Christmas Wrap Up 2014

Sometimes life gives you lemons, but with a little creativity and luck, you are able to make lemonade.

On December 18th, our family was dealt a whole truckload, when we learned of the passing of my cousin's sweet baby, Georgia Grace.  Just 7 months old, she was all sugar with just a hint of spice.

Creativity would be of no use...what we needed was a platonium-powered Delorean.

For days afterward, I walked around in a fog, half-listening to my kids as my thoughts and prayers remained focused on my cousin and her family.  I tried to put myself in her shoes, but found I couldn't even wriggle a baby toe's worth of understanding.  There is just no pain to compare with the depth of heartache associated with losing a child...and there really are no words one can say to take away the pain or speed up the healing process.  Bottomline: there will always be a Georgia-shaped hole on our hearts. I will continue to pray for God's healing grace to help her family find a way to carry on without her.

Steve and I didn't finish with our elf duties until nearly 1 a.m. Christmas morning.  My sleep was fitful as I imagined my cousin's family and others like her separated from loved ones...whether by miles, discourse or death -- this holiday season.  Never was I so grateful to receive a courtesy wake up call from my children.  And, while I loved the new perfume from Steve and the scarf and gloves from the kids -- the best gift I received was good health and togetherness with my family.

After all the gifts had been opened, Steve fixed us french toast that would rival any served in a fine hotel.  The recipe calls for frying and then baking the concoction in the oven.  He called it a souffle as the egg-soaked bread more than doubled in height as it baked.  Afterwards we headed over to my parent's house to share the day with extended family.  We noshed on a smorgasbord of family favorites including roast beef, deviled eggs and Steve's famous blackberry cobbler.  Later we opened gifts and played a game of Rob Your Neighbor then listened to Steve entertain us with a bunch of old country songs from Hank Williams, Hank Thompson, and Jimmy Rodgers.

The next day we began packing for our trip to see Steve's family in Scio, (Sigh-O) Ohio -- an inaugural visit for the kids.  The last time I had made the nearly 1,200 mile round trip journey was more than 11 years ago when I was pregnant with Noah.

Needless to say, we were overdue. 

The week we spent in Ohio was both restful and rejuvenating.  My MIL made me my very own cherry pie and encouraged me not to share. My FIL introduced me to "fresh side" - bacon that is covered in flour and fried.  It's good, but a better name for it might be "fresh side of heart attack".  I read decadent books by Alice Hoffman.  I slowed down and days passed with little effort. Every afternoon family dropped in to say hello and join us for lunch or dinner.  Never in my life have I eaten so much red meat or mashed potatoes.  We had meatballs as big as baseballs and spare ribs that would rival those favored by Fred Flintstone.  One morning Steve had the opportunity to reconnect with his nephews with an impromptu rabbit hunting excursion.  Another afternoon, he spent a few hours giving Noah a private tour of the woods and "crick" he used to frequent as a boy. One of my favorite times was spent  perusing old photo albums and listening to stories of his childhood.  His name may be Steve...but there was a time when he answered to "Steven the Heathen".

We're already making plans for another visit because time waits for no one.  The greatest gift I can give my kids is fond memories.

Love at first BEEP.

Natalie wrapped up love.

Don't let that face fool you.  Coal was one of her favorite gifts.

Grandma Mary and Jack

Mom and Alicia compare chocolates.

All around the water tank waiting for a train....

cousins - Ella and Ethan

cousins - Natalie and Jack

1st, 2nd and all around good cousins

Rise n' shine and ready to hit the road

We stayed overnight in Springfield, OH.  The kids were never so happy to be out of the car and in a pool.

Too tired to leave our hotel room, we made due with peanut butter sandwiches...though Steve 'elfed" his up by adding both potato chips and toffee butterscotch popcorn.

Like Father, Like Son.

Two Little Monkeys...

In Scio, Noah learns to shoot...cans.

The view from my in-laws backyard.

My MIL Connie and SIL, Joanne wanted to be sure that Natalie wasn't bored at the house.  They brought home an empty refrigerator box.  She and I spent the week dressing it up with decorations, lights and even a doggie door.

Grandma Connie and Natalie

Sibling Shenanigans

Twins.

Natalie LOVED getting to know grandma's dog - Howie.

New Year's Eve we celebrated Grandma Connie's birthday.

We made homemade ice cream...twice in one week.
Joanne, Matt and Heather

The Whole Gang

A Blue Day

I was just 24 years old when we met.  I was single and had my own apartment in St. Louis' historic Dogtown area and wasn't so sure I wanted to share my one bedroom with anyone else. I'd left the Caribbean ship life with Carnival Cruise Lines the year before and was still adjusting to "The Office" life at the corporate headquarters of Charter Communications. However, my mom thought it was a good idea and after months of nagging, I finally conceded.

It was a crisp Saturday morning in November and I admit, I was a little nervous about the set-up.  When we arrived, mom and I were greeted by a team of specialists who grilled me about the step I was taking and put me through an intense interview.  Although I did not have any previous experience, I assured them that I would take the job seriously and was ready to commit...to becoming a cat owner.

As I peered through the cages, my eyes immediately zoned in on a cream tabby, who acted as if he were king of the joint.  He was sprawled out in the middle of the enclosure with his eyes half closed as an entourage of feline attendants primped and cleaned him.

"He's the one!" I pointed as I called my mom over.

While I filled out papers, the folks from the adoption center seemed a little bit worried that "Sunny" whom I later renamed Bailey, would be the only feline in my home.  Well, as it turned out, my new roomie did not do well living alone during the day time hours when I was at work.  Within a week I was calling the Cat Network to inquire whether they had another cat that would be a good match for mine.  The woman on the other line happily informed me that indeed they did...and he was Bailey's brother.  Apparently, the two boys had been found in a dumpster at just 3 or 4 days old.  They were flea and worm-ridden and in really bad shape.  A foster mom dropper-fed the scrawny two and took care of them until they were four months old.  I was eager to reunite the boys and that evening drove 45 minutes to St. Charles with Bailey in tow.  The foster mom let us in and the moment I opened Bailey's cage, Sunshine ran up to his brother and it was a Simba and Nala-like reunion with the two of them rolling and falling down over each other.

"Yep, I'll take him," I said.

I renamed "Sunshine" Tigger because he was an orange tabby and a little jumpy.  He bounded around the house like he had springs in his tail.

Over the next few months, my sleep was often interrupted because the two of them liked to begin their games of chase at 2 a.m. and their favorite spot to play was in the middle of my bed.  When I shared my woes of sleep deprivation with a vet, he only chuckled and said, "Cats are nocturnal and you have two!  They'll settle down eventually, but kittens have a lot of energy."  I tried phoning them at home several times a day in hopes that the telephone ringing would rouse them from their daytime cat napping and turn them into better night time sleepers.  No dice.

Each evening they greeted me at the door ready to be fed.  However, one night I returned home later than usual and the boys uncharacteristically did not welcome me at the door.  Instead, they lay dozing on the futon, seemingly content.  It wasn't until I turned on the light that I spied two, empty packets of cat food.  The pawtners-in-crime had somehow figured out how to get into the kitchen pantry and had climbed several shelves to reach the booty I thought I had stored so well.

The boys proved to be more dog-like than I would have thought possible.  While Tigger liked to play fetch with milk rings, Bailey would beg on command.  He was happy to raise up on his hind legs and wave his front paws over his head to earn a prize of a milk-dunked Cheerio. Both responded to my whistle and whether indoors or out, would come out of any hiding place to find me.

In the early years, the two kept me from freezing during the winter months of living in that decrepit apartment.  At bedtime, I'd whistle and the two would immediately jump on the bed and get into their respective places.  Tigger would head to the bottom of the bed and spend the night curled behind my legs while Bailey preferred to act as a furry hat atop my head.

They were inseparable.  During the day, my little bookends preferred to sleep among my thick bed of daylillies or worked in tandem to catch birds and rabbits.  Each night they crammed together to rest in a single laundry basket.

Three years ago we lost Bailey (also known as Heavy B because he tipped the scales at 18 lbs.) when a hawk attacked him in our own backyard.  It was a shock for all of us, especially Tigger.

Today, I had to say good-bye to Tigger, and it was so stinking tough.  He has been a constant in my life for 16 years...a furry companion who silently sat with me when I cried over a break-up or worried how I'd make rent.  He and Bailey were my "test babies" before Steve and brought home our own two from the hospital.  Tonight the house seems too quiet.  I already miss Tigger's extensive vocabulary of yowls and whines that only I seemed to be able to understand.

Rest in Peace Tiggie Wiggie.

Two weeks after I got them.

Bookend Buddies

August 27, 2012

A life lesson I wish they didn't have to learn.

