You say potato, she says batata

Up until a few months ago, I would have emphatically told any person moving toward a serious relationship (who asked for my opinion or not) that communication was the key to success. That was until I met my future step-mom.

My dad began dating 3 months after my mom passed away. Many experts believe that when a surviving spouse enters a new relationship quickly the timing indicates that they enjoyed the strongest and best relationship – thus their desire for a new one. Kids have a harder time accepting that but I’ll let the experts have their theories.

During his dating, I had to endure a lot of “she is the one” talk that turned out to not be the case. So when my dad told me in late June that he was going on a blind date, I thought “Oh, good for him, hope this works out.” And when he said he was inviting my brother and sister’s families to meet her on the 4th of July, I was thinking “It might be a little soon but whatever.” When he called me two weeks later to tell me he had suddenly retired, was in love and had given his girlfriend a ring, I thought “Maybe this is all moving too fast but that really isn’t any of my business.”

But what really made me lose my cool (for lack of a better, non-expletive term) was that she speaks Portuguese. Only. And my dad? Yeah, he doesn’t. At all.

Now you are probably asking the same question I did – has the grief made him lose his mind?? I took the kids home to Atlanta in August and for the next five days watched as my family dealt with our new reality. We were all reminded that things will never be the way they were before. We all did our best to speak as much Spanish as we could, she tried to speak as much English as she could. And we had FUN. I mean we laughed, we danced, we told stories about my mom. And I couldn’t help but think – wow, this feels really good. I like this.

My future step-mom lost her husband, the man she describes as the love of her life as her face lights up, to brain cancer five years ago.

The only thing I am left to believe is that what they can’t express in words, they express in experience. Makes me think, maybe the key isn’t in the exchange of words – but in the way two people can relate to knowing true love, experiencing decades of life together, losing your mate, desperately wanting that depth of relationship back and seeking out people who can give that.

It was a humbling moment. It makes me wonder if my definition of communication is superficial. It makes me realize how everyday, my husband and I are working towards something so much bigger, more deep. How we sought each other for reasons we know and maybe don’t yet know. That how far we have come is just a fraction of far we will go.

Maybe I should just shut up and let our love for each other do the communicating.

Fat chance…

She’s Got It, Yeah Baby She’s Got It

I have always admired people who just “get it.” And I think it is a particularly amazing trait in young children who are still mastering impulse control and learning socially acceptable behavior and context.

As I have thought about this, I am reminded of a story mom would tell about a younger me. Natural gas was the 80’s answer to foreign oil dependency. So my dad being a good American converted our family van and his fleet of plumbing trucks over to run on natural gas, doing his part to keep America morally and economically dominating in every way. Natural gas being a tad more volatile than regular gasoline, our conviction to energy independence meant we filled up at no ordinary gas station. No, we went to a gas plant and there was an actual attendant there to help you not blow the place up. My first visit to fill up the family van was memorable. My folks had struck up a relationship with the station attendant. As we pulled up, the attendant and my mom greeted each other with bright smiles and waves. Then he began screaming at the top of his lungs, cursing twitching his neck and spiting into the air. I sat there stunned, waiting to see what my mom would do as he screamed “BITCH, GOD DAMN IT, BITCH BITCH BITCH” and spat wildly into the air. He went to work filling the gas tank and nobody acknowledged what had just happened. They had a lovely conversation discussing things like the weather, local politics, etc until he would burst into another string of curses and screams. As we paid the bill and began to drive off we drove off, my mom said “Oh Michelle, thank you for not saying anything while we were there” and then explained that the man had turrets syndrome and how he was unable to control his actions and choice of words. Yeah well thank you for a little heads up next time, huh? Geeze.

My daughter is one of those kids who just gets it. My son, not so much. Like the time we were eating at Chevy’s enjoying one of the first spring days this past April. Drew’s attention began wandering to the table next to us. I, too, had noticed the table as we came in and as such became concerned as his casual glances turned into stares and outward gawking. There was just a wide variety of things that his young mind could question like “why is the one man wearing nail polish?” or “why are those two men sitting so close to one another?” or “what is that funny sound was as they pronounced the letter s?” I was doing my best to distract him with tortilla chips and encouraging him to eat – anything to avoid what was inevitable. I must have been lost in my fishbowl margarita because as I was finishing off a long sip savoring the moment, Drew’s words pulled me back to the table. He had his head cocked to the side, nose scrunched up and one eye closed, the other zeroed in on one of the guests at the next table as he exclaimed in the loudest voice he had ‘Man, that guy is FAT!” Check, please.

Taylor on the other hand has handled many a situation with grace and poise. But the one that really sticks out in my mind was ironically with my mom. Taylor and I had flown down to visit her and she was very excited to see her Mimaw. Lots of hugs and kisses as we settled in to the house after our flight. Taylor went straight for her room in my mom’s house and emerged after a while with a book asking mom to read it to her. Mom shrugged her shoulders. Taylor asked her a second time to read her the story and my mom again shrugged her shoulders and put her hands up, looking at me for some help. Taylor followed mom’s gaze and read something in my face, in that painfully awkward moment. I knew it wasn’t possible for my mom to read the book to Taylor. I hadn’t given Taylor the head’s up that mom’s disease had advanced to the point that she could no longer speak. Those few seconds seemed like years as it took all I had to fight back the tears. And then it happened – Taylor somehow understood there was something wrong, something that was humiliating for my mom and very upsetting to me and she turned it around. She looked back at my mom and said “Ok, Mimaw, I will read the story to you then.” And she did just that, sitting across from her and “reading” her the story following the pictures and making it up as she went.

That is a memory I hold close to my heart, a glimpse of compassion and kindness that is about as good as it gets.

Check preschool off her list…

There is a certain relief that washes over you when a parent/teacher conference starts with “Ahhh, Mrs. McWhinney. My last conference of the year is the easiest.”

A proud momma? Yes. Bragging? Probably. But I’d prefer to call this an honest relay of a parent/teacher conference for my daughter to read later in life and know that she aced preschool. And a prayer sent up to the heavens that the positive development and qualities exhibited during preschool continue throughout her precious life.

Taylor McWhinney is headed to to kindergarten this Fall. I think I am more excited than she is. Not only will I have that extra pre-school tuition jingle back in my pocket, but I can almost taste her desire for learning and experiencing new things. I base this on her becoming really angry one night while being tucked into bed, fists balled and angry grunts of frustration uttered. I asked her what was the matter and she yelled “I WANT TO BE ABLE TO READ THIS BOOK AND I CAN’T!” Let me know if I am reading too much into that statement.

She has really more tolerated pre-school over the last few months than actively participating. As we prepare to head out the door in the morning, I can almost her inner voice saying “well, at least they have markers there” or “no sense in staying home all day since mom won’t let me watch tv all day.”

When Chris and I first observed her, what we’ll call “take charge attitude,” we attributed it to her being the first born and having a younger brother who she took under her wing immediately. But as the socialization process began and she entered preschool, it was clear that Taylor would be a dictator, I mean, leader. She was able to convince large groups of children, older and younger, boys and girls, to play endless hours of her favorite game “family.” She is always the mommy and offers helpful suggestions to the others on how to do, well, everything.

At her 5th birthday party, her guests were all burning off the cake and ice cream by bouncing on the trampoline. As parents noticed that the giggles and shrieks of delight had stopped, our attention shifted to the trampoline. All 12 kids were sitting in a circle around the padded edge. Taylor was directing which child was to stand up and hop across the middle, immediately finding a new seat. Occasionally, she would group children in pairs or threes. Sometimes she would order them to stop in the middle and perform a stunt.

And then there was her class play. Her classmates sat down together and decided they would make a production. Starting from a brainstorming session, they devised a plot, wrote a script, designed a set, made costumes and divided out roles. Taylor? Well, she was the Director, naturally. What else would suit her?

Taylor, your teacher thanked me for sending you to her each day for the past year. She told me how much she enjoyed you in her class and the contributions you made every day. She noted how nurturing and caring you are with the other children. She noted how your assertiveness is balanced by the ability to listen to others and appreciate different perspectives. And she loved your sense of style….

A life of happiness and wonder awaits you. Relief washes over me knowing that you head into the next chapter of your life grounded, with a strong sense of self worth. I hope you continue to be true to yourself, never fear speaking your mind and keep the ability be open to what others can teach you. Mine or not, I’d always think you are pretty neat.

Man must adapt to his surroundings in order to survive

Adaptation, one of the basic phenomena of biology, is the process whereby an organism becomes better suited to its habitat. (Wikipedia)

Motherhood calls for adaptation. Like underwire bras and buying into a tankini being “sexy.” Nowhere was adaptation more important to me as a new mother than in the social arena. Because 1) it is still not socially acceptable to bring your kids to a bar and 2) kids need to have dinner and baths during standard happy hour time tables, happy hour has evolved into a new, more widely accepted forum called the “play date.”

While it may seem odd at first to be throwing back wine, beer and/or cocktails with other moms at 4:00 p.m. while a gang of kids run wild in your backyard, there are some consistencies to be found with a traditional happy hour. You are still socializing with like-minded adults, drinks cost less as you BYOB and you are still aren’t quiet ready to call it a night at 7:00 p.m.

As I fumbled around Arlington a few years ago trying to make motherhood and a career work, I enrolled my kids in a local pre-school. The program was 5 hours long on staggered weekdays – so most children there were dropped off/picked up by their stay at home mom or a nanny. I am a bit of a hybrid working from home and as such missed out on the social aspects of pre-school, unable to hit Starbucks after drop off or go to the park after pick up. I had to speed back home in order to squueze every last drop out of my 5 kid-free hours that I could.

I was headed back to my truck one morning feeling sorry for myself, when a bit of a commotion pulled me out of my pity party. It took me a minute to take it all in – two kids from Taylor and Andrew’s classes were running up the hill to the school’s entrance, lunch boxes and sweaters flailing. In the distance, I could hear “COME OOOONNNN, I AM LATE!! I have a 10:00 meeting!! Let’s GOOOOOO!” As my mind continued to process all the information it was receiving, I realized that the voice was their mother’s and she was rushing them up the hill. But the voice didn’t match her appearance. She was in nice dress clothes, made up with her hair in place. But something was off. As the young family unit ran past me it finally clicked – Mommy wasn’t wearing any shoes. I smiled to myself and thought – she doesn’t know it yet, but we are going to be great friends.

Soon after that there were coffee dates here and there and we got to know each other a bit. She, too was a mom working from home. Her children were almost as close in age as mine. And she was pretty honest about motherhood like me. I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point a fatal error occurred – someone let it slip that they liked the sauce making us a perfect fit. Soon after, a “play date” was scheduled and our kids got to play while we did, too.

Who knew this would be such a wild success. Today this woman is one of my closest friends and favorite people. She has helped me find babysitters, ballet lessons, new friends and a painter. We laugh together, vent our frustrations, gossip. We get pedicures, travel with our kids. It is kinda Thelma and Louise. And who knew how many of people like me were out there just waiting to be discovered in Arlington?? You all know who you are…

I say it is the power of science. You could argue it is the wine. But, after some play dates I find myself dancing around my kitchen singing “I WILL SURVIVE – HEY, HEY!!” And I know I’ll stay alive.

Better work on your bedside manner, Dr. Taylor

We were shaking off the last brushes of winter and a brisk, rainy spring. Virginia was warming up, the sky was clear and the sunshine was glorious.

I decided to throw my babies in the truck and head down to the Bay mid-week to let our souls soak up all of the goodness a nice day or two can bring. The windows were open. In the rear view mirror, I could see our chocolate lab breathing in all the fresh air he could from the back of the truck. He knew a good swim and endless tennis ball chasing was not far away. The music was on and I was full of promise. Summer was on its way, the kids were sleeping through the night, everything was just falling into line. I was a king in my mind.

