of the tape literally spinning and shredding out of control, before giving way to the sweet strums of a guitar.

Anything by the Steve Miller Band and I'm sitting in the back of a bus riding home from a high school track meet. Our faces are sweat-streaked. And wind whips through the windows, stirring up dust and stories that probably shouldn't be repeated.

College brought an eclectic mix of Ace of Base, Offspring, George Strait, and just about any song that was released on a Jock Jams CD. I can call that eclectic, right?

And motherhood? That was marked by Elmo's Favorite Songs I and II, Sheryl Crow, and me and Addie belting out Jackson along with Johnny and June as we drove down Highway 6.

Picture this girl singing I Don't Feel Like Loving You Today
by Gretchen Wilson.

These days my iPhone serves as a time capsule of sorts. I haven't added a whole lot of music since Addie died, partly because, well, how dare the music industry keep cranking out hits when my daughter is gone? And partly because the only reason I even had money in my iTunes account was because Addie didn't have a chance to spend all of the $15 on the iTunes gift card I'd given her for Valentine's Day.

So, as I plug in my ear buds and head off for a run, it's either a pleasant stroll down memory lane or a harrowing walk through a minefield, depending on which songs come up on my playlist.

If I hear the boom, boom, clap, boom de-clap, de-clap of Hannah Montana's Hoedown Throwdown, I'm reminded of a much, much simpler time when Addie and her friends Adiah and Olivia worked through their school talent show routine (and also of a young lady who was known more for her best of both worlds TV show than what she can do with a foam finger).

This is the girl I picture when I hear
anything from High School Musical
or Hannah Montana.

Anything by Adele and I'm running, running, running down the road or on a treadmill when my only reason for running was to shave off a few pounds and stay in shape. And that's what I opted to do on March 19, 2012, the day before Addie's cancer diagnosis. She was getting better. Her fever had gone down. She was going to go back to school the next day, certainly it was OK to steal away for 30 minutes at the fitness center.

So I did.

With ear buds in, I revved up the treadmill. One of Addie's friends came in and joined me. We talked about how Addie was coming back to school tomorrow, how her reading group had made it through the fourth grade book and were ready to move up to the fifth grade one. One of Scott's friends stopped by. We talked about how we really need to get together.

The next time I saw him was in the hospital. He and his wife were one of the many people who came up to offer support, prayers, and whatever it is you offer in times like these. And then, he's in my kitchen, the morning Addie died. He's carrying two sackfuls of bread and everything you would possibly need to make a sandwich and doing whatever it is you do when you don't know what to do.

Music triggers something in each of us. Suddenly everything's crystal clear.

We really need to get together.

We're moving up to the fifth grade book.

She's going back to school tomorrow.

I'm on a treadmill, my daughter - my girl -  is dying. Only I don't know it yet.

Will we ever truly know the impact
of this loss?

My God, skip to the next song.

***

Music, melodies, memories. What song does it for you? And where does it take you?

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.