jennethink

FOUR FAMILY MEMBERS AND A TRUMPET

Well … it seems The Kid is playing the trumpet. Actually, you may already know that because you might have heard her practicing. This past week we were all in sunny florida with Momme and decided to have a little jam session. Meaning, we all wanted to jam cotton in our ears.

Ba-da-ching!

Actually we all decided to try and play. Luckily, I had my camera nearby and was able to catch most of our little musical soirée. I'll want to use this for an audition video at some point for something, I'm just sure … or for evidence to establish my mental state and get me out of some crime in the future.

Here are the videos. Make sure you turn your sound up … well, or down.

This first one is The Kid playing her, um, scales? I think that's what she said she was going to play. Turns out she only knows 4 notes so it's a rather short scale and apparently the order of those notes isn't set in stone. Now-a-days I guess you can just play any old note whenever you like.

Lovely. She's no Dizzy Gillespie but she is dizzingly cute when she plays, you gotta give her that.

Next I decided to give the horn a shot. As you can see from the video, I picked it up rather quickly. Then I tried to play it and that didn't go so well - <rimshot> - this was my third attempt at a song in the kid's music book. I was playing it so Momme could guess what the song was.

Huh. Watching it again I'm just as surprised as I was then that she didn't get it. I'm not sure what her issue was. That is clearly Go Tell Aunt Rhody, as if you didn't already know that!

Next, The Hub gave it a shot. Don't be too impressed. It turns out he played coronet in Jr. High. So, he was kinda a ringer. Then again, so were my ears! Boo-ya!… try the veal! He's also playing Go Tell Aunt Rhody (well, honestly, we didn't have that much to choose from). However, he'd never heard it so Momme and I had to sing along. He was doing really well until he learned some disturbing news about the old grey goose at the end.

And rounding out our session is Momme. Man, I love me some Momme. Prior to trying out the trumpet she said four or five times she would probably have a heart attack. She was completely confident in her inability. However, she surprised herself. And frankly, all of us. My favorite part is when she realizes just how good she is and calls for her music!

And that, my friends, rounds out the trumpet session. I had a massive headache for about 6 hours after this. As did, I'm sure, the neighbors. Oh and, 4^th grade music teachers should have a free pass into heaven, in my opinion.

BECAUSE I SAID SO

My sister and I are different. I've posted about those differences before. It's amazing we came from the same parents and grew up under roughly the same conditions. It's like planting 2 seeds in a pot, covering them with the same dirt, setting them in the same window sill, watering them the same amount, fertilizing them with the same poo and one grows into a tomato plant and the other grows into a giraffe.

I'm the giraffe, by the way.

I'm glad we're different. I need us to be different. There have been many, many times when I've relied on what my sister has because I just don't have it. She's strong where I am weak. She's together where I am scattered. She's like the lady at the grocery with the list divided up into sections that correspond to the aisles and I'm the lady who tries to fit 2 cases of diet coke into the plastic hand basket on top of the hamburger buns and oh could you hand me those doggie treats … just put them here under my arm with the ice cream.

I know my sister isn't perfect. And there have been many times in my life when she's driven me right crazy. From the time we were teenagers and she told me I wasn't throwing away my sanitary napkins the "right" way (Really? They're in the trash can, aren't they?) to the times while growing up when I didn't sort the socks the "right" way to the time we worked together and I didn't sharpen my pencil (you guessed it) the "right" way. Still, I wouldn't change it – or her. She is who she is and I think she's pretty great.

There's only one area, one thing, one aspect of my sister's personality I really wish I could change. One thing about myself I wish I could somehow push into herself. One characteristic of mine I wish I could clone, chop up into bite-sized pieces and feed to her. I wish she liked herself more.

And here is where I'm going to reveal a deep truth about myself. Are you ready? despite my short comings (and I have a lot of them), despite the fact that I've made some pretty questionable decisions in my life, despite my physical 4s, 5s, and even 3s on a scale of 1 to 100, I can't help but think I'm the bomb-diggity.

I know … I know! I know how that sounds. I know I sound all cocky and whatnot. I know I sound like I'm tooting my horn and I know it isn't attractive at all – but that's part of it – even though I know all of that, I STILL think I'm pretty cool. I STILL like me. I STILL would choose to be my friend and I'd pick me first on Red Rover. The truth is, I'm quite enamored with myself.

