And The Beat Goes On . . .

No no, I'm not composing a suicide note. This scene, though, from Beetlejuice, often bubbles up to my consciousness when I'm thinking about how sad I am. Like, what else can I say? I'm really sad, my daughter is dead, she's never coming back, let me write about it, I'm really sad . . .

You know? I'm like a freaking broken record. That scene up there is ridiculous, as is that whole movie (" . . . having jumped plummeted to my death . . . ").  And when I'm looking for news ways to say how sad I am, or how hard living without Calla is, or how someone doesn't get it, I feel like Lydia Deetz writing the perfect ending.

It just sucks sometimes.

Ahem, all the time. The hurt heals over, but it's never all the way gone, and then I start picking and picking and picking at it until it's in full-bore ouch.

Like when I found myself sobbing at a wedding this weekend during the father-daughter dance. Never mind their song was Landslide:



Fortunately I have a short attention span so when I found this cool dyson hand dryer vortex thingy in the bathroom, I was amused enough to regain my composure.

Anyway. The little things, the big things, life . . . everything and anything reminds me of her. Of her missing.

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

Home Again

We just got back from a week-long vacation. Not exactly a stay-cation, as the kids are calling it these days. More like a close-cation. After our trip down to DC in the spring, we realized a long car ride with the boys was, um, not even close to being a vacation. So we spent a week in nearby Ellicottville, NY at a ski resort. It's only about an hour away from our house, and the weather was really mostly good, and there's a ton to do with little kids at the resort and nearby.

Coming home, I always feel a little exhausted. No matter how relaxing the vacation might have been, and no matter how great the house/cat/dogsitters were, there's always cleaning and unpacking and laundry to be done IMMEDIATELY UPON ARRIVAL. I'm not the best at letting stuff sit around. I need to open mail while feeding lunch while planning the laundry while organizing the toys. Yes, this is not really necessary, but it's how I stay sane amid chaos. So right now I'm forcing myself to sit down and sip my Vit.amin Water Ze.ro (seriously, how good is that stuff?!) and recall the fun we had this past week.

There's always this disconcerting feeling . . . wait, we live here? Where again does the peanut butter go? And how exactly does this washing machine work? Did I remember to repack the sippy cup lids, and if so, where do I put them away? It is the exact opposite of the feeling I get just before vacation when I am in a tizzy getting everything into its exact place and making sure everything is packed just so until I can't take it anymore, and start throwing things into any old bag and into the car.

We got home about three hours ago and already the clean clothes are mostly put away, the dirty clothes are in their sorted piles in the basement waiting to be washed, and the boys have trashed the living room with their toys. The toys we brought, however, are neatly put away. The dog's already sick of us again.  After a week of eating dinner and most lunches in restaurants, I am more than ready to cook again, but I know by tomorrow night I'll be banging my head against the wall trying to figure out what to make for dinner.

It's funny, being on vacation. There are so many times when I can just let go and relax and forget for just a moment that I am a medusa in mom-colored clothes, carrying around a piece of reality most people never would guess or even want to hear about. It's sad sometimes having fun, making the memories that one little baby will never be a part of.

So anyway. We hiked, we swam, we explored, we ate. It was a great vacation. Here are a few pics, and if you live near me, or even if you don't, this is a cool getaway for summer.

Golf cart. Hells to the yeah.

At the top of a ski slope. That we all hiked straight up.
Only two of us were whining.

Again, hells to the yeah.
Using binocs to check out construction progress on the mountain coaster.

Mountain coasting. Super awesomesauce.

Bortherly . . . love? Rassling? Both?

O with his new favorite delicacy: pretzel rods. 

Griffis Sculpture Park. The dopest.

Hell yes I can climb stairs.

Little Rock City.

So, I am not a camper, really. I used to be, but I guess I've gotten spoiled by my sharp knives and nonstick cookware. Bottom line: I didn't cook in our condo at all. Before I go make dinner now, here are the trip highlights:
O sleeping through the night (sort of?) and getting his first tooth (finally!) and learning to crawl up the stairs (zoinks) and discovering the deliciousness (gnawliciousness) that is pretzel rods, taking E hiking up some pretty strenuous trails (yes I wore bronzer and earrings, sue me. I am tired of looking like a complete troll in pictures, so there), riding the new (just finished while we were there) mountain coaster--and it was hella fun. The most amazing cheeseburger I've ever had in my life.

It was a great trip, and I'm glad we're home again. Back at it.

Missing You

Yesterday I managed to be the stay-at-home mom I always thought I would be. It only took me three plus years, but who's counting? We played, O crawled around like a nut, when he went down for a nap E and I baked bread and did a sticker project together, then we all went to the zoo with friends, we ate lunch, napped, I cleaned most of the house, made dinner, the boys got up, everyone ate dinner without a fuss, baths, bedtime, time with C. I baked cookies. Watched an episode of The Wire, which we just started. No one, not adults, kids, or any combination of the two, raised voices in frustration or even huffed.