I'd Rather Talk About Sex

A couple weeks ago I attended a visitation for my friend's father.  Upon returning home from the funeral parlor Noah told me, "Mom, if it get's dangerous I'll just be sure not to leave home without my lightsaber.  And, if I die I'll come back as a Jedi ghost and I'll have my lightsaber with me and I'll never die."

Death is not an easy subject for kids to grasp, but it's 100 times tougher for kids on the Autism spectrum.  While I want Noah to understand the permanence of death, in that moment, I held my tongue and discovered I'd rather talk to him about sex than mortality.

I was about Noah's age the first time I experienced the death of a loved one.  I lost my paternal grandparents in a span of six weeks.  And, although that was 30 years ago, tears still stream freely down my cheeks as I recall that time.  Grandma was just 67 years old and died after spending more than a month in I.C.U due to injuries she incurred from being hit by a car.  I still remember the night of the accident.  I didn't cry because that would have meant I'd given up on ever seeing her again.  Instead, upon learning she'd been hurt, I went to my room and got on my knees and began praying...though it was more like begging.  I pleaded for God to let her be OK.  I would do whatever He asked of me.  I would be good. I promised.  I may have even suggested that I'd be willing to become a nun if he would just allow her to live.

While my parents visited her regularly, I did not, as I was told children were not allowed in the I.C.U.  The next time I would see her would be in a casket. She passed away on January 31, 1982...my 10th birthday.  I'd never seen a dead person before.  I looked at her sleeping face and concentrated hard on her waxy figure.  Struggling with the reality of the situation, my eyes began playing tricks on me.  I rushed up to my mom and whispered, "I think I just saw her chest move."

I was so sure there had been a mistake.  My mom looked into my worried face and gently explained that I only thought I saw her move because my grief was so great.  I wasn't convinced and went back to check on her again.  Months later, I shared how angry I was at not being able to see her in the hospital.  I believed that if I'd been given the chance to talk to her, that she would have fought harder.

During the time grandma was in the hospital, grandpa stayed with us. While grandma was boisterous and chatty and knew no strangers, grandpa was quiet, gentle and put a lot of thought into his words before he spoke.  He taught me to play checkers and how to make cracker and cheese towers.  He was also diabetic and had poor eye sight, balance and circulation.  But, his health, never stopped him from traveling the country with grandma via Bi-State.  That is, until her accident.  The longer she remained in the hospital, the less interested grandpa became in games and in consuming my creations of saltines and salami with Philly cream cheese.  I watched as my mother began tending to his leg sores more frequently.  Bathing his bruised, discolored feet in Epsom salts soon became a daily routine.

We had to wait a week to bury grandma because Mother Nature had recently dumped three and a half feet of snow onto an already frozen surface.   The day of her funeral I sat in a folding chair, shivering under a red and black plaid, fleece blanket with my parents and siblings next to me. The words of the clergyman were far away and hollow-sounding to my ears.  He didn't know grandma personally and to this day I can't recall a single word from his generic benediction. That afternoon at home, dad and grandpa began arguing.  It was a sight I'd never witnessed before.  What happened next, would forever be branded into my long term memory.  Dad had had enough talk and simply lifted his father in his arms and carried him to our family car.  Grandpa wept like a child and begged his son to let him stay while I obediently followed dad outside and numbly opened the passenger door for him.  After they left, mom explained that grandpa was very sick and needed to be in the hospital. His feet were dying.

At first, the doctors only removed a few toes, but within a couple of weeks, grandpa lost part of his leg.  We also learned that he had cancer.  Every Sunday my parents would take us to visit him.  My  sister and I spent most of our time in the rec room drawing pictures to cover up the sterile walls of grandpa's room.  Each time we returned, he seemed smaller and less connected to the here and now.  Mom explained that he was on heavy painkillers.  However, when we visited him on March 14th, he was alert and even joked with us.  For the first time in weeks, I felt hopeful that he would be back home with us very soon.  But, when I waggled my finger at grandpa for snatching a few shamrock-shaped cookies mom had brought for us to snack on, I heard, "Andrea, he can have a few.  It won't hurt him," said Mom.  Her permissive words didn't sit well with me and hinted at something grim to come. Grandpa died a few days later.  Though his death certificate states cancer as the cause of death, I believe he actually died from a broken heart.

Today, I am the same age my only-child dad was when he buried both of his parents.  I can't even begin to fathom the grief, he was left to shoulder. I struggle with how to explain death to my children in a way that is real, but also hopeful and provides comfort rather than an increase in anxiety and nightmares.  Also, who am I to tell Noah lightsabers aren't allowed in heaven.