And maybe that's where my sister and I differ. I've never had to be convinced that I deserve a lot out of life. I've never had to be talked into wanting the best for me. I've never once thought my life was ruin-able. I've always known, somewhere deep down that I'll pull through … even if I make a bad decision, even if it all goes to hell … I'll pull out of it. somehow. Someway. And more likely than not, I'll look damn fine doing it. The bottom line is, even though I know I've got a long way to go in my personal development, even though I know I frustrate people (including myself), even though I know I probably shouldn't think so highly of myself, even though even though even though … I'm pretty easy on myself.

Once I was having a discussion with my sister and she was trying to figure out if she should do something or not (this is a big deal with her … the "shoulds"). I said, Well, do you want to? and she looked at me like a tomato plant looking at a giraffe. And mumbled something like 'well that hardly matters in the decision, does it?" and I was floored. Because to me, that's maybe the MOST important question. When I'm making decisions about well, anything, I first ask myself "will this move me closer to becoming the woman I am meant to be?" then in nearly the same breath I ask, "and do I want to do it?" and basically if it do want to do it and there isn't some big issue of conflict between doing it and becoming the woman I'm meant to be then …. I do it. If I don't want to do it …. I don't do it.

I guess I just believe there aren't really that may have to's in life. Oooh .. I bet I can make a grid out of this … let's see

	Want to	Don't Want to
Moves me closer	Do it – no hesitation. Next question is what are the obstacles and how will I overcome them? Example: Running with Bulls in Pamplona. Many obstacles to overcome (most of them drunk) but never entered my mind I wouldn't do it just how I would do it	Will do it – eventually. Next question becomes how will I manage my emotional reactions and what can I do to turn this into a "want to". Usually involves keeping my eyes focused on the end result. Example: Chemo. No way no how did I want to do this. However, I didn't want the consequences of NOT doing it and it definitely moved me toward the woman I was meant to be (i.e. alive). So I did it. And each day I would try to do something that reminded me this was temporary. This is the hardest quadrant, by the way, and many people I know spend a lot of time here. I guess I think a lot can be done with the quadrant by adjusting your attitude.
Doesn't move me closer/neutral	You know, I might still do it. As long as it doesn't move me FARTHER FROM becoming the woman I'm meant to be, I'll probably still figure out a way to do what I want to do. Example: um. Lots of stuff.	Duh. Just not going to happen. The only thing to do now is to communicate with others in a loving and straightforward way. This box usually fills up with stuff other people want me to do. This is where the loving straightforward part come in. Example: Organizing a block party for the neighborhood. "There's just no way at this point in my life I could give this the kind of attention it deserves and needs. And on top of that, if I agree to do this, I'm going to become frustrated and angry since it really isn't a strength of mine … do you think we can find someone else who would be excited about it?"

What does this have to do with liking myself and wishing my sister liked herself more? I guess I think the reason I'm able to do what I want to do and not do what I don't want to do is because I'm willing to suffer the consequences – even if it means someone isn't going to like me. Do I want people to like me? Yes. I do. I really really do. And it hurts my feelings when people don't like me. I've often said I would be a terrible sales rep because when someone said No I would say "that's fine, you don't have to buy it but do you still like ME?" But the bottom line is, I guess, that my own vote carries a lot of weight. The Hub's vote does too. And a handful of other people. And those are all people I don't have to perform for. I just have to be.

So, when my sister asked me how it is that I can just do what I want to do and not do what I don't want to do and I guess I should have said she was partly to blame. I do what I want to do because I know, deep down she loves me no matter what. I do it because when push comes to shove, I'd be friends with me. And I don't do what I don't want to do because in the secret recesses of my heart I know a love from others that is unconditional. And I don't say that lightly and I certainly don't take it for granted. In fact, I'm in awe of it.

And I wish she felt it too.

4X4X4

Big thanks to Average Jane for this idea, she pulled it from Inventing My Life. It's called 4x4x4 and I don't usually participate in these type of things but this sounded fun.

The rules of the game:

1. Go to the 4th folder where you keep your pictures on your computer.

2. Post the 4th picture in the folder.

3. Explain the photo.

4. Tag 4 fellow bloggers to join in the fun!

Well, first, I should re-name this 4x4xi-hate-that-pyramid-scheme-type-crap-of-tagging-a-bunch-of-people-to-do-stuff. But let's face it, that title is a little long, even for me. So I'm taking the first 3 rules and following them to a "T" … the last rule I'm breaking by not following it at all. Shocker. But if you read this and you'd like to do the same in your blog – dandy. Have at it. Consider yourself "tagged".

Here we go …

4^th folder "2008-3-15" (now here is something interesting already … I recently took all of the pictures off of my computer. Since then, I've uploaded photos a few times so I assumed the picture and folder would be quite recent. However, when I was looking through old photos I noticed I was missing a bunch from March of 2008. So I emailed The Hub and asked him so send me any of the photos he had from that time. He did. And that's the 4^th folder. Okay, maybe it wasn't that interesting.)

And the 4^th picture issssssssssss…..

Oh I'm just so happy how this is working out. There is much much much to love about this photo. And how lucky we are that this photo of The Hub and his MeeMom is our 4x4 picture! I mean let's face it, it is very likely the picture would have been a shot of me doing the puss-face thing (my friend, Kristy calls this the butt-hole mouth). I seem to be making that a lot lately.

 

(Seriously, why am I doing that?)

An … y … Way …

Let me explain the 4x4 picture above. It was taken at Easter last year out on the back deck of The Hub's Aunt and Uncle's house. I always love spending time with his family. The Hub heritage is a delightful mixture of Latvian and Italian. Which basically means he get furious with you (Whatsamattawityou anyway? Huh?) but stuffs it way down deep inside (no no, that's okay, don't worry about him, no no, he can take it) It also means he can eat a lot (that comes from both sides). This past Easter was spent with his dad's side of the family … the Latvians. Oh, I love me some Latvians! They are good cooks, and wonderful story-tellers and since they are so repressed you never know if anyone is upset with you or not. Perfect! AND, even better, they are rich with tradition. And one old Latvian tradition is having egg-fights after the Easter meal (and buddy, if you think Italians can eat, you should see what the Lats do to a pig, a turkey and a banana cake). When The Egg Fights were first explained to me, I assumed it was a pretty straight forward game involving a lot of luck. Basically you pick an egg which has been previously hard-boiled and colored. Once you choose your "fighter" ( and there is a whole huge basket of them to choose from) you are paired up with another family member. Then you face off, grab your eggs and on the count of three, slam them into each other. Whoever's egg cracks, that's the loser. Seems simple but of course, it gets much more complicated … losers go into a loser's round, winners go forward into the winner's round, losers fight again with the backside (unbroken side of the egg), winners keep crashing their eggs into each other until there is an ultimate winner. A single solitary egg that is intact and lovely. MeeMom told us that when she was a kid, if she had a really good, strong egg, she used to go house to house and challenge other families to a fight. Ha! Man, that cracks me up! It's such a pure, fun, wholesome family tradition. Clean. Simple.

At least that's how it SHOULD be. What you don't know .. and what I certainly didn't know the first time I participated in this lovely event … is that The Hub's MeeMom likes to slip a few colored but RAW eggs into the basket. And there really isn't any way to tell if your egg is cooked or not. What this means is you get geared up for a fight, take your place, count to three and then WHAMMO you're covered in egg juice. All the while, MeeMom stands there and giggles. She's a stinker.

Some other pictures from the same folder … which I know is technically against the rules but ohhh wellllll…………

Man, I love this family.

PHOTO-SHOP

I have a box I keep in the basement crammed full of pictures from the past. The majority of these pictures are from my first marriage and the years since. However, shoved among those photos are random photos from college, high school and my very favorite of all … random photos from my childhood. A childhood accented by a really bad wardrobe.

I know it is usually painful to look through someone else's photos but man, I just have to believe you are going to enjoy these few shots. Are you ready? Here goes:

What the hell is going on in this picture? Just so you know who the players are, let's introduce everyone … in the front, that's my sister, Carrie, with the dark hair and navy dress. Apparently this photo was taken post her lobotomy. That child doesn't look like she has brain one in her head. Behind her, in the red and white and doing my sister's hair (I think that's what she's doing) is my mother … well that's either my mom or a member of The Monkeys. Dear me. What's with that outfit? She looks like she was just challenged to a duel. Either that or she stole Mr. Darcy wardrobe. I could also say some things about my mom's hair in this photo but you'll understand in a bit why I'm refraining. And then, finally, bringing up the rear (so to speak) … that's me in the, well, in the buff.