Why can't every day be like that? Because for several moments in that day I actually felt like a normal person. Not someone who's inadequate, who's grieving, who's always playing catch-up with life.

I don't know what hit me today, but most of it was pretty good. Until it wasn't. I don't know if it's because I'm exactly 19 months away from the worts day of my life, which was, ironically, the best and only day I got to spend with Calla. I just found myself in the shower tonight sobbing, nearly screaming (except O and E were in bed so I held myself back). Why did she have to die? I just can't understand it, and somehow tonight in the shower it just came to me. She's always going to be dead. Forever. It doesn't seem fair, does it?

In spite of how much I love my boys.
In spite of how much I love my husband.
In spite of how much I love my life.
In spite of my abundance of relative good fortune.

In spite of all of this. I miss and want her so much. Somehow the memory of her birth, so painful, and primal, and awful, bubbled up to the surface of my brain tonight. And I wanted to scream for my little girl. Just like I did in that hospital room 19 months ago.

My little girl.
She's gone.
My little girl.

Change Your Tune

We went to an amazing concert this weekend. Living in Buffalo we are so very lucky to have quite a few fantastic venues for live music. Not the least of which is where we were Saturday, down at the harbor. Right on Lake Erie. It was a beautiful, warm, clear night; one of our favorite bands from way back in the day, and from Canada, was playing. It was a phenomenal show.

We saw these guys:



I've said before that music is kinda the way I live and breathe. Going to a concert, especially one of my favorite bands, is like being part of something bigger than myself. Everyone there is transfixed by the music, singing along in one voice like a wolfpack baying at the moon.

It's disconcerting to hear a song, suddenly, that brings me back to the immediate aftermath of Calla's death. Music does that to me--maybe I feel some songs too intensely--but certain of them just put me RIGHT. BACK. THERE. Well, I guess right back anywhere, depending on the song (I'm looking at you, "Moondance.").

Anyway. The winter of 2010 was filled with lots of new tunes, and whenever I happen on one it's like I get the wind knocked out of me. So here are a few songs that are carrying me along these days.









Hope you find some new favorites, or an old friend.

Wanderlust and Pixie Dust

When I see a girl with two full arms of tattoos, I occasionally get a feeling not unlike wanderlust. The pull of being somewhere, something, and someone else. 

Often I think about the path my life is on, and how I ended up here. Please don't misunderstand, I really like where I am. Looking back at all the stupid, irresponsible and dangerous things I've done seeking a thrill, it's a small miracle I've ended up in such a stable place. 

Last night as I was leaving the grocery store at 9, my glamourous Friday evening coming to a close, the clouds overhead were low and fluffy-puffy swollen. The sky was edging towards darkness, glimmers of pink and orange and blue fading in the west.  I nearly stopped as I pushed my loaded cart across the steaming parking lot and asked aloud, "Is this all a dream? Is this really my life?" Always I figured this is where I'd end up, but actually arriving at this point in my life is a bit more surreal than I'd thought it would be.

Lately I've been a bit of a voyeur, clicking through vacation and jet-setting pictures on the FB. I have one friend who seemingly lives a life of leisure, partying and traveling with zero cares. It stuns me every time. Really? And how did this become your life?

Just as much as I look around me and wonder how this is mine. Mother of two beautiful boys and one beautiful dead girl. Me? This is my reality? Grocery shopping on Friday night, playground playdates and zoo trips sprinkled throughout the week, peanut butter and jelly lunches and two-man baths each night. It's mine. 

I'll sometimes wish for a little magic, a chance to pop out of my life, briefly. To travel without a thought for who's at home, for dinner at midnight, for tattoos on both arms, for an ashram, for something other than ordinary. 

We all know how that math goes, though: if I'd chosen that path so long ago, I wouldn't be here. And I so very much like it here. 

For 20 Years From Today

Dear E,

When you're sitting around with your friends, or your therapist, or whoever, talking about how your mother was some sort of Type-A lunatic who put you in time out for unrolling the toilet paper, I mean hey man it's only toilet paper, please refer to this epistle for the rest of your story.

You did not receive time out for unrolling the toilet paper, per se.

It's not because I especially like toilet paper.
It's not because we can't afford more.
It's not because now I have to go get another roll and put it in the bathroom, another trip up and down the stairs with 20+ pounds of human in tow.
It's not because I don't find it absolutely fucking hilarious finding you sitting on the toilet, surrounded by a mountain of unravelled absorbent paper, while you are fully engrossed in and enjoying the task you've undertaken--because it's a pretty damn funny, and might I add cute, sight to behold.

No, none of these earned you time out, although I don't appreciate wasting things.

It's because when I've already told you 861 times before to NOT unroll the toilet paper, and then you insist on doing it again, I've just about reached my limit.

Love,
Mommy/Mom/Crazy Lady Holding the Acre of Unused Toilet Paper

A Midsummer Afternoon's Post

Hey.

I know.

Mid-July and not a peep for the month yet, huh? Dude, I've been busy.

You may ask yourself, "How exactly does a stay-at-home-parent REALLY expect me to believe she's totally swamped? She STAYS. AT. HOME."

Exactly. Things just come up all the time and then the dog's paws need wiping and then someone's behind needs wiping and then it's dinnertime and boom, it's bedtime and then I'm too tired to write or it's the no-computer time or something.

So anyway, hello.

Also this: I keep thinking about last summer. When I was newly out from Calla's death and pregnant with O. I couldn't bring myself to do much more than turn on "Yo Gabba Gabba" and sit on the couch while E danced and sang and told me not to bite my friends.

Like I could have mustered enough energy to bite anyone.

I did the bare minimum, parent-wise, last summer. I was sad and uncomfortable and anxious and, pre-airconditioning that we now have, really, really hot. I mean, E was well-fed and clothed and cleaned, had plenty of books and toys and shows and games to keep him happy. And I could entertain him enough, could read the stories and do the voices and cook the dinners. I was, however, a bit of a basketcase behind his back.

So I phoned it in. And all of a sudden this year E had his third birthday and the same summer festivals and parties and concerts are rolling around and I'm all, "Wait. How did I miss this last year?" So I've decided to do as much as I possibly can with the boys, and with C as a family, all day and on the weekends and at nighttime--even if that's just running around the yard or taking a bike ride or whatever. Because I missed so much last year. I was living with my hands covering my eyes and ears, rocking in the corner muttering, "I can't believe she died, oh please let him live," over and over and over.

It pretty much sucked, and I was not the most fun mother on earth.

All this to say, I've been busy. But happy, because I wake up and think to myself, "Homey, I can DO this."

********
We've been taking the boys on bike rides through the cemetery. It's right across the street, pretty much, from our house, and it is beautiful. It's super hilly and quiet and once you're in, you'd never know you're in the middle of the city. We've found some old parts where the stones date back to the mid 1700s. And then there's the deer who we see now and then. He's curious and cute and it's like a real-live game of Where's Waldo?--he blends. Baby O refuses to keep his helmet on in the trailer, so our rides are frequently punctuated with me freaking out and adjusting his helmet, only to have him yank it off four seconds later. It's a process.

We stop at Calla's spot--it's a nice hill where E can run up and down and burn off some energy. There was an open grave nearby once when we went, so of course most of my energy was spent keeping him far from it. I tried explaining why we were there, whose name was on the stone. He was far more interested in the truck that lowers the casket into the earth. So he's not really ready yet.

(I'm making this sound like we were frolicking as a funeral and burial were going on feet from us--don't worry, that wasn't the case. We were alone--except for the truck and its driver.)

********
I think people sometimes confuse my ability to function as a normal person with being, ahem, "all better now." Yes, we have our beautiful baby O, too--clearly another marker of someone who's completely healed, right?

Sigh.

I mean, yes, of course, things are far better than they were eighteen months ago. (But even just writing that, "eighteen months ago," it could be eighteen seconds or eighteen decades ago.) The hole in our lives is not the raw, ragged, gaping maw it once was. But it's still a hole. She's still dead and always will be. Calla's still our daughter, still E and O's sister, who is not with us. And that will always hurt.

But it's strange, being a year and a half out from her birth. I've met new people; they don't know. And I'm mostly OK with that. But there are days when I want to scream, "What about HER?! I have a daughter and she's dead and I'm sad and I MISS HER and you don't even KNOW IT!"

That would make things all about me though, wouldn't it?

********
Every night before I go to sleep I sneak into the boys' rooms and give kisses and whispers and just feel their chests rise and fall. I listen to them breathe and imagine what they're dreaming. Now that E is in a big boy bed I can kneel next to it and, if I'm careful, put my ear against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. For these tiny moments I am ever so grateful.

Last night I gave myself a good cry, long overdue and possibly facilitated by the red wine I had before bed. I have Calla's pink knit cap under my pillow, and it's been there for eighteen months. I try to hold it in my hand all night long, but I keep it between the pillows in case I roll over or lose my grip.  And last night it made me sad that all I get for her goodnights is some donated yarn, the only thing I have--not packed away-- that touched her. No kisses, no dreaming, and definitely no heartbeat.

Life may get easier, but living without her never does.