Last night, Jacob slept from 3:30 until 8:00 with nary a wiggle. It was fabulous. We won't discuss how many times he was up prior to 3:30, as it seriously steals my thunder. What we will discuss, albeit minimally, is the one factor that I neglected to mention in my Rant about my baby who never sleeps: MY NEIGHBORS.
Neighbors = the only people who use my doorstep who do not respect the cute little sign hanging on my door, "Shhhhh. Babies sleeping. Thank you!" Never mind the fact that they walk past that sign every blasted day. Also never mind the fact that THEY ARE THE REASON FOR THE SIGN. Anyway, I mention this because, surely there are a number of factors at play with Jacob's sleep problems; however, I do not believe it to be a coincidence that every single time they stomp up the stairs and slam the door (which, really is every. single. time. they come in and out) my Jacob wakes up crying within five minutes.
Side note: out of the eight townhomes in our little complex, we are the ONLY ONES who share a step. I find this to be supremely unfair and believe that this is the primary reason that my husband should just buy me a house so we can just move already!
Side note to the side note: we'll be discussing the topic of moving shortly.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
In Which I Use Far Too Many Caps And Still Solve Nothing.
Lately I've found myself wondering what in the world I did when I used to sleep. For the life of me, I can't figure it out. I imagine that I had all sorts of energy all the time, that I woke up refreshed in the mornings and ready to Take On The Day! I know that wasn't the case, and so I suppose I should be impressed with myself that I can get up four times throughout the night (yes, FOUR) and still be a perfectly functional, relatