The Stuff Memories Are Made Of

I’ve learned over the last three years so much more than I’d ever suspected has to be hereditary.  I wasn’t surprised about the physical aspects at all.  Personality, I was less surprised by, even if it does knock me off my feet every so often leading me to offer up profuse apologies to my parents.  While I haven’t been surprised, these things have made me wonder about other things we inherit from our parents.  When Kennedy eats spicy things without complaining, or scoffs at chocolate choosing strawberry every time, it makes me think taste preferences have got to be also.  More than anything, the last five months have me wondering so often: are memory capabilities inherited too?  I have clear memories going back to when I couldn’t have been older than two.  Some are really good memories and some are not.  If Kennedy inherits my long-term memory, what will be the things she remembers?  Will there be more good memories than bad?  Will the memories she has of these times be happy ones?  Maybe she will remember nothing of this time, but if she does, my mission this past week was to try and create some standout good ones.  Memories that include her mommy and daddy smiling just as big as she was.

One thing I will state very clearly is that not inherited from her mother is the desire to sleep in a tent outdoors.  One of Sean’s aunts bought Kennedy a princess sleeping bag and ever since the child has relentlessly insisted that we go camping.  I have never been a good camper, going back to my very first camping experience with girl scouts that entailed tucking my jeans into my socks to the time I got my first speeding ticket on my way to God’s country to the last time I went and our tent leaked because it torrentially down-poured.  I firmly believe the sarcastic and facetious term ‘happy camper’ was created with gals like me in mind.  And yet when Kennedy started talking about going and asking to buy a tent and mini lantern every single time we were in Target (as in every other day) I agreed.  Remember, I’m attempting to build some great memories for the kid.  We decided it would be gentler on both Kennedy and Mommy to ease into camping and give it a test run in the backyard.  It was a success.  Hardly roughing it, but a success nonetheless.

We luckily got the “camping trip” in midweek before the rain set in for the next few days.  Then we got some TV in; a lot of TV.  If I turned into a couch potato, she was my tater tot.  She’s got an imagination, I’ll give her that, so often our TV time involves live action role playing, even if it is half dressed.  So when my parents and the sunshine arrived a few days later we were anxious to get out and enjoy both of their company.  We visited my favorite little town and got some sandwiches and made our way to the park that is home to a nice old carousel.  Kennedy took her grandparents for the first ride where I watched my short mother climb up on a horse that finished its’ last ride in the high position and my dear old dad accidentally remove one of these antique equine’s tail.  Kennedy laughed, probably more because I was laughing so hard at my awkward aging moments, but she laughed in any case and I’ll take it.  

During lunch, though I warned him if he started they’d come in droves, my dad insisted that he and Kennedy feed the ducks their bread crusts.  Well us girls got quite a kick out of watching the man try to lose his new posse, let me tell you.  She’s talked about daily since.  In my opinion, another win for the memory bank.

We had talked up the upcoming 4^th of July festivities for days and so when the rain rolled in unexpectedly and we weren’t able to go to my sister’s house for some good old fashioned American fun, including their newly refinished pool, BBQ, and some newly permissible fireworks.  None of us were happy, least of all me who had been craving a hot dog all week.  We made adjustments to out plans and decided to grab some KFC (that’s American cuisine, no?) and go to a local fireworks display.  I was pumped; there are few things I enjoy more than fancy firework shows.  When we got there little “miss hard to impress” just wanted my iPhone (I know, we’ve ruined her) but she did give a few “oohs” and “aahs” when she could be bothered to look up.  All in all she wasn’t thrilled and we were praying it wouldn’t rain again the next day for the rescheduled day of fun.

 

I attempted a Pinterest recipe this morning.  Epic. Fail.  Apparently when you have neither the knowledge base nor the inclination to make cherry pie filling from scratch AND attempt to make it the least bit healthy but purchasing the store bought, light version all you get is a recipe for disaster.  They looked pretty and delicious but these suckers had no taste to back up the good looks.  Not only did they taste bad but the aftertaste was downright offensive.  Needless to say they didn’t make the trip to the party.

On our way, we stopped by Jack’s spot to bring him some red, white and blue daisies.  Hard as I tried, I couldn’t help but think how unfair it felt that instead of dressing my baby boy in the obligatory “Frist 4^th of July” clothes and bibs I had to settle for patriotic flowers for his grave.  Another first we didn’t have with him and as unimportant as it may seem in terms of days and firsts, it doesn’t soften the blow any.  As I walked back to the car, I promised myself I would enjoy the day for what it was: a day to enjoy with family.

God gave us a break too and some sun our way, albeit with some heat and brutal humidity- but beggars can’t be choosers.  It was all worth it because the kids had a great time, making their first big, unassisted swims across a pool (heavily water-safety-device-clad of course), “fishing” in a tub of water, making s’mores, watching some small firecrackers Gramps had picked up and giving Sparklers a try for the first time.  Us big kids had a pretty ok time too.  Kennedy left filthy dirty, overtired, and crying that she was going to miss her cousins; all a measure of a great day.

So I guess what it all comes down to is: Will some really fun times be enough to make my beautifully empathetic and loving baby girl stop asking me if I’m sad or if I miss baby Jack too much because she forgets how sad we’ve been?  I hope that if she does happen to inherit my memory ability and she has flashes back to these times it will be good, happy memories that include smiling faces, laughter.  Hell, I’d even settle for memories of a little good-natured trouble making.  Here’s to hoping.  

Work it Out

Middle school health class has taught me exercise releases endorphins and endorphins make you happy.  Well, to be fair to my good friend, the health teacher, I’ll admit it’s a bit more complex than that, but you get the idea.  I’ve never been one of those people who will claim to love working out, I’ve actually always kind of hated it.  To be real honest, if I could just eat the way I often do and suffer no consequences you wouldn’t catch me dead at a gym.  I started working out again a few months ago, less for body purposes and more for my mind.  At this point in my life, I’ll do anything I can to increase the happy-factor in my days.  And so, to the gym I go.

I took up kickboxing.  With the exception of a Spandex-clad Billy Blanks dvd in my parent’s living room as a teenager, I’ve never done it before.  I found a Groupon for a place near my house and decided to give it a whirl.  The first class kicked my ass but I really did like it.  It could have just been the endorphins at play but I enjoyed myself.  I don’t know if it was so much the working out that I enjoyed or the anonymity that I relished.  No one knew me there.  When I met the instructor I offered very little about myself other than it looked cool and I wanted to check it out.  Whenever the other women there talked I usually kept quiet, offering a smile or a little laugh to whatever they were talking about.  I wasn’t getting too invested and didn’t want to put myself in a position where any questions could be asked of me.

Often, for me lately, all roads lead back to Jack.  So any conversation always has the potential to go there, usually because I may bring him up.  But not there.  Though I’ve slowly begun making small talk, there I rarely even mention Kennedy.  You see if I mention that I have a daughter someone usually asks how old she is.  I tell them but then quickly shut the conversation down, hoping I give off body language that could convince people I’m really into the workout. 

The constant worry I have is that the next question would be, “Do you have any other kids?”  How do I answer?  Yes? Sort of? I did? Do I explain I had a son but he died and it’s been awful and I’m just hoping that punching things, sweating, and barely being able to breathe will make me feel better?  Not a gym-type conversation.  But really, truth be told, it’s that I don’t want anyone to know is because then it will be one more place where people will wonder if I’m okay.  They’ll feel the need to ask, and regardless what the answer is, I’ll feel the need to say something like, “I’m okay” or, “hanging in there”. 

So today we’re doing some floor work and the conversation turned to having babies, the various topics that go with that and suddenly I felt this irrational need to run out of there to my car, or pretend I had to puke in the bathroom, anything to avoid being looped into the conversation.  I just wasn’t confident that, today of all days- 5 months exactly after I lost part of my world, that I could nonchalantly answer anything that was asked of me.  I couldn’t breathe and if anyone noticed I probably looked absolutely nuts.  Luckily the trainer called time and we had to put our gloves back on and hit the bags again, no one talks then.

The problem isn’t that I don’t want to talk about Jack.  I love to say his name and see his face in my mind when it’s said out loud. It’s just that it’s nice to go somewhere that no one has any framework to make a comparison of who I was one year or even 6 months ago.  I’m just any other chick with a sweaty, red face trying to better herself in some way.  I get to take a break from being Tricia, grieving mama, and just be Tricia, girl with a jiggly belly determined to have a six-pack.  Okay, I’ll settle for a four-pack.

