We visit Sam's Club often. It's where we buy our diapers and wipes, and a slew of other items (and by the way...love Sam's diapers). Anyway...
We also visit the Sam's Club snack counter frequently while shopping there. Because, you know...you can get a big soft pretzel for like $.80 or something ridiculous...and they're super to die for.
There's an older man who works there. A very nice Indian man ( I know this because he told me "I am from India"). He is almost always behind the register and almost always takes our order.
Lately, he had been smiling more and more at the kids and I. Pointing to them, making baby talk, smiling at me, offering me extra cups for them, giving us a little bit bigger pizza slices, whatever. Just here and there, I noticed.
Then finally on our most recent trip, he smiled big as he watched me approach with the kids in the cart...and he spoke...
"I remember you, how are you?"
Fine, I told him. Just fine. And then asked how he was.
"I know what you did and it makes me so happy" he said, as he took my cash and placed it into the register drawer. He then clasped his hands to his heart.
"I'm from India. In India I am helping with this too. But not here. But I know what you have done and I am very happy. So happy."
I smiled, but wasn't sure what he was getting at. He pointed to the kids, greedily chomping away on their soft pretzel...chugging away at their lemonaide.
"So happy. It...I think....you must let me buy your food next time you come. You must. I will not hear of it. It would make me happy. It is my way to give to you back for what you did, ok? You must let me. It will make me happy to buy the food for you. You must let me. Ok?"
He was happy I had adopted the children.
It blessed him.
It touched his heart.
He works full-time six days a week at Sam's Club serving soft pretzels and pizza by the slice. And he wants to buy my kids their next snack.
Because when he lived in India, he supported and volunteered in local orphanages.
And seeing my kids makes him happy.
And it reminds me that there are some things about being the mother of two adopted children that I could have never, ever predicted.
I've had a hard week...month...year....whatever, it's been hard.
And yesterday, after yet another difficult 24 hours, wherein after dinner I slumped against my good man and let my burdens drain down to the ground for just a moment...
after I confessed to him that I knew full-well that I was not easy to live with all the time (cuz, you know...he didn't already know that or anything...cuz...yeah)
after I stood trying to swallow my pride and just come out with it...
I said it.
"You know what I appreciate so much about you? That you love me as Christ loved the church...flawed, imperfect, always falling down...but you love me anyway just as I am. You pick me up when I'm down. You encourage me. You build me up. You love me exactly as I am...no matter what. Even when I'm being ugly. When I'm completely irrational. When I'm stubborn. You still love me...with the exact kind of love the Bible instructed you to as a husband...and I so need that kind of love in my life. So thank you"
To which he just chuckled, kissed me on the tip of my nose and said "you're welcome...and I do...love you...no matter what"
And I believe him
And so that's where this important post comes into play. Because that right there is truly enough to make many a woman swoon. Many.
But ya'll...he didn't stop there.
For years...years....and more years...I've wanted a bike. I love to ride a bike. I love the wind, the motion...just all of it.
But I don't and haven't had a bike since I was a child. Sad, but true.
And you know what?
I got a big, honking surprise this week from that good man: I got a gift card for a nominal amount that read "To get the basket you wanted"...to which I was in shock and realized that the only "basket" I had asked for recently, was one that could strap on nicely to a lovely bike that I had been coveting. So what do I need with a little wicker bike basket if I don't have a....if I don't...if I....OH MY GAWD...NO...REALLY? REALLY? SERIOUSLY?????
Friends, Behold Her:
Do us both a favor and click on that picture so you can see her up close...
Cant. Stop. Staring.
She's a Huffy Cranbrook Comfort Cruiser in Vintage Mint Green (only the Vintage part is in description only, because she's brand spanking new). Oh, my heart.
I had a pink Huffy as a child. Put oh so many miles on that Pink Huffy and many a treasure in the little white basket my Dad had lovingly attached to the front of it. Yes, I did.
And I might have been hinting off and on for some, I don't know, ten years or so (totally not counting, ahem) about how much I would love a bike. Just for me.
A comfortable, lovely cruiser...that's what I wanted.
So after I was done screaming and jumping up and down and scaring the dog, kids, neighbors, etc. that good man of mine chimed in...
"You work so hard every day. You deserve something that's just for you...that makes you happy"
Dreamy sigh...help!
So now I need a really, really good name for her...like Hyacinth...Margaret, Betty, or Virginia...
And I'm already shopping around for a darling wicker basket to sit on the front and hold my...well...hold my treasures in its wickery goodness.
Oh help. I'm in love.
In LOVE with that mint green vintagey bliss of a bike and with my good, good man
The strange thing about losing a dog, or any animal for that matter...is that for the most part - the grieving is, I think, expected by others to end right away. And for the sake of this post, I'll reference dogs - but just know that you can really apply it to any pet.
Kaleigh, sweet Kaleigh...died a little over two weeks ago. You can read about that here. And in some ways it feels like months ago. Yet in others, I can still remember every vivid detail of those last minutes with her. A fresh wound that keeps on weeping.
I think to the outside world (using that term broadly) - when you're grieving a pet, you're expected to get over it fairly quickly. You know, people might not say this to your face - but on the inside they are thinking it. They are. Not all, but many.
Because, it's just a dog. And you have two children now. And (squints eyes) it's a dog. Right? I mean, she was kind of a disaster, wasn't she? Always sickly? That is to say, she had a hard life, right? It's better this way. Don't be sad. You did the right thing. Look at it this way, she had a much better life with you that she would have with anyone else. You loved her, right? So, it's better this way. She's not in any more pain. Isn't life a little bit easier now without her? If you admit it to yourself?
On. and. on.
And they mean well. They do. And I know that. So I don't harbor ill-will. I just find it remarkable the way we rationalize the pain of losing a pet.
If a person you loved passed away, you probably wouldn't undergo this type of "feel better about it" stroking. They would probably just keep quiet. Oh, some might say "sorry about your loss" or "she's in a better place" - but they'd think twice when choosing the words.
And it's peculiar, isn't it? Somehow a pet rates much lower. And on some levels, I understand that. But the heart...oh the heart loves who the heart loves.
For almost ten years - Kaleigh was like a child to us. And I can say that. Because I now have two children - and aside from the whole human to animal difference (albeit a large difference) - she was still very much a part of us, and we of her, and a very special member of this family. And not just for AB and I and the kids, but that of our dear friends, our parents, and even our siblings and extended family.
Yes. Kaleigh impacted all of us in her own way.
I've mentioned that she slept with me. In the bed. Spooned up against me each night. Had no idea she was a dog. We kept it on the down-low. She just had no clue she was not a person.
We liked it that way. We liked her to think that way. Why not? She was our sweetie. And her personality was adorable and fun...she was a good, good dog...our good girl.
And so much more.
So over the past three weeks, we've comforted ourselves with pictures of her and memories of her antics. Looking over those pictures, I can see just how many milestones she was there for. And they are many. It warmed my heart - but made me sick with grief. Sad that she would not see any more milestones in this family. And sad that her time with us was over so soon.
Gone too soon.
We're still crying. Still grieving. Still missing her so...
And little Quint....still asking for her almost every day. We drove by the vet and he asked to see her. Of course, because we had last seen her and left her there. I told him she wasn't there anymore...and couldn't come home to us as gently as I could. Still, he cried for her. I cried too.
When we had to take Anabelle back to the vet for her vaccinations and to be groomed, Quint was traumatized. He thought she wasn't coming back either. Even with all the reassurances in the world. His relief when we picked her up was palpable. And heartbreaking...he has lost his sweet playmate and it was vivid the way he was grieving her.
AB had a dream about her last night, and it was painful to wake up and remember that she's not coming back.
I've been finding reminders of her all over the house - and it's so hard, friends. I won't even go into the trauma that came with washing out her dog dishes for the last time, hanging up her dog collar after having last taken it off of her before she died, or trying to clean, mop, wash things that have "her" all over them. Might sound strange, but it feels like we're erasing her in a way. Like all we have now are the memories and these pictures spanning almost a decade of our time with her. Somehow cleaning her little paw-prints off the tile was heart-wrenching...like saying goodbye to the little pieces of her I still held onto.
So it's hard to measure grief. In all its forms. Whether it be for a pet or a person. Who can say how long you should cry? How long you should still be listening for the sounds of her nails click-clicking on the wood floor? How long you should wait before washing her paw-prints off the tile? How long you should dream of her in your sleep or look for her at the vet? How long you should ask for her, think of her, sit in sorrow over her? Look at pictures of her until your eyes are blurry from tears? Who can tell you?
I think, no one...loss and death are so final. Absolute and overwhelmingly final. And who can tell you how to grieve but your own broken heart?
Who can tell you how much to love your dog or how much to grieve when they have to leave you? A member of the family, is a member of the family. Four legs or two.
Where is it written that I have to do this mothering thing the right way, the first time...or even the second?
Or that I have to remember all things, be all things, and give up all things to do it "right"?
Or that I should know instinctively what they need, want, and require, intuitively?
Where is that written? Because I'd like to read it.
(and I'd like to know the person who wrote it, ahem)
Frankly, most days I'm moving forward minute to minute in terms of style and thought-process. Hour to hour. And let's be honest - "forward" is a kind, lavish word - don't you think?
I think that anyone who tells you that you should know/be/do all those Super Mothering things out of the gate (or even at all), is wrong. Don't listen to them.
For that matter, why can't we stop looking at others and feeling like they probably do it better than us. Right? This is where I fall down. Wanting the patience of one, the humor of another, the tenderness of her, and the wisdom of that one over there...
All the time comparing myself and observing those around me who seem to have a better grapple on it.
Guess what I think? I think they don't. Have a better handle on it, that is. Not really. I mean, some of them might - but most don't. You're just catching them in a good moment...a "forward" moment.
Case in point: today I decided to treat the kids and myself to a fun lunch at a local cafe. Admittedly, it was probably brave of me to get all big in my britches and go it alone, but what the heck. We ordered, got seated (two highchairs and all), began munching on chips, and were even happily engrossed in people watching - all three of us. After the food arrived, the kids began to eat quietly and patiently...silently continuing to eat and occasionally throw in a giggle (or a grunt for more) in my direction. It was so enjoyable. I thought to myself "this can't be any better...they are such lovely children". Forward moment!
Women were glancing my way. One woman stopped by my table and said "my goodness, I hardly knew there were two small children sitting behind me...they're so wonderful...what a blessing...not a peep".
Dangit. Jinxed.
Keira started to cry. Quint took her chip or something. Quint started hollering at her "STOP SISSY! STOP!" and eyes began to shift...heads began to turn...Keira dropped her food on the floor, Quint threw his cup, I walked two feet away to get a napkin and Quint started screaming at the top of his lungs...anyway, you get the picture, eh? It was all downhill from there and my "Golden Parenting Statue" was unceremoniously left on the Cafe floor as I scurried out of there with my children in tow.
Can I tell you? I was embarrassed. Not of them, but for us. Because it felt like I just didn't have my act together. Because my kids were melting down and everyone was trying not to look, and that just made it worse. Because I couldn't keep my 11-month old from crying snot-bubbles out her nose, while I drug my cranky squirmy tantrum-ing 2-year old behind. Get me out of here - that's all I could think!
Now, as far as I know - none of us were handed an instruction manual. No book to tab through and turn to that says "unplanned tantrum - see page 83". Or "tantrum with food throwing and obnoxious screaming - see page 145". Yes, I need that book, actually. What about "When to put in earplugs and step into a bubblebath - see page 6,457". Heh. Cough.
More often than not, I'm holding myself to an impossible standard. Do you do that sometimes? The standard that says "my children will never meltdown or tantrum in public". The standard that says "I will always appear as if I have it all together, even if I don't". The standard that says "my children will behave exactly as I have taught them at all times, no matter what the circumstance".
Now, I don't really expect that. But doesn't it feel like we're holding ourselves to those impossible standards some days? And when it doesn't happen, how does that makes us feel? Like we've failed somehow? Sigh.
What I really want is to give myself a break. On the days when everything falls apart to the days when we couldn't be happier...just give myself a break. Even more, give my kids a break. Who loves cranky, busy, stressed out, impossible standards Mom anyway? Boo on her. And let me tell you something, she's around way too much.
I don't know about you, but I frequently miss the parenting boat. That is to say, I do or say the wrong thing. Maybe I'm too quick to be impatient or to anger. Maybe I'm frustrated. Maybe too tired. Sometimes I don't manage my time well, or forget about things all together. Other times, I'm throwing in my towel before the day has really even started. Schedule goes out the window, nap-times are shot, patience is low, tantrums are high, dinner hasn't been laid out, keys are misplaced, laundry is piled too high. On and on.
Been there much?
Sometimes I'm putting the kids to bed for the night and in my head saying "I need a do-over of this whole day...I screwed up...I'm sorry...tomorrow will be better".
Other times I'm feeling pretty good about the kids I'm bringing up and the way I'm doing it.
Sadly, for the most part I'm just over-comparing myself to other moms. It's silly and tiring. And I'm already tired. Supermoms are everywhere...at least where we live. And it's overwhelming. Soccer, ballet, piano, gymboree class, art class, mothers-day-out school, high-end pre-school, pottery painting, playdates, mall dates, this and that and the other...on and on...and these are all for kids my children's ages. Ack.
Listen up - if I don't even get a "mall date" with AB - then the kids can forget it. I mean, sorry, but seriously? I think we're trying so hard to make sure that every moment of our kids' time is full of wonderful things to do...that we forget the simple pleasure of letting them learn and explore on their own - through free-play. The operative word there being "free". Ha.
Truly though...my kids have more fun exploring their own backyard most days, than the energy and time it takes just to get them to some of these events. We joke often that it's a production just getting out the door. Not to mention that mom gets stressed out and then that's no fun for any of us. Undue pressure?
What about the hose? Sprinklers? Play-doh? Baking? Painting? Coloring? Creating...
Ah, I don't know. Maybe I'm on a soap box again. Maybe we're trying too hard? Maybe less is more?
Even worse, maybe we're the ones trying to feel better about our own stellar efforts at giving them everything they could ever want or need? Trying to never miss a beat, never fail...always present as close to perfect as we can. Standards set so high, even we know they're ridiculous. Still, we press on...towards some unforeseen goal of perfection in parenting. Is that what our kids need from us? Yikes. Convicted over here.
Maybe we're setting ourselves up to feel like failures.
Maybe it's too much.
And where is it written that we need to do any of that?
It's not.
Do you know anyone who is a perfect parent? A perfect mother? I don't. And I know a lot of wonderful women who are mothers. Wonderful mothers, in fact. But flawed. Not perfect. Just like you. Just like me. All of whom have had their rough patches, bad mornings, regrets, and days of sunshine too.
Maybe in letting our kids be kids...giving them some freedom to just be, and giving ourselves the grace and freedom to sit back and enjoy their childhood as much as they do - maybe then we're re-writing the unwritten rule of perceived perfection?
Maybe by offering the Mom in line behind us at the checkout (you know the one, she's got the toddler who's melting down) - just a kind smile, a nod of understanding, a look or a gesture or even a supportive word that says "I get you...I've been there...it's ok". Maybe that will breed change in the facade by giving each other the grace to be human. To be flawed.
And let's be honest for a minute - we're raising up human beings...little people, for crying out loud. It's like...well, you know...this HUGE undertaking. I'm just not seeing enough grace for ourselves or for the other women out there busting their hump, living in the trenches, and schlepping dirty diapers all day. Actually, insert child's age here - all the stages are hard. All of them.
Maybe by being still, and allowing our kids to grow up apart from our planned agendas (in keeping up with the Supermoms)...we're actually setting the bar for new standards? Ones that don't involve constant comparison, but encourage grace and support. Showing others that we're only human. And humanity is fragile. Not perfect. Not shiny and new all the time. Not a Norman Rockwell painting. Just real life moms, doing the very best we can.
Tantrums, laundry, sweatpants, excess weight (mine), runny noses, meltdowns, too much TV, too much chocolate (again, mine) and all the rest...
Two years ago, friends. Two years today. That's how long ago it was that this took place:
If you've been following us for that long - bless you. You will remember each stage you will see below. And it still amazes me. Still leaves me choked up when I see the images.
Reminders of how beautiful and fulfilling those moments were. How breathtaking they were. And I love to think of them...but especially today, because it's The Day.
Only it's already been two years. And he'll be three this year. It makes me want to weep and yet shout for joy! My sweet little man is growing up before my eyes.
And I love him so. But you already know that, don't you?
And he does too...I can guarantee it. Maybe because I have a small addiction to kissing his little face about 100 gazillion times a day. In between tantrums. Of course. Cough. (just a phase...it's just a phase...how long can it possibly *cough* last?? Phshaw)
I think there's a million things I want to say here, but it would be a novel. Of love, learning, laughing, growing, and the many ways he's changed our lives.
Of the sunshine he's brought, and the way he gave us back our hope and dreams and all the good stuff that you put on the shelf without knowing it.
He was remarkable then.
He is remarkable now.
And we're still in awe of him...every day
and more so of the goodness of our Heavenly Father for bringing him to us and us to him.
He sets the lonely in families...oh yes, He does.
Happy 2 years together, my son.
Pure sunshine in my heart - we love you all the way to the moon and back again, and again, and again...
..."don't take it personally, people who spill negativity onto others are usually the most miserable and unhappy people themselves"
She's right. We need to pity them. For real.
Translation: Screw it. I'm not shutting down the blog or going private. So haters can kiss it.
Lovers can gimme sum' sugar. Right?
It's been a couple weeks of reflection(ish) time. Minus the huge loss to our family a couple weekends ago...which seriously took the wind out of my sails for pretty much everything for a bit.
So after my mini-break, here's what I think:
I need a blog makeover. Stay with me. It's a good thing to clear out the cobwebs, update the pictures, get a new look, new colors...you know, a really good makeover. Like the one I have, which I love, only more current. And I'm waiting on some pics from the prof. photographer, so when those come back, I'll be ready to go. I started making my own design, and it was sorta crappy OK, but I got tired of it, and I want it to look super-fly. Cough. I'm so old, I was trying to be all cool and say "super-fly" right there...and you see, it doesn't work. I just sound old. Boo. Anyway...
I'm going to start watermarking pictures of my kids. So that will help with the pilfering and pillaging of my babies photos. Second, if you're family and you want them, e-mail me.
I'll keep moderating the comments as always, and maybe once in a while, I'll post them so that you nice followers can eat the anonymous posters alive. Ahem. No, seriously. Because I don't have the energy for it. But maybe you do? And I think I'm coming from a place where meanness just for the sake of being mean is so beyond my comprehension...I just don't have the words. To attack someone...why? Does it really make them feel better to belittle or judge or say cruel things - hoping their hurtful message will shock me into a "change" they feel is appropriate? Really? A stranger? Come on now...isn't it easier not to read the blog?
Anyway...you want the truth? I was so moved by the outpouring of e-mails and comments you all left me for 1. how I was feeling about the blog and 2. sweet Kaleigh passing, that I think I realized...it is silly to let the few nastys out there have that much power. Just silly. We'll just up the security and keep on truckin' - mmmkay? Because as much as I love to write and whittle away my evenings putting my heart on here, you seem to really enjoy reading it. And that touches me. A lot.
So let's keep dancin', shall we? I've got good things to write if you've got time to read them...
I've wanted to say something sooner, but I just couldn't find the words. Because, this grief...I'm not really accustomed to it, if I'm honest.
Our family has been very fortunate in avoiding loss. We all agree we've been very fortunate indeed.
Except in one area. Our beloved pets. And even there, we've been blessed to have fairly healthy pets who have lived many years. Even as I write this, my 16 year old kitty sleeps in my room, and my 10 year old puppy snoozes at my feet. But as those of you who are pet lovers know, their lives are painfully short by comparison.
If you aren't a pet-lover, you might not know that usually a pet takes ownership of one person in the family. I was Kaleigh's person. And she was my dog. Through and through.
I loved her well and she loved me better.
Despite having two children now, our pets remain very much our "kids".
Kaleigh was a spooner. With me. With anyone, really. But with me each night, her head on my pillow. And often times she was in bed, finding her perfect spot, before I'd even reach the bedroom. There was comfort there. She kept me warm at night and she would wander to lay on my feet as the night wore on.
I wasn't sure about writing this post. I'm not here to preach about the values of having pets versus not having pets. Or to debate about the type of dog she was, because I can clear up right now that she was a pound puppy who was part pitbull/part "we'll never know". And I realize people who do not or never have owned a pitbull mix can't fully appreciate the intelligence, sweetness, and loyalty they possess. And I know this is somewhat universal because we have two of them (correction: had two...sigh), my parents had sweet Molly for ten years, and my Aunt and Uncle have had two as well. All living late into their dog years. All sweet, docile, and complete members of our extended family in every way.
Still grief is strange. In my sorrow, I keep finding myself waffling. Trying unsuccessfully to convince myself of things that I just can't accept....like
there are worse things in life than saying goodbye to your dog (which there are. but it doesn't help right now)
she was just a dog in the big scheme of things (which, she was...but she was so much more)
you have children now, and that should be enough (which, I do...but somehow it's completely different)
try to suck it up, Christie, she's finally at peace, no more pain (which is true...she's not in pain anymore, and that gives me some level of comfort - but I cannot seem to suck it up...yet.)
I don't know why I do that. I guess to make myself feel better. But it doesn't. Not at all. And it's silly to think those things anyway, because she was anything but "just a dog".
She was special. That much I would debate with anyone. But I wouldn't need to. Because if you met her, you knew it yourself. She was special. She loved people and people loved her. She was described as sweet, a lover, and a spunky girl. She would put her head on your knee and stare up at you with her big bronze eyes...silently working her way into your heart until you were compelled to give her what she most wanted: love. A pat on the head, or a tummy rub. And if you stopped, she would place her paw on your hand and look longingly at you...you couldn't resist her. Even those who would be intimidated by her at first glance would soon cave to her gentle kindness and be forced to reassess their judgement. She was a people person...a people dog. She was something.
I don't want to go into all the details of what led to Kaleigh's end. It's all irrelevant now. She was sick for many years and getting worse. Keeping her with us was selfish. She was miserable. It just took a turn for the worse over the weekend and when we realized it, we knew that we only had one option left.
But in the space of a couple hours, we went from having her here, to noticing she was not well, to saying goodbye, to watching her die. That still baffles me...how quickly she was gone.
I want to say again how loyal she was. Faithful. Trusting. And it was that trust that got us through those final moments. It felt like betrayal to me, but I've come to know that it was just the only way left for me to help her. By letting her go.
I held her face in my hands, crying - unable to hold back my breaking heart or my buckets of tears, and said "thank you...for everything you did for me...for being my friend, my companion...even being my kiddo when I was heartsick and childless. You were there for me. You have always been a comfort in my time of need. And I love you so much."
And I'm sorry..."
And those big brown eyes calmly looked at me while I spoke. Paw in my hand. Enjoying the love. Blissfully unaware, or so I tell myself.
When I asked her to lay down on the blanket...the blanket where she would leave us, she willingly and calmly obeyed - placing her head in my lap. And in a matter of minutes, after hugging her, kissing her furry face, and reassuring her...she was gone.
Just like that. Very peacefully. Trusting to the last minute. She was gone. My sweet, sweet little dog.
And friends, I don't mind to tell you that afterward..after the staff left me alone in the room with her, and after she had breathed her last deep breath...I wept bitterly. Laying next to her, my head on her side...my tears running from my face to her chest and my grief pouring over both of us. I was sick. Heartsick. Broken. She was not a perfect dog. But oh how I loved her so. And I did not even try to contain my sobs. And despite my tears and moaning, the room was silent and still. She was gone from me, and by my hand...and it devastated me.
I wasn't alone in my grief. The vet staff cried too. Because she was special, and had touched them over the seven years they had treated her...calling her their favorite pitbull ever. Loving her and caring for her. One by one, they made their way into the room to say goodbye, in disbelief that our girl's time had finally come. Crying with me in those final moments. She was special.
Friends called and came over to support us. They knew. They knew Kaleigh and they knew what she meant to us. And we cried and were comforted. We remembered her, we laughed....and we cried some more. We're still crying.
And you may not understand this loss. Maybe you just can't. And that's ok.
But I know some of you do. And I know that for you, it's hard to read because maybe you've been there or dread going there.
Being in our home without her is still heartbreaking in many ways. I half expect her to be on the bed when I head to my room at night. Half expect her to come running when it's dinner time. Half expect to see her bolting out the dog-door to chase birds or bark at neighbor dogs. But no more...
And even harder in many ways is realizing that Kaleigh wasn't just my dog. And I wasn't her only person. Even though I might like to think so.
She had developed a special loyalty to another...and it's breaking my heart to remember him saying goodbye to her. Patting her head, hugging her neck, kissing her..."bye bye da-doh...see ya" All of us crying watching a boy part with his playmate.
We're so sad. It will heal with time. We had her for almost ten years. It will take at least that many to stop looking for her around the corner...
