Places Where I’m Unreasonably Optimistic

  1. The travel-size section at Walgreens (I’m taking all the cute minis on my trip)
  2. The exercise aisle at Five Below (I’d exercise if I had a new yoga mat…and block…and pedometer…and)
  3. The produce section at Costco (I’m only eating salad from now on)
  4. The Container Store (Gonna organize everything)
  5. Barnes & Noble (I’ll make time to read a whole book)
  6. REI (Sleeping outside looks fun)
  7. Any hotel gym (I’m totally gonna treadmill on vaycay)
  8. The Great Escape (We need a pool, right?)
  9. Any craft store (I’ll make this…and this…and)
  10. Home Depot (Let’s play in all the fake kitchens)
  11. The boat show (I could get used to this)
  12. An open house (Ooh, nice trafalet)
  13. A buffet (I can try whatever I want)
  14. The Kwik-Mart (My Powerball ticket is the winner)
  15. Parking garages (I always get a good spot)

Why Does Mommy Swear?

boy-scared-faceYou can hear it in the air. You can hear it everywhere. Does she even care? Why does Mommy swear?

She swears at other drivers. She swears at rude connivers. She swears at messy spills. Is this how she gets her thrills?

She swears when she is late and she cannot find her keys. She swears when she is busy and must stop to take a pee.

She does it when she cooks. She does it when she cleans. She doesn’t try to hide it and she isn’t being mean. She sometimes swears a little, but usually swears more. She even says words that I never heard before.

Is it because she’s tired and always feels a bit perturbed? Or maybe that her hands are too full to flip the bird?

Why Mommy swears a lot is a mystery, you see. She seems to swear at everything, but she never swears at me.

To The Nice Lady on Michigan Avenue Who Told Me I Was A Good Mom

I’m tired. It’s a tiredness born from from stress.

A week ago I had reconstruction surgery on my breasts after having a mastectomy last March to rid me of breast cancer. Everything went well, there were no surprises, and I consider myself lucky. I had my follow up appointment with the plastic surgeon, who seemed pleased with his work. I’m still sore, swollen and bruised, so it’s hard for me to agree at this point, but we’ll see.

I brought my little girl along for the two hour trek into the city. She was perfect at the plastic surgeon’s office, wonderful at The Museum of Contemporary Art, adorable at the playground. But…The Disney Store was one outing too much and her meltdown ensued right there on Michigan Avenue. I pleaded, “I can’t carry you because of my boo – boo.”

And that’s when you appeared.

You were older, maybe 70, and very nicely dressed. You told my daughter you loved her sparkly Hello Kitty boots and pink baret. You said they were nicer than any shoes you had. My daughter hid behind me and didn’t talk. You smiled at us. Then your expression turned serious and you said. “You’re doing a good job.”

And then you were gone.

You have no idea what that meant to me at that moment. Your affirmation made my day, and this was no normal day — It was a day I cleared a major medical hurdle. But at that moment you spoke directly to the heart of who I am. You somehow knew what I needed to hear.

And I thank you.

Even More Small Things That Make Me Way Too Happy

  1. Clean sheets.
  2. When Pandora “gets” me.
  3. When sesame crunchies are on the salad bar.
  4. When my dog keeps my feet warm.
  5. Salsa.
  6. The smell of a brand new book.
  7. Hazelnut cookies.
  8. G-2 pens.
  9. The travel size section at Walgreens.
  10. Having a show to binge watch.

When I Wasn’t Looking

  1. My hair started graying
  2. My son stopped watching cartoons.
  3. My son started using words like “actually” and “ludicrous.”
  4. My joints started creaking.
  5. My clothes stopped fitting right. 
  6. My eyes got worse.
  7. My son started making his own breakfast.
  8. My son started putting himself to sleep at night.
  9. My son stopped being afraid of thunder.
  10. My soul got calmer.

Alternate Names For My Husband

  1. Irritable Bowelius Cesear  — His Roman Name
  2. Sir Snacksalot — His Knight Name
  3. Hopalong Hernia — His Cowboy Name
  4. Appendicitis Rex — His Dinosaur Name
  5. Billy Poang — His IKEA Name
  6. Norden Ektorp — His other IKEA Name
  7. Toenail Talons — His Street Fighter Name
  8. The Amazing Belly Laugher — His Circus Performer Name
  9. Ex Pensive — His Rap Star Name
  10. Pubic Zirconia — His Stripper Name

Whales and Grief

Even on my best days I feel unsettled and disoriented. When I leave the house I check my purse several times to make sure I have everything — phone, keys, wallet — it’s all there. I go through a mental checklist, but I’m still uneasy. Then it hits me — It’s not something I’m missing, but someone.

I’ve written about how hard this time of year is for me. Seven years ago this month, my oldest son died from brainwinged-heart cancer just when he was supposed to go into fifth grade. Each day that passes in August I feel my chest grow tighter and my nerves shorter. I can’t concentrate. I have flashbacks and PTSD. I brace myself for the 24th, and again two days later for when we buried him on the 26th. And then Childhood Cancer Awareness Month starts in September — but let’s be clear — I’m never not aware.

I followed the recent news story of a mother outside of Seattle so consumed by grief she refused to let go of her deceased baby for seventeen days. Medical professionals who observed her behavior said they’d never seen anything like it. They were worried for her health and even her survival. She neglected to eat. Her family never left her side. They tried to help, in fact, relatives took turns holding her baby so she wouldn’t starve or become exhausted. She became exhausted anyway, but still wouldn’t let go.

I understand this momma’s heartache. It doesn’t really matter that she’s a whale and I’m a person. Grief transcends species and manifests similarly among bereaved mothers.

Scientists wonder if the orca, named Tahlequah, actually experienced grief or if we humans projected the emotion onto her. The fancy word for this is anthropomorphism. Well, I’m no scientist but I don’t think I’m projecting. I think it’s arrogant to assume we are the only species capable of primal and even complex emotions. I recognize a sister in bereavement when I see one. I can’t deny Tahlequah the authenticity of her heartache, which was on obvious display for two-and-a-half weeks.

Like Tahlequah, I know what it’s like to not let go. I held onto my son for ninety-six days while he lay in a coma in the PICU at Children’s Hospital. At first he was minimally responsive to my voice and touch — his increased heart rate was his response. I passed long hours each day holding him and whispering I love you in his ear. Summer progressed and the tumor snaked throughout his brain, and eventually his vitals stopped indicating if he knew I was there. Still, I held him. I knew he would die when the cancer finally touched the part of his brain that controlled his heartbeat.

One morning in late August, a concerned social worker gently asked my husband and me why we thought our son was still here when he should have died months ago. I said, “For the love.” My words hung in the air when his heart rate monitor went silent and his lips turned gray.

I told my best friend I would have held him for another ninety-six days if I had the chance. She said, who are you kidding you would have done it forever.

It’s torture to never hug, kiss, touch, tickle or hold hands with my son again. No more wiped tears, kissed boo-boos, or counted freckles. High-fives, winks and pats on the back are gone. I can never crack his toes. His voice and (oh, god) his laugh — what can I say…

Some people might say I’m anthropomorphizing to think Tahlequah knew what she would lose when she finally let go of her baby, but I know there’s no other explanation to hold on like she did.  It is a desperate and crazed way to prolong the inevitable — the real hell — that begins the next morning when you wake up without them.

It is now seven years after the first morning I woke up without him. I’m afraid still when I cry it will be impossible to stop. There’s a scientific myth that the cells in our bodies replace themselves every seven years, essentially making us different people from whom we were before. Except for neurons in the brain. Those don’t change. Those will hold my memories of my baby forever.