A Father's Love

A father’s love comes in all shapes and sizes.  It manifests itself in so many and sometimes even strange ways- talking to friends and family members over the years that became very clear to me.  I could find their father’s love for them in the stories they’ve told me, even those ones that didn’t paint dear old dad in the best light.  Even when I think back to times when my dad and me butted heads during the teenage years, as a parent now, I can find the love that was present if I look hard enough.  Some dads hug and kiss their kids non-stop.  Others stand on the sidelines at countless sporting events no matter the weather.  Other dads yell at their kids to remember to change the oil in their car or teach them to change a tire.  Some dads are a healthy mix of all of that and more.  My children?  They are some of the lucky ones that hit the jackpot when it comes to fathers.  Sean and I made out pretty damn good too. 

Friday night I had made plans with some girlfriends and wasn’t going to be around for dinner.  Sean decided he was going to make some chicken parm for dinner, making the sauce and frying the cutlets before I’d left; already I was impressed because if he’s not going to be around for dinner I usually pour Kennedy and I a bowl of cereal and call it a night.  While I was out I happened to check my phone and saw he’d tagged me in a picture he’d posted on Instagram.  When I saw it I remembered why I love this man so much.  He gotten himself and Kennedy all dressed up and they had a candlelight dinner, complete with a glass of wine and Capri Sun.  He’s that kind of dad.

I think because of his easygoing disposition it is sometimes easy to forget that Sean has a broken heart too.  Though it often looks different for him than it does me, it’s got some cracks in it just the same.  This has to be the case for most dads in a similar position to Sean’s.  So today, though I woke up with a heavy heart, I vowed to myself that today would be about Sean.  We’d celebrate him being a daddy, however that would look this year.

So how did that look for Sean?  What does the first Father’s Day of a grieving dad look like?  Something like this:

-      -Waking up before me to feed the dog and let him out, stopping in Kennedy’s room to turn on some Disney Jr. for her and came back to bed (I was already kicking myself here that I hadn’t gotten up first).

-       -Smiling when Kennedy came into bed with us and forced her way into the middle because she wanted to lay next to daddy, who she told, unprompted, was her best friend.

-      - Showing the perfect amount of excitement to thrill our little girl who excitedly gave the Father’s Day cards we’d picked out.

-       -Cleaning up an ENTIRE bowl of spilled cereal and milk from the coffee table without grumbling once (he had me beat here too).

-       -Taking care to pick out his clothes for brunch and planning what time we’d leave the house in order to have enough time make the stops we needed to before our reservation.

-       -Standing next to me, rubbing my back as I cried, at the cemetery asking what I though Jack would be able to do at this point if he were here still.  We both liked to think he’d smile a lot.

-       -Stopping at a Target no where near our house so we could pick up a 4^th curtain panel even though it killed him to spend so much on curtains when he wanted to leave the window open and bright.

-       -Sitting at the table at the restaurant with a smile on his face even though I was so annoyed no one had come by to ask if we’d wanted a drink after sitting for over 10 minutes.

-       -Never complaining about how hot and humid it was to be sitting outside when that is all I could do, even if I was the one who had asked to be seated out there.

-       -Allowing Kennedy to sit on his lap even though she’s a little hotbox that has to increase one’s body temperature by at least 10 degrees.

-      - Pointing out a robin’s nest to Kennedy that was made inside her favorite horse sculpture at the restaurant even though it forced us to stand there longer than he’d probably wanted to.

-       -Patiently standing as I took picture after picture, trying to get at least one of him and our little girl who was opting not to cooperate today.

It went on like this all day.  The point is what did Sean’s first Father’s Day as a grieving father look like?  Much the same as any other day looks.  He manages to continue on being the loving, patient, and consistent father and husband he always has been despite the loss he’s endured.  And try as I might to make things about him, he is happy when his girls are happy and he spends his days trying to make sure we are.

Happy Father’s Day to the boy I fell in love with 12 years ago that became the daddy to a beautiful, bossy little girl and a man our baby boy can look down upon and be proud of.

Happy Father’s Day to my Dad, a man who never forgets to remind me that I will always be his baby girl.

Happy Father’s Day to both of my fathers-in-law, two men that can always put a smile on my face, even in the darkest of times.

To all of the other dads out there:  Happy Father's Day.  Tell your kids you love them, the rest will fall into place somehow.