We weren’t far from Lusby as I pulled up to a red light. Feeling all of the glory of the moment, I turned to take in my most precious children. Andrew was out cold, drool defying gravity as it dangled from the left side of his mouth in multiple strands. I thought I would find Taylor asleep, too because I hadn’t heard from her. But she was sitting in the her car seat, sunlight pouring over her making her skin flush and her eyes twinkle. She was deep in thought, studying her finger with intensity. I couldn’t help but think how beautiful and inquisitive she was – what a great combination, will serve her well in life. My thoughts drifted to what she will want to be when she grows up as I, too, took a look at her finger to see what had captured her 2 1/2 year old attention.

Ah ha. She will be a doctor. More specifically an Ear Nose and Throat specialist. On the tip of her finger was the biggest booger I have ever seen. She locked eyes with me as I said “Eeeeeewwwwww!”

Her expression never changed as she replied “So don’t look at it.”

Well, you can’t really argue with that now can you.

What’s the big deal?

I recently remarked to my husband that I did a lot of worrying in my 20’s and I honestly have no idea over what. My 20’s was one long-running series of successes, personal growth, graduations, joy, my engagement, wedding and baby showers and a first healthy pregnancy. He asked me if I thought I would be saying the same thing in my 40’s as I looked back this current decade. Yes and no.

Yes. The stress or challenges in my life today revolve around being a mom and never really feeling like I get a break. (Can you say boo hoo – what are you in your 20’s again?) As hard as I may believe my days to be, I know the challenges my kids pose now pale in comparison to what lies ahead. And I am pretty confident of my response having watched my brother and sister-in-law raise their kids. Being 10 years younger than my brother, I had a unique perspective, observing as they walked the line between being concerned, involved parents without stripping them of their independence. I was headed into my “I’m an invisible teenager” stage as I watched their babies take their first steps. I was making all of my own mistakes, flirting with danger, knowing better than anyone else as they learned to ride bikes and read books. While I was in college and graduate school, continuing to make all kinds of mistakes but now with a slight understanding of consequence, I watched as they dealt with parties, dating, driving, etc. Basically, I was living the stuff they would face 10 years from that point. And I probably didn’t help my niece and nephew much…but hey, they made it through on their own merits and are both successful young adults with bright futures. I am very proud of my brother and sister-in-law. They have no idea how much of an influence they are in the way I raise my own children.

No. In 3 very short years I did a lot of growing up and learned more about inner strength than I would have ever cared to. I was still riding the 20’s wave early on. When I turned 30, I was 6 weeks from becoming a mom, ready to welcome my daughter into the world. When I turned 31, I was 3 months pregnant with my son. But on my 32nd birthday, I had just buried my dog and it was becoming painfully obvious that something was terribly wrong with my mom. Her second opinion and diagnosis came 1 week later. And on my 33rd, I spent my last birthday with the woman who welcomed me into the world. Also in that time, I closed 1 business, started another, sold a house, bought 2 more, survived 14 consecutive months of sleep deprivation. There was a lot going on.

My sister and I were together the day my father broke the news that my mom had been diagnosed with ALS. “It is a terminal disease and there is no treatment. People usually live 2-5 years once they are diagnosed.” I was pulled over on the side of the road on my cell phone as I listened to his words and clearly remember being utterly speechless. I hung up, made it back home and relayed the information to my sister. We did a quick Internet search that told us exactly what my dad had. And as it all sunk in, I can remember feeling a sense of nothingness – there was nothing I or anyone else could do. As the disease took hold of my mother’s body robbing her of her speech, mobility, independence and life, that feeling of nothingness eventually gave way to anger, fear, sorrow, confusion and finally acceptance. And that acceptance brought a peace like nothing I have ever experienced. It allowed me to stop and be in the moment long enough to understand that we are all one small piece of a much larger universe. It taught me deeper meanings of humility, kindness, compassion and appreciation.

Those three years held some of the highest highs and the lowest lows I can claim. So many conflicting emotions and demands.

I threw myself a big party on my 34th. Can’t remember what I did for my 35th so it must have been good! And as I plow through the rest of the decade, I hope my stress and worries make me laugh in my 40’s and leave me wondering what all the fuss was about. I also hope to carry the peace that came from accepting my mother’s fate. And I hope to live the rest of my life with that deeper understanding of purpose and compassion that her death has given me.

Gray is out

We recently discovered that Taylor has a new talent. It involves loosening up her baby teeth and getting them to dangle, for weeks, by a gnarly thread until they sway in the breeze as she inhales and exhales softly. It is really quiet amazing, so effortless and yet so sophisticated a skill. Makes me wonder how I would have stacked up against her when I was her age and losing my teeth.

Taylor lost her two front bottom teeth a while back. The tooth fairies fumbled around in her room trying to extract the tooth and leave her goodies without waking her each time. Although both children contend that they saw the tooth fairy. Taylor claimed that she was hovering in front of her door but then landed and walked through to get her tooth/leave the goodies. Not to worry, Taylor acted asleep and the fairy never even knew she had been found out. And, on the second visit, Andrew had a conversation with her. Not sure what she was doing hanging around in Andrew’s room with the door closed but she better watch her step in my house.

It wasn’t until this third tooth that we realized the depth of this innate talent. Maybe it was because it was her gray tooth, I just can’t be sure.

When Taylor wasn’t even 2 years old, she took a spill while trying to run and turn slightly to the right. No small feat, Taylor has a hard time standing up much less putting one foot in front of the other without a collapse. For a long time, we would hear the familiar sound of her tiny body hitting the ground followed quickly by a faint sometimes muffled “I’m OK!” But this particular tumble was not so. The momentum she had going from her run had her face plant into a pint sized wooden chair she had gotten for Christmas. There was blood everywhere, she was screaming. Or maybe that was me I can’t really recall because I was seeing fuzzy black light before I pretty much fainted. Chris handled the whole situation. Got her cleaned up, ice applied and low and behold as I came to, her teeth were still in her gums. Within an hour or two, we watched both top front teeth tooth slowly turn to gray. Oddly, one tooth returned to white a few days later. A trip to the dentist and an x-ray revealed that the worst case had not happened – no need to pull the remaining gray tooth because there was no damage to the adult one lying in wait above.

So 4 years later, the gray tooth goes from loose, to really loose, to how is that thing hanging on, to oh gross you have to pull that thing out! Teachers, babysitters, parents, friends alike were all cringing as she would run up and wiggle it back and forth with her tongue. It just wouldn’t do what nature intends for loose teeth. And when Taylor had finally had enough, she looked me straight in the eye and said “Mommy, I want you to pull it out.” Really??

I triple checked that this was indeed what I had heard and she said dramatically that “It is time.” So I washed my hands, sat down and had her tilt her head back and open wide. She did, but not before grabbing both of my wrists, tightly, turning her head from side to side, her blonde hair swishing left and then right and uttering a series of sentences and questions that went something like this:

“it’s gonna hurt. is it going to hurt? i don’t want you to hurt me. i want to do this. i don’t want to do this. never mind. no do it. just do it mommy. zah zah zah. i can’t. i’m scared, i shouldn’t be scared. (things muttered that I couldn’t even make out) i’m just not sure. i, i, i. i’m sure. but, mommy, no. no i can’t. yes,mommy. i can do it. ”

At some point she realized that my hands weren’t in her mouth any longer and looked up to find her tooth in my hand, the one she was still tightly grasping. The mere weight of my fingers wrapping around the tooth was enough to dislodge it. No blood, no crying, no nonsense. Piece of cake. All she wrote. Bring on the tooth fairy action. Oh yeah.

No really, everything is just great.

Mr. Andrew turned four last week, meaning it time for his annual doctor check up. It is during these visits that the doctor examines the child, asks a series of questions to test their physical and cognitive development, social skills and look for anything out of the ordinary on their persons. For me, these visits are best to learn how much my kids weigh, how tall they are and how they compare on the national average among kids their own age. Not that it is a competition but we McWhinney’s are always in the 90+ percentile…

Andrew was pretty pumped because Nurse Stephanie had asked him to put on a smock. He sat still on the exam table while Taylor colored diligently minding her own business, sort of.

This particular visit started out like all the others before it. Our doctor walked in, quickly assessed which child she was seeing by checking her chart and we got started.

Dr. Schwartz: “So, mom, how is everything going?”

Michelle: (What the hell does that mean? Where is she going with this? How is everything??) “Everything is great, we are all doing just fine.”

Dr.Schwartz: “Great, good to hear that. Hows he eating, well, he obviously is a good eater.”

Mom: (What the hell does that mean?) “Yes, he is a great eater, not one to turn food away. Not that we feed him too much. Or junk for that matter. In fact, he isn’t really into sweets at all. He prefer meat and cheese.” (Oh nice answer now she is going to think you don’t give him fruit and veggies…get it together Michelle! Yes or no answers and we will be out of here in no time.)

Dr. Schwartz: “So, Andrew, how old are you these days?”

Andrew: (Holding up four fingers) “Five.”

Dr. Schwartz: “Are you sure? What comes after four fingers like the one you have up?

(Confusion – Taylor butting in FIVE not looking up from her picture – Mom breaking into a light sweat.)

Dr. Schwartz: “Andrew how old are you? I think you are four.”

(Taylor blurting out HE IS FOUR, NOT FIVE. Mom shushing Taylor. Dr. looking from one McWhinney to the other.)

Dr. Schwartz: “Does he ever get a word in?”

Mom: “Like I said earlier, everything is great. We are doing juuuuust fine.” (Convincing smile.)

Dr. Schwartz: “Andrew, how old are you?”

Andrew: (eyes darting around the room, looking from mom to doctor back to mom, dropping his hand displaying four fingers to his mouth) “Uhhhh….fffffuuuuu (long pause) cccckkkkk.”

Mom: “Oh, Andrew, we don’t talk like that.”

Dr. Schwartz: “OH, okaaaay.” Copious notes in his file. “Next question for your Drew, let’s see, do you brush your teeth?”

Mom: (Oh thank god, a softball to get us back on track.)

Andrew: “No.”

Mom: “Andrew, hahaha are you telling the doctor stories you silly guy??” (Heavier sweat beginning to bead on forehead.)

Dr. Schwartz: “Do you brush your teeth, Drew?”

Andrew: “I have never brushed my teeth.”

Mom: “Oh Drew, you know we brush our teeth twice a day, RIGHT?”

Andrew: “ I have never EVER brushed my teeth and I never EVER will.”

Dr: Schwartz: “So, should I call protective services now or should I keep going?”

No one has come to the door yet, but then again, I’m not answering the bell.

Chicken scratch inheritance

As we approach April, it is that weird, in between seasons time in Virginia where we have snow and ice on a Monday and are in flip flops and shorts by the weekend. It does wonders for the soul – you know the one that is screaming COME ON already enough of the cold! It also does wonders for your skin. Well at least those fortunate enough to inherit Bujold skin.

My mother had long, beautiful legs, a wicked sense of humor, a proclivity to drink and a heart of gold. She also had bony, old lady looking hands covered by skin that looked like a leaf fossil. And this when she was young and vibrant, not just as she got on in life. I would like to lay claim to inheriting the first set of traits, but that I will leave to you to decide. I can, however 100% certify with out one iota of a doubt that I got her hands. I also got her raging bunions but that isn’t really important for this story.

I picked up the kids yesterday afternoon while they were out on the playground at school. I immediately noticed Drew’s desert wind scorched chapped lips and thought “Ouch…thats gotta hurt” as he ran toward me arms open wide. And as I scanned the crowd of kids for my tweety bird, I saw that she had already started toward me with her bright smile and was ready to greet me with her famous great big bear hug. We said goodbye to all of our friends and headed for the truck. Drew hoped in first and then Taylor. I noticed her gloves were missing (again) and then more importantly noticed that her hands were dry, ashy and red across the knuckles. Almost as gnarly as Drew’s lips. Ahhhh, gotta love cold, dry winter air.

I held her hands in mine and asked her if she was ok. As we talked about the importance of keeping your gloves with you to prevent chapped skin and wind burn and held our hands together, I said “look at that – you have the same lines and patterns in your hands as mommy does.”

It was such a grotesque scene – my vein-popping bony old lady hand next to the most perfect little piece of heaven with 5 fingers attached. Seemed ridiculous to even suggest that the two could be similar. And with my mind working the way it does, I observed that the way I was holding her hand oddly resembled a chicken’s foot making me laugh out loud and share my observation with the kids.

Michelle: “Doesn’t mommy’s hand look like a chicken’s foot?” as I clucked and held it up in the air to giggles and belly laughs.

Michelle’s hoped reply: “No mommy, your hands are the olive color of an Italian woman whom the sun adores and your fingers are long and graceful like that of a concert pianist.”

Taylor’s reply: “No mommy, chickens don’t wear nail polish.”

smile and wave

Two years ago today was the last time I saw my mom alive. I knew it would be, she was fading in front of my eyes by the hour. She hung on 13 more days but I had to head back home to care for my family. I laid in bed with her and she stroked my hair, the way she had since I was a little girl. Giving me comfort in her last days. My dad came in to tell me it was time to head to the airport and I just froze. How was I really expected to leave?

Earlier on in her illness, while she could still speak, I finally cracked. Maybe it was the tequila shots my brother and I shared at my niece’s 20th birthday dinner, as we did to get through family events toward the end. This was the one my mother could just watch because she could no longer eat unless it was liquid and through a feeding tube. Or maybe it was the look in her eyes as she watched a 3-minute snippet of her wedding video that an uncle has uncovered and sent to her a few years earlier. Her eyes were so alive as she watched her 19 year old, vibrant and healthy self greet her relatives, dance and smile at my father and kiss him. My parents had just celebrated their 46th wedding anniversary the month before.

Until that night, I had remained strong in front of her. Following her lead. I never once saw her cry the entire 18 months or so after she was diagnosed with ALS. She never really expressed anything about it. No anger, no fear, no sadness. The only things she really said to me were that she is was disappointed that she would miss her 50th wedding anniversary, 50th high school reunion and seeing my kids grow. She said as rocky as her marriage had been at times, she never once regretted the choices and sacrifices she made. She said she was proud of “their” accomplishment and of the life they built together.

So after my family left and we were alone that night, I broke apart. I told her how sorry I was that this was happening to her. How I wished I could take all of this away. How I wished I could make her comfortable. I also told her how guilty and torn I felt, not being there with her. I offered to come and stay with her for the next few months to rid her of the nurse she didn’t like, to be with her just to keep her company. And that is when she gave me the best gift. She told me that I had a much more important job to do – I now had a family and two children who needed me. It was my turn to be a mom – and that this was the natural order of things. That my father is to care for her and that he is doing the beast he can. That this is what marriage is really all about.

I wonder now if that was the light in her eyes as she watched that video. Who would have thought on November 12, 1959 when JoAnne Bujold and Paul Gabelmann said “I do” that they were signing up for this. All the hope and promise on our wedding day, you can never know what is going to come your way. And I suppose you don’t really know how one will handle what does come. You take that leap of faith and pray for the best. Whatever happens adds to the foundation that makes you, you.

I clung tight to my mother as long as I could. I kissed her, I hugged her, I cried and felt my heart break. I told her I loved her, that I would make her proud and that I would see her soon – knowing that would be in nature, in my dreams or in heaven when my time came. And I as I turned in the doorway to take one last look, she smiled and waved to me.

I will always be grateful to my mother for her strength and grace through her illness. I had no choice but to be as strong as she was for her and for my kids. And I have no choice to be strong through the rest of life come what may. Everyday life seems to present a struggle with feelings of unrest, frustration, stress and what about me?? On my darkest days when things are clouded and confused, I close my eyes and flash back to the last time I saw her and I know what I have to do.

Smile and wave.