Let's just list a few things upsetting about this picture: 1) The bedspread. It's not so much the floral print that upsets me, but the color palette... what was the theme here? Colors you find in a toilet? That there is one ugly bedspread. And guess what? There were TWO of those. And they matched. 2) The giant drape on the wall. Wow. That is one heavy drape. I'm lucky that drape didn't fall on me. I'd be crushed – literally. And even though I'm very little here, I can remember that drape. It was some sort of faux-fabric on the front and it had a plastic back. A plastic back. It was like an adult diaper for the wall. 3) Um, hello? I'm naked ….is that upsetting anyone else? My mom claims that she always had to dress me last and right before we left for anywhere if not, whatever I was wearing was in danger of getting ruined. Okay, I'll buy that but would it have killed someone to put underpants on me?

Let's move forward a few years and include daddy:

Well, at least we're all smiling. Dude. One word … Wings. Everyone in this photo has wings in their hair. I guess that was in fashion at the time (oh lord, please let that have been the reason). And I think, upon close examination, my dad has a mustache. Nothing says "Smile for the church directory picture" like a 1970s porn star mustache. When my mom saw this picture recently, she said "Oh I remember that suit! That was my one and only suit!" No doubt. She was probably put on suit probation after buying it. And how about those teeth I'm sportin'? Wow. I could eat into a corner with those beauties. And again, other than noticing the wings I'm holding off commenting on anyone else's hair. Not because there isn't anything to say but because of …..

This lovely portrait. Oh good golly. I can't stop laughing. My sides hurt. Did I say sides? I mean eyes. I don't know what's worse – the picture or the fact that we gave this picture away framed as gifts the following Christmas. There is a lot to talk about in this pic, but let's just focus on the hair. Had you noticed the hair? And let's be even more specific and talk about that blonde atrocity. I mean, sure, my sister's hair is hot mess too but that woman always had difficult hair. But MY hair … people, that was ON PURPOSE. I actually DID that. I mean, I WANTED it to look that way. Hey, just for fun, put your thumb over the top of my hair … use both thumbs if you have to … and slowly move your thumb upwards uncovering inch by glorious inch that pile of sprayed and stacked hair. It's truly shocking how high it goes. I have to say I've never felt guilty about the environment until I saw this picture. I think I may be personally responsible for any holes in the ozone directly above Sheridan, Indiana. Oh 1987. I love and hate you.

Regardless of how bad some of these old photos are, they make me so happy. I'm almost giddy when I uncover a new old photo. I love it that so much awfulness and wonderfulness can exist in the same photo. I love it that when I look at these I can remember how I felt in the photo and how I felt when I first saw the photo. I love it that if it weren't for some of these photos I wouldn't have remembered a dress or a mustache or a hi fi system. I love remembering my daddy and I love laughing with my mom and sister until tears run down our faces. I love the awful fashion and the terrible colors and the ridiculous expressions.

But most of all I love it that my hair doesn't look like that anymore.

WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT

Sunday was Mother's day. A few years ago, I posted about how it feels for me to be a stepmom on this day. It's challenging, sometimes difficult, sometimes lonely. If I'm not careful, I can tumble right into a big case of the blahs.

The first year I was a stepmom on Mother's Day was probably the hardest. The Hub and my romance was a hyperspeed one and by the time Mother's Day rolled around we had only been together a handful of months - a few of them married. As his wife, I was experiencing motherhood for the first time by parenting his child. I was trying desperately to figure out my place in The Kid's life and what I could offer her as a "secondary mother." Those were tough months. It was difficult for The Hub to understand. He tried but just couldn't get his arms around it. He and his ex-wife had (and still have) a wonderful relationship. They were kind and giving to each other. They spoke often. They consulted each other on important matters and when it came to The Kid - they worked seamlessly together.

I often felt left out.

When I was in 6th grade, I went to basketball camp at Taylor University. It was a weeklong camp and I had to raise the ungodly sum of 300 dollars in order to go. I did various jobs around our farm and around town in friends' homes and farms to gather the money. One of the worst jobs I did was picking up rocks out of my 6th grade math teacher's yard to earn a few bucks. Mr. Brimberry was a good man and he paid me way more than I rightfully earned - but the work truly sucked. I was down on my knees in his pitiful, scratchy yard, gathering up every rock I could find, down to the gnat-sized pebbles that would earn me a few extra pennies. It was hard work. It was probably the worst of all the lousy chores around town there was to do. But I did it, and I earned the money.

Camp was great. We practiced daily, ran sprints, ran drills, scrimmaged. We learned from top coaches and got one-on-one attention. We were shoved into teams the first day with girls from around the country. Doing so meant you were forced to make new friends. And I certainly did. I quickly made friends with two other girls, Becky and Amy – who everyone called "Smiley". They were from Ohio, I think, and although they didn't know each other before they got to camp, they did meet the day before, at orientation. It took all of 10 seconds for the three of us to bond. We walked to and from the gym together. We sat next to each other in the bleachers during lectures. We ate together in the dining commons. Occasionally, one of them would reference something about Ohio, or the long drive they had to get to camp, or how they met in orientation. When this would happen, I would listen and ask questions and quietly look for a way back into the conversation. It wouldn't take long. Soon enough, the three of us would be back in conversation and all was right in the world.

Then Thursday came and everything changed. I don't know now, and didn't know then why things changed so radically. Everything started the same. Everything seemed normal at first. I walked into the gym Thursday morning as I did every morning and sat down next to my friends. They had arrived before me. Their dorm was closer to the gym than mine was. As I sat, I smiled. I said "Hi" ...and they both said...

Nothing. Not a word.

They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the basketball court, staring forward and they said nothing.

I sat. I waited. My mind was a wobbly top barely staying on its end ... I didn't know what to do. I asked a generic question to them both. Asked when they got to the gym. Becky, who sat farther away from me, said coolly, "A while ago" but she didn't look at me. I ventured another question to Smiley. "Do you know when we are starting?" I said. She said nothing, again. Instead she shrugged - gave the standard "I dunno" roll of the eyes and kept looking forward. In a final attempt, I leaned in and said to her in a sing-song manner "Hey! You're not smiling!" And she huffed, turned her head to me and said with all the disgust she could muster, "So?" And then scooted over toward her friend.

Heartbroken, embarrassed, ashamed, alone. All I could think of was, it was so not worth picking up those rocks for this.

Clearly, I was out.

When The Hub and I first married, when I would experience the relationship he and The Kid's mom had, when I would hear him or The Kid talk to or talk about her, when I would listen to them share little stories about where they used to live or the car that would never start or the night The Kid was born, I would panic inside. One part of me loved the fact that theirs was such a healthy, rich relationship, that it was a really good Plan B, that they had each other's backs and that they could always come together and make good decisions about The Kid. But another part of me, a very deep, lonely part of me, was always secretly afraid of their relationship, of doing something and for no known reason, suddenly being out.

And as my first mother's day approached, this feeling, this panic, grew.

I'd like to say I worried for nothing. I'd like to say I awoke to a giant card and breakfast in bed. I'd like to say it was a wonderful day. I'd like to. I can't. Truth is, it was a difficult day. Many circumstances factored into it being difficult. We were away from home, The Hub's own mother passed away unexpectedly the week before, we were newly married and I was meeting many members of his extended family for the first time. We were a jumble of emotion, for sure. As much as I tried not to think about me that day, as many times as I told myself it didn't matter if anyone acknowledged me on that day or not, as much as I tried to focus on the positive and not on the fact that no one wished me a happy day, it was a very hard day indeed.

And in spite of my best effort, I spent a good bit of time feeling downright sorry for myself.

Ugh. I hate even typing it. Looking back, I'm not proud of those feelings. Looking back I wish I wouldn't have been so freaking tied up in what I thought I needed or deserved. Looking back I still wish I had breakfast in bed. Well, what can I say? I'm not perfect.

I've since thought so much about that day. About the feelings I had when The Hub and I first married. About how desperate I was to prove I was good enough and smart enough and deserved a place in The Hub's life and in The Kid's life. It's just so nothing like what I feel now. I can remember those feelings but I haven't felt them for a long, long time. I've thought about when it all changed. I've thought about when it went from being a challenge to being almost easy. When hearing from The Kid's mom became a fun occasion and not a something that sent me reeling. When talking on the phone and sharing ideas and emails and thoughts with The Hub's ex-wife became something I looked forward to and not something that scared me or caused me worry.

It changed the day I stopped focusing on myself.

At that basketball camp, I got my first real-life lesson in this concept. The concept my grandmother had been trying to teach me for years. "You don't need to focus on yourself all the time," she would say, "think about someone else when you're sad ... your life isn't so bad." On that Thursday, as I realized my world has shifted, and as I sat there feeling quite sorry for myself, I remembered that lesson my grandmother had been trying to teach me since birth. I remember her telling me, "Whenever I'm somewhere and I'm feeling left out, I just look for someone who is feeling worse than I am and I go and try to make them feel better!" And that's exactly what I did. I got up. I walked across the gym. I found a girl sitting by herself and plopped my behind down next to her and introduced myself. In about 10 minutes, we were both feeling much, much better.

I'd like to say I've never forgotten that lesson. I'd like to say it was burned so deeply into my core I never had to be taught it again. I'd like to say it, but you know me well enough by now to know that of course, it didn't happen that way. Thankfully, however, the world is full of 2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th and 247^th chances to learn the same lessons again. And somewhere along the step-mom highway, I decided to stop focusing on myself and what I need and want and how hard this all is for me and instead, I focus on the other people in our family ... The Kid's mom, The Kid's step-dad, The Hub ... and how hard it could be for them. It was a small change. But it mattered. It changed my attitude. And, as if almost by magic, I no longer cared if I got a card from The Hub or a call from The Kid on Mother's Day. It didn't matter so much to me anymore that no one acknowledged me on this day. What mattered was that I was in a family who loved and cared about each other.

People often ask me about the relationship I have with The Kid's mom. They don't understand it. They think it is weird that we know so much about each other and our families are so intertwined that when one of us needs help we can rely on the other one. People think I'm crazy when I tell them about how when I go to see The Kid, I stay with her, in her room at her mom's and step-dad's house. They think we're nuts when we talk about THEIR family members as if they are OUR family members. People ask me, how do you DO it?

And I guess my answer is, we work at it.

It's not easy being a step-mom.

And, more important,

It's not easy being a mom with a kid who has a step-mom.

Final note on this one … Sunday I woke up to an email. It said in capital letters, HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! in the subject line. The body of the email said what a great step-mom I am and how obvious it is that I love The Kid and how much I've brought to The Kid's life. It said what a great role model I am. It acknowledged how hard it must be at times for me and how special I am. It said every delicious and heart-warming thing I've ever wanted to hear on Mother's Day.

It was from The Kid's mom.

 

Picking up those rocks in Mr. Brimberry's yard was so worth it.

 

I LEARN ... JUST NOT QUICKLY

Now hold your horses.  I’m okay.  Before everyone (Mom) goes freaking out about my overwhelmed post please understand that I am a woman of extremes and what is true one day isn’t necessarily true the next day and this reality is just delightful for The Hub.  It’s like living with a puppy … that occasionally eats little children.

Today is another day.  And with another day comes different feelings.  The overwhelms are still hanging around but they are somewhat embarrassed for being so showy and attention-seeking yesterday.  Today they are minding their own business quietly sorting socks in the corner of my mind. Hmm humm.  Nothing to see here.  On your way now.

And all of this reminds me of a story.  (Really?  Something reminded you of a story?  Gee, today IS different).

A week or so ago I was tucking The Kid into bed when she began to tell me about some goings on at school. Slightly tormented, she shared in great detail who and how and what happened. I won’t post the details here because I haven’t asked for permission but I will say I was hoping the typical school-aged girl-on-girl meanness wouldn’t start until much, much later.   I'm shocked nearly daily at how different school is for The Kid than it was for me.  When I was 9, I was still hugging my teachers hello and goodbye and barely able to recite the alphabet.  At the same age, The Kid uses War and Peace as a discussion starter and is part of a social circle so complicated I feel like I’m neck-deep in a game of dungeons and dragons … with lip gloss.

Anyway, as she shared what she was feeling and why she was feeling it, it struck me what a difference a day makes.  I knew in my heart and soul that things would look different in the morning.  I knew the next day at school would be better.  I knew … KNEW … the trials of Monday were just that – Monday’s.  Tuesday would be different.  But how to tell her?  How to validate what she was feeling and still give her a ray of hope?  How to listen and convey a complete and total understanding and not downplay while somehow also communicating that hey, kiddo, things aren’t so bad, you’ll see.  It’s impossible.  So I reached way back into my memory and channeled my grandmother and said,

“I know you don’t believe me right now, but things always look better in the morning.”  Then I kissed the top of her head that was buried in my chest, and added, “And if they don’t … well, we can handle that too.”

It wasn’t much.  But it was all I had.

