The things no one tells you about being an orphaned adult

My biological dad hasn't been around since I was 13.  I haven't seen him since I was 18.

I lost my mom in 2012 -- I was 32.  She was 55.

I also have no family.  My stepdad, who's been around since I was 7, but it's clearly he's pulling away from me and my kids.  My uncle, my mom's brother, who hasn't contacted me since the day we said good-bye to my mom for the last time.

Watching a tv show, where an adult's mom is comforting them, wrecks me.

Hearing my friends talk about their mom doing this or that with them, pains me.

I don't have anyone to tell me about my childhood stories.  More important, there's no one to tell my children.

I don't have anyone to call who can say "Oh, I remember when you...."

My children will never experience the amazing grandmother she would have been.

I can't call my mom for advice.  I can't get a hug from her when I just want to be a child and have my mom again.   I see that in my kids' faces -- they are young, of course, but that look.  That "I just need my mom and I need her to hug me and tell me it's all going to be okay" look.

I can't listen to certain songs.  As much as as I love my mother-in-law, and how grateful I am for all she does for me and my family, she's not my mom.  And I can't call her that, because I feel like it would be dishonoring my mom.

Losing a parent before you turn 50 is different than losing a parent after 50.  Chances are if you lose a parent after 50, they had a long, full live.  They are mostly likely in their 70s or 80s.  They've had the chance to be grandparents to your children, they've seen your children achieve things and seen you become a mother.

I ache for my mother to tell me I'm doing a good job.  To hear her say that she's proud of me, and the mother, wife, and woman I've become.  I thought we'd have more time.

Never, ever take your mom for granted.  I never imagined she wouldn't be here to see me turn 35.  I never imagined she wouldn't be at PJ's graduation from high school, at Maggie's wedding.

And never, ever, regret growing older.  It is a privilege denied to many.

Buy your own damn pictures.

Disclaimer:  I know.  I KNOW.  I've been gone forever, but I was inspired to blog today so shut the hell up.

Pictures.  They are everywhere.  School pictures.  Baseball pictures.  Soccer pictures.  Dance pictures.  Swimming pictures.  Family pictures.  Halloween pictures.

I'm sure there's tons more pictures of your children you've had taken, whether or not you have wanted to.

And they all get taken by some fancy photography studio.  And you have to choose what package you'll buy before you even SEE these pictures (unless you go to JCPenney, which I highly recommend) and hope that your kid is smiling, not picking his nose, not having three hairs stand up, or some other similarly horrifying thing that makes a bad picture.

And these packages??

Are RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE.

Why am I paying $8 for a 5x7 I pay $2 for at Walgreens?

Because you have to.  I mean, what kind of mom are you if you don't spend ridiculously amounts of money on posed pictures of your kid in various stages of life?

And that's fine.  I coughed up the $31 for the smallest package of baseball pics of PJ, along with a magnet.

But all you people?

"Oh I want a picture!"

"Can I have a picture?"

"So cute! Which ones for me?"

THE ONE YOU PAY FOR, ASSHOLE.

I come from a small family.  The only pictures my mom handed out were to my grandma, who we lived with, who took care of me, so of course she was entitled to a picture.

And I don't mind getting one for my MIL, because does a lot for us.

When my mom was alive, she'd pay me for the pictures she wanted.  Because she wanted copious amounts of pictures.

I married into a big family.  You want a picture?  Order one. Pay for it yourself.  Scan mine.  I don't care.  But I'm not ordering extras so you can put a $3 wallet in your wallet.

Happy 3rd Birthday, Maggie

Dear Maggie,

My beautiful little girl.

You turn three on Thursday.  You were born on 10/10/10.  A perfect ten. 

You amaze me everyday.  You are so smart, so sassy, so fun.  It makes me smile every time I ask you something, and you respond "Of course."  Or when I tell you how proud of you I am for something, and you say "It was nothing Mommy."

Your voice is the cutest thing I've ever heard.  So cute, in fact, that many, many people have commented on it.  You've taken to telling me I'm the best when you want something, and it works.  Your personality is rivaled by no one.  We call you the diva, because you are, but you are also sweet.  You're struggling a bit at this transition from the terrible twos/terrible threes, but your love for your family, especially your brother, is clear.

You are beautiful, inside and out.  But my girl, you are gorgeous.  I know I'm biased, because I am your mom, but strangers have stopped me to tell me how pretty you are.  Everything about you is beautiful and pure and innocent, and I love you so much.

Over the past year, you've grown so much.  You've learned so many new words, you've learned how to help take care of Daisy, you've learned how to ride your bike.  You want to do everything like your big brother, which I am enjoying now because I know soon he'll be your icky-big-brother-with-cooties.

Everyday you make my heart explode with your happiness to see me when I pick you up after work.  Your running leap into my arms for a hug.  No matter what kind of day I have had, you can always make me smile, baby girl.

Maggie, you bring joy to me every single day.  You completed our family.  You are the most amazing, wonderful daughter I could have ever imagined.  I love you more than words can ever tell, and there is nothing that will ever change that.  I am so glad I have a little girl who will be my best friend.

I love you, beautiful.  Happy birthday.

Love, Mommy

It's been awhile

I post this in preface to my next post.

I've been terrible about blogging.  I just haven't got it in me right now.  I've made some amazing friends through blogging, and I am sorry I haven't been a good bloggy friend.

I'm hoping to come back one day.

PYHO: It's not the big ones

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Everyday, I miss her.

But there are days where I miss her so much I can barely breathe.

I knew these days would happen, before she died. 

But they were not the days I thought they would be.

Mother's Day, her birthday, my birthday, Christmas, holidays.  These were rough.  I've gone through them all once, save for Mother's Day.

But it's the days that seem to mean nothing that matter to me most.  It's the little things that take my breath away.

It's the days where for some reason, I remember exactly what happened on that date in a past year, and exactly what we were doing.

Like July 23, 2007.

I was engaged.  We had taken the day off work to go get pedicures and have lunch.  A girls day.

I remember us talking about the wedding, about how when we had kids she would take her vacations when we did so we could get away for a few days.

Or pound cake with chocolate dipping sauce.  One of her favorite desserts to serve, and how excited she was about her little dipping bowls and plates she had ordered from Pampered Chef for this very purpose.

How she always wore two different earrings.  Always.

It's hard for me to remember her healthy, sometimes.  It's hard for me to forget the pain, the trauma, the heartbreak of the past 3-4 years.

These things bring me back.  But it's hard.

It's hard when your 4 year old sees a cemetery, and says "Don't go there Mommy. That's where you get sad."

It's hard when your kids understand what it means when someone is "sick" before they have even started kindergarten.

July 17, 2005.

I had finally broken up with my asshole ex boyfriend.  Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince had came out the day before.  I took my book and went to my mom's, laid in the pool while reading the book, with a friend, and my mom made us drinks and food all day.  She was in her element -- entertaining, cooking, taking care of people.

December 31, 2007.

My parents first trip to Ruth's Chris.  She had an apple martini for dessert.  She loved it.  Vowed our NYE tradition of dinner would continue for years to come at Ruth's Chris.

May 31, 2009.

PJ's Christening.  Four days after diagnosis of ALS.  She was still walking, working.

December 31, 2009.

Her last trip to Ruth's.

March 27, 2010. 

The last time I would see her outside of her house - at my house, for PJ's 1st birthday.

So many more days come to me in fleeting moments. 

Grief changes us. The pain sculpts us into someone who understands more deeply, hurts more often, appreciates more quickly, cries more easily, hopes more desperately, and loves more openly.

I understand more deeply.  I understand your anger, your frustration, your hopelessness.  I understand more what to say and what not to say.

I hurt more often than I ever imagined.  Things hurt that I could have never known had the ability to hurt.

I appreciate more quickly.  I appreciate every single moment I have with the people I love.  I never waste an opportunity.

Cries more easily?  Definitely.

I hope more desperately, because I am desperate.

I love more openly.  You know if I love you.  You probably always did, but there's no secret, it's not hiding.

I am not the person I was before May 27, 2009.  And I am not the person I was before February 24, 2012.

I am forever changed.  By grief.

Sometimes, I suck.

I am many things.  I am a woman. I am a wife.  I am a mother. I am a friend, a sister-in-law, a daugther-in-law, a daughter, a cousin.

Sometimes, I suck at one of these.  Sometimes all of them.

I have the moments when all I want is 20 minutes to myself  and I can't have them.

I have the days where I snap at my husband, getting irrationally annoyed with him. 

I have the days where I just don't want to do anything -- no cleaning, no cooking, no walking up stairs.  I just want to sit on my ass.

I have the days where I yell at my kids when I really shouldn't.  When I lose my temper or patience too quickly.   When I don't listen to their little voices, where I make them cry.

There are so many things I do day in, day out.  Things I don't even think about, and if you asked me to list the things I do on a daily basis, I'd be hard pressed to tell you half of them, they are just so subconscious.

I try to be the best wife I can be.  The best mom I can be.  Sometimes, most of the time, I succeed.

Other times I fail.

I never want to be the cause of my husband's pain or happiness.

I never want to be the cause of my children's tears. 

There are so many things I can't control in this world that will burden them with pain and sadness. I can control that I am not one of those things.

Because even when I lose my temper or my patience, even when I am not the mother I want to be, those little arms still hug me.  Those little voices still tell me they love me.

And my husband stands by me.

So sometimes I suck.  But I'm trying not to.

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The first ER visit

Saturday was a beautiful day.  The kids and I were outside.  Husband was inside, finishing up some last minute things for his graduation on this coming Saturday. 

The kids were playing with water blasters.  I was skimming the pool.

I suddenly heard a terrible scream.

Not a normal scream.

Not a "I tripped and hurt my leg" scream.

Not a "I banged my arm on the deck" scream.

I ran to PJ who was crying, screaming. 

"WHAT HAPPENED BABY??"

I look and see a gash.  About an inch and half, bleeding, on his upper back between his shoulder and his neck.

It's deep, it's bleeding and it's wide. 

I scream for John.

Through tears, PJ tells me he cut it on the grill.

The corner of the metal tray of our grill.  He must have went under it -- and with no shirt on.

I know you're supposed to stay calm when your child is upset.  I lost it.

"We have to go to the ER.  I have to go now.  Can you take Maggie?"

I couldn't make sense.  I got PJ dressed as quickly as I could.  John was going to follow with Maggie and after he took care of our puppy.

I let PJ sit in the front seat with me.  I held his hand.  He was so sad.  I was sad.  My poor baby.

We've never been to our "new" hospital.  Since we moved. 

They were extremely nice.  We waited about 15 minutes till we were seen.

Once we went through triage and settled in a room, John had to leave -- he had tickets to the Game 5 of the Blackhawks/Kings series.  Expensive tickets.  I told him to go.  I would handle it.  I'm a mom. 

He felt terrible, but he went.

My poor bubba needed six stitches.  :(

He was so brave.  He screamed and cries so hard when they gave him the numbing agent (it was a big needled) and  I cried with him and held his hand.  I talked to him through the stitches, told him we would go to the toy store and have pizza for dinner.

My tough little guy.

When it was done, Maggie (who'd been pretty much frozen in her spot since PJ had screamed) went up to her big brother and said

"Don't you get hurt again PJ!"

"I won't Maggie."
It was the scariest thing that's ever happened to me.  He's fine, he'll have a scar and he's handling it better than I did and am.

I just know I never want to feel that way again.

Six stitches and a turtle toy later.