My sister and brother-in-law came to stay with the kids while I was out of town last week and as a result, we are now a lot less frayed around the edges. I’m happy to report that:

1. We have new shower curtain liners in both showers. No more mildew.

2. All the lights in the house are now working.

3. I have a complete inventory of everything in both freezers (including which freezer it’s in).

4. The refrigerator is clean, all of the shelves are at the perfect height and the cheese drawer is in a better place (no, not heaven. Just a more logical place in the refrigerator.)

5. Margaret dresses herself with no help from me.

6. The dining room table is reoriented the way it really should be (but I never realized that it should be that way.)

7. All of the Tupperware containers and lids are organized (but unfortunately, none of them match each other.)

8. David and Margaret’s Ikea dressers are assembled and all of their clothes are perfectly folded and organized.

9. I no longer have a coffee table next to the couch (that one’s going back, because I don’t have any place to set my coffee when I’m watching TV.)

So this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my wonderful sister and brother-in-law, who love me and love my kids and come and help me when I need them and un-fray my house.

Our cat, Mick, wasn’t doing well.  He was old. Somewhere between 15 and 20 years old.  (We don’t know for sure because he had several owners before Tim.)  He was blind, he was down to skin and bones (maybe 4 pounds soaking wet), and this weekend, he could no longer jump on the couch.

Last night, when I got home from a church meeting, Emma told me Mick was worse. He wasn’t moving much, wasn’t eating, he had a pretty serious eye infection, and to be honest, he didn’t really look like the same cat as before…it was like he had already started to cross over.  So I planned to take him to the vet first thing in the morning.

Except that when I woke up, I couldn’t find him. We looked everywhere (actually, I looked everywhere. Emma refused to look under the beds.) I finally saw his big fluffy tail sticking out from under the shelving in the utility closet in the basement. Not moving. Not responding to his name.

This presented me with a dilemma. I didn’t want to leave him there to die if he wasn’t already dead.  I owed him more than that. If he wasn’t already dead, I wanted to hold him while he died. But I really, really, really didn’t want to pick him up if he was already dead.  Eeewww. So I started pacing. And making phone calls for moral support, hoping that someone would say something that would give me the nerve to pick him up.  And that helped, but I still couldn’t pick up the cat. Then I went to get Stephanie for moral support, but she was as scared and skeeved out as I was.

So then I did what any strong, independent woman would do.  I went around the neighborhood to see if I could find a man who was willing to pick up a potentially dead cat to see if it was actually dead.  Unfortunately, no one was home. Not Tom or Matt or Joe.  But luckily, one of my neighbor’s lawn service guys overheard me talking and offered to help me. (Thank you, lawn service guy whose name I don’t even know. He didn’t actually have to pick up the cat, because as we were walking down to the basement, Mick moved, so I knew he was alive.)

It turns out he wasn’t dead. But he was close. He was barely breathing.  He wasn’t moving much.

So I drove to the closest animal hospital that was open. (Not our regular vet.) The receptionist was so kind.  I told her that it was Mick’s time and she explained to me what would happen.

Then the vet came in and this is where the experience took a bad turn. She cheerily asked me when the last time was that he had blood work. I’m sorry…was this a date I was supposed to remember? And she said, you know, maybe he has something treatable. We could do blood work to find out.  To which I said, no thanks, I know that this is the right thing to do. It’s time.

And then. And then she rolled her eyes and sighed a loud sigh. Yes, she did. And then she thrust a piece of paper at me and said in an exasperated tone of voice, “Okay, then, sign this.” And I wanted to yell at her….please tell me you didn’t just do the eye roll thing.  As if. As if I woke up this morning, and said, you know, this cat is really a nuisance. I think I’ll kill it today.

To be f air, she was much more compassionate and kind when she came back in the room to give him the shot. I don’t know why. Maybe she hadn’t actually seen him and the condition he was in before she suggested the blood work. Maybe she got over herself. I don’t really know. I was ready to give her a piece of my mind if she still had the attitude, but it wasn’t necessary.