I got a phone call the next day.  With delight The Kid told me what a great day she’d had at school.  She shared no details but just said, “You were right as usual!” and I quietly said a prayer of thanks to my grandmother, my God, whomever, for bailing me out once again. For giving me whatever bit of wisdom I needed in the moment to comfort a sad little girl.  For showing me that despite a 30 year span, That Kid and I really aren’t all that different.

Things really do look better in the morning. 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

Dear Maddy,

Today you will enter the world!  Your mom called just a little bit ago to say you were on your way.  Right now you are being squeezed, yanked, sloshed and pushed around.  Right now you are demanding all the attention in the room.  And you will get it, sweet child.

We’ve been praying and hoping for you for a long time.  Your mom and dad have wanted you for what seems like forever, but you took your time showing up.  You stubborn thing.  When you finally announced your arrival with a pink plus sign on a pee stick, the immediate world around you could not have been happier. 

Your sister is just dying to meet you.  She talks about you non-stop.  There isn’t a person she encounters that doesn’t know you’ve been on the way for the last handful of months.  She’s so eager to be a big sister and to help out and she will be magnificent.  And you will adore her.  I know, because I have a big sister and I know how great they can be.  I look at your sister and I think how very, very blessed you are.  She will be your protector, your provider, your confidant and your jester.  She’s a funny kid and it’s going to be wonderful for you to have her to learn from.

Your mom and dad are incredible people.  You’ll know it right away, I’m sure and you’ll feel how much they love you but there are a few things you won’t realize until much later about your parents.  You probably don’t know, for example, that your dad is a FABULOUS cook.  He’s a chef, actually, and he makes the best pork roll in the world.  Not that pork roll is hard to make but man is it yummy when he makes it.  And it isn’t just that he can cook, it’s that he shows himself through his cooking.  He shows you how much he cares.  Once, a while ago, when I was staying at your mom and dad’s house, your dad made me breakfast.  It was at a time when I didn’t eat much – couldn’t eat much – but that was the best darn breakfast I’ve ever had.  It tasted good.  It looked wonderful and when your dad asked me if I wanted more I could see in his face how much he cared.  He might as well have spelled out in scrambled eggs, “I wish I could do more but I can do this.”

And your mom is terrific.  She’s calm under pressure and a great friend.  She’s compassionate and caring and she is so thrilled you’re around.  One of the things I’ve always respected and loved about your mom is her unbelievable ability to share. She’s shared so much with me…including her daughter, your sister.  She’s allowed me to take a role in her daughter’s life that rightfully, I shouldn’t have.  She’s allowed me the joys of motherhood.  She’s allowed me to co-parent and that ranks right up there with the most unselfish thing anyone has ever done for me.

Which brings me to you.  A few month ago your sister, her dad and I were all sitting at dinner talking about you.  We were each saying what we were most excited about.  I said, “I’m just so excited that we’re having a baby!” and that’s when your very smart sister said, “Um, Jenne, I have a question.  I’m connected to Daddy, Daddy’s connected to you.  I’m connected to Mommy.  Mommy’s connected to Tommy.  Mommy and Tommy are connected to the baby.  But how are you and Daddy connected to the baby???”

Hmmm.  Good question. 

It’s true.  You don’t really belong to us in any way shape or form.  You are the daughter of my husband’s ex-wife and her current husband.  You, technically, are The Kid’s half-sister.  You, technically, have no ties to us at all.  But since when do we, in this family, do anything by the book?

Since we first knew you were to arrive on the scene, we’ve been waiting eagerly for you.  We’ve teased and joked with your mom about how much fun it will be to have custody of you for the summers and holidays just like your sister and your mom has teased back, “Don’t joke!,” she says, “I’ll do it!”  Before we knew you were a she, we guessed and pondered and planned.  And when your mom called us early on to tell us some scary news, when we thought you weren’t going to arrive at all after all, it hit us like a mac truck.  I was in the Michigan airport when I got the news and I had to stop and sit for a while.  Did you know the Michigan airport has a chapel?  I didn't either but I was grateful for it that day.  That day when I held my head in my hands and cried. 

But you surprised us!  And although you’ll enter this world with some unique challenges, I know you’ll be okay.  I’m not worried about you at all.  Not with everything you have going for you.  There are babies who enter this world without one ounce of love or compassion.  There are babies who enter into the love of a few - a mom and a dad, if they are lucky.  Maybe even a grandparent or two.  Then there is you.

Oh Maddy, show yourself.  There are so many waiting.

Love,
Just Jenne