So here’s my question….at what point did the expectation become that we’re supposed to go to extreme measures to prolong the life of a dying pet? And at what point did someone decide that any pet owner not willing to do this is cruel and heartless?  I don’t think it makes me a bad person because I wasn’t willing to do blood work on a cat that was clearly dying, and had, in fact, gone off to die in a place where I had trouble finding him. I know that I did the right thing. But did I really need a guilt trip from a young, holier-than-thou vet at that very moment?

My lasting memory of Mick will be of him sprawled across my abdomen as I was lying on the couch, when I was very pregnant with David. Mick was incubating me.  (I have no memory of him doing this when I was pregnant with Margaret. I think I was too busy to lie down.)

He loved soft, comfy blankets, and human companionship.  His favorite place to hang out was next to a warm radiator.  He loved us and we loved him.

And we will miss him very much.

As long as I live, I will never forget the look on my dad’s face when my mother walked into a room. For 63 years, he got that look on his face every day.  

Next week, we head to Portland for the wedding of E and B.  E is the daughter of my cousin (makes you feel old when the next generation starts getting married.) Her family is part of my big, wonderful, extended family that loves and supports me. That accepts me exactly for who I am. That makes me laugh so hard that my stomach hurts. 

I remember E as a little girl, with big eyes and long, beautiful dark hair.  But I’ve really gotten to know and love her as an adult, a smart, warm, compassionate, funny, beautiful person. I’ve only met B several times, but t say that he’s a great guy doesn’t do him justice. It’s obvious to all who know them that this is a wonderful match.  

It’s strange going to a wedding when you’re going through a divorce. (There. I said it.) Hearing someone else say the words you spoke and gave your heart to.  In a time when things were different and people were different and you thought you knew how your life was going to be. As if you ever know how your life is going to be.

It would be easy to be cynical.  (And those of you who know me know that I am capable of being quite cynical.) But I’m not going there.  

My hope and my wish and my expectation for E and B is that they are for each other a soft place to land. That they are always kind to each other. And that they never lose the sparkle that each has when they look at each other.  I know that this is possible, because I am surrounded by many examples of it…in neighbors, friends and family. 

Best wishes for a long and happy life together.

And may you always have that look in your eyes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about home.  Which I’d always defined as that one place that, when you go there, they have to take you in.  One place. One home. 

But I’m broadening my definition.  Home is where the people who love you live. The people who love you for who you are.

So, by that definition, home is Shamokin, and Sunbury, and Pittsburgh, and Oak Park, and Portland, Oregon, to name a few.

I went to my original home last week. Well, not the original house. I wish I could have gone there and walked around. To see if it looked the same as I remember it, and smelled the way I remember it. But if not to the house, at least to the  town where I grew up, which formed me and then launched me into the world trailing a U-haul. Where I broke my front tooth in the playground of the Washington School. Where I learned to drive.  Where I fell in love the first time and had my heart broken the first time. Where I sang “Seasons in the Sun” over and over and over again.

I shared the places of my growing up with my children.  The cottage, Knoebels. Coney Island. I learned of the love that Emma has for these places, because of our frequent visits over the years. And I know that David and Margaret are developing that same love for the place I originally called home.

By the end of the trip, I was ready to return to our Oak Park home. The place where my stuff is. The place where my life is.  The place where I have wonderful, amazing friends who are like family to us.

But I’m grateful for all the places I can call home.

Next weekend, I’m off to St. Louis for a three-day reunion with old friends (referring to the length of time we’ve known each other, of course, not our chronological age.) While I will miss my children, of course, there are certain benefits to a child-free weekend.  Here are the things I think I’m going to enjoy most:

1. Going to the pool with people who will not drown if I take my eyes off them for a moment.

2. Not having to cut anyone’s meat.

3. Not having anyone complain that there is meat on their plate.

4. Not hearing the worlds, “Mama, I need a towel. I spilled sumping.”

5. Waking on my own timing, not someone else’s (I honestly don’t care if I wake up at 6 a.m., as long as no one else is doing the waking.)

6. Not having to say the words,” Margaret, stop hitting David.” (I will be with someone named Margaret, but I don’t expect that she’s going to be hitting anyone.)

7. Not having to wonder where the wet wipes are.

8. Not being responsible for anyone else’s clothes, shoes or pajamas.

9. Not having to strap anyone into a car seat (or get them out again). (Just to be clear, though, I do think I’m going to be responsible for driving everyone around in the mini-van, as it’s the only large vehicle we’ll have. But that’s okay, because the others are capable of buckling their own seat belts.)

10. Not having to recite the list of TiVo-recorded “Back in the Barnyard” episodes several times a day.

I’m quite certain that I will eagerly anticipate the reunion with my kids. But there’s nothing like a few days off to make me appreciate it…

I miss Emma.  Standing-over-the kitchen-sink-weeping miss Emma.  Emma is in Ireland with her dad, her grandma, and her grandma’s brother and sister-in-law. (This is actually a much more fun group than the generational description would suggest.)  They left Friday and will be gone for almost two weeks.  Her dad’s been promising her a trip to Ireland for as long as she can remember, and they are finally there. 

This is giving me a preview of what life will be like in two years, when she goes to college. And I don’t like it one bit. (I do recognize, though, that she’s likely to get really icky between now and that time - part of the separation process – to the point where I may be really happy to see her go.) But right now I don’t like it. Don’t like it at all.

You see, it was only last week that she looked like this:

(She’s the one on the right.)

And now she looks like this:

(She’s the one on the left.)

We are all missing her.  Even David, who usually tells her he doesn’t like her anymore.

Margaret put her head down on her arms and said, “I’m missing Emma.” David said, “I really miss Emma.  I even like it when she tortures me.” (Which is pretty much all the time.)

Safe travels, Emma. Come home soon. And oh, yeah, have the time of  your life.

I’m grieving the impending loss of a family member.

Well, she’s technically not a family member. And she’s perfectly healthy. And she only lives a 1/2 block away, so it’s not like we’ll never see her again.

But in August, Margaret is leaving Joan, the daycare provider we’ve been with for four years, since before David turned two.  And who has been caring for Margaret since she was six weeks old.

In four years, I’ve never heard Joan raise her voice to a child and never seen her lose her cool. (She’s not perfect, I know.  I only see her for minutes a day. But still.)   Each day, I’ve seen her greet my children with a delighted smile on her face, as though she’s been sitting there anticipating their arrival.  She’s never done a single thing that I have found objectionable. As my friend Pegeen (whose daughter was also in Joan’s care) noted, Joan’s not really a daycare provider. She’s more like a favorite aunt who’s a much better parent than you. She potty-trained Margaret, she taught my children to say please and thank you and to eat their vegetables, she taught them to play nicely with others, and to be kind and compassionate and thoughtful, and to say sorry like they mean it, with a hug.

For various reasons, both Emma and David had multiple caregivers. It was like a revolving door.  Most of them were very capable and loving. They just didn’t stick around very long.  (The most notable example of this was David’s nanny who, having been with us for six months, said her normal weekend goodbye on the Friday before Memorial Day, 2004, and we never saw or heard from her again. Still have no idea what happened to her.)  So David and Emma (and their parents) never really got that close to anyone. But we have all grown to love Joan. In addition to caring for the kids, she is our back-up in a jam, our child-rearing consultant, and my confidant.

I don’t have any problem with the concept of Margaret, my baby, going to pre-school.  I’m fine with the fact that I don’t have babies anymore.  And the Montessori she’s going to, the same one David’s been at for the past two years, will be a great environment for her.

But I tear up every time I think about leaving Joan.  Part of it is that I don’t do very well with transitions. (Is there any doubt where David got that from?) And I hate goodbyes.   On Friday, David will say goodbye to his teachers at Montessori, and spend the summer at a daycamp before entering kindergarten in the Fall.  And in early August, we will say good bye to Joan (see, my eyes are filling up with tears).  It feels like a summer of goodbyes, and it makes me so sad.

But I have to remember that it is also a summer of hellos, as David and Margaret each move on to the next people who will love and care for them. New opportunities for them, and for us.  New logistical challenges that we will figure out.

And we will still have Joan in our hearts. And the neighborhood.

Today, we have a guest-blogger: my neighbor and good friend, Pegeen Reichert-Powell, who also happens to be a very talented writer. She sent me this Mother’s Day “letter from her children”, and I asked if I could post it.

Dear Mama,

Thank you for always being there for me (except those times when I 
want to go to the park, but you absolutely have to get your nails done 
that afternoon).
Thank you for always being  my number one fan (except for that time 
you told me I’ll never be a professional football player, because I’m 
too little).
Thank you for always making me feel better when I’m hurt (except for 
those times when you’re drinking wine with your friends and you tell 
me that there isn’t enough blood to warrant a trip inside to get a 
bandaid).
Thank you for always taking care of me when I’m sick (except for those 
times you dose me up with children’s tylenol and send me to school).
Thank you for always having homemade cookies when I come home from 
school (except that you never do).
Thank you for always helping me with my homework (except for that one 
project that you could NOT stand to do, because it was too hard and 
you were mad at the teacher for assigning it, so you made Granddaddy 
do it for you).
Thank you for feeding me (frozen pizza again and again)
Thank you for clothing me (in clothes that are too small, because you 
haven’t had a chance to go through last year’s clothes).
Thank you for tucking me in at night (my favorite times are when 
you’re more tired than I am and you say “We can say two prayers 
tomorrow night.”)
Thank you for teaching me respect (like that time you crumpled up my 
favorite paper airplane right in front of my face because I wasn’t 
doing exactly what you told me to do.)
Thank you for being the greatest mom in the world (except that it’s 
impossible).

Love, Charlie and Elizabeth

Happy Mother’s Day to all the wonderful mothers (and mothers-to-be) out there. And thank you Pegeen, for the letter.

Yesterday morning was one of those mornings.  I can laugh about it now. Maybe it was because it was a Monday, or maybe because it was rainy, or maybe because it was a rainy Monday.  But for whatever reason, everyone was crabby, including me. 

David was upset because of his loose tooth. His first loose tooth, to be exact. I’m not sure he realized that his teeth were going to get loose and fall out. (I don’t think it’s happened to any of his friends yet.) So the whole concept of having a loose tooth totally skeeved him out. He was moaning continously, asking unanswerable questions like, how many more days is it going to be before my tooth falls out?

Margaret was wanting me to hold her. Lying on the floor, yelling, I can’t get up! Every time I put her down, she screamed until I picked her up. Which was long periods of time, given that I needed to shower and get dressed for work.

So between the moaning and the screaming, it was quite loud.  (The kids were making a lot of noise too.  Ba dum dum.)

I had a moment of panic where I imagined that I’d never actually get out of the house. That Emma would come home from school at 6:00 and I’d be sitting on the floor, holding my knees, rocking back and forth, chanting, putonyourshoesputonyourshoesputonyourshoes.

Then I had another moment of panic where I imagined that every morning would be like this for the rest of my life. Or, at a minimum, the next year.

But get out of  the house we did. Wearing clothes, shoes, and even coats.

And today was a better day. We got out of the house with a minimum of fussing, procrastinating, and crying.

And we have 6 whole days until another Monday.

Not much time to blog lately.  Partly because I thought it would be a good idea to drive to 10 hours to Pennsylvania for a long weekend.  I’m glad we went, but we spent A LOT of time in the car.  We spent Easter at my brother’s church (officially called Mt. Zion UCC, but really known as “the Welsh church.” )  Emma had her first experience with communion using grape juice instead of wine.

Here are the photo highlights:

(Emma wouldn’t let me take any photos of her, because she didn’t like her blouse. Too ruffly.)

Here’s a quick video of the kids:

Phil played the organ. This is an excerpt of his postlude, which was the same piece played every year by the organist at the church we grew up in:

And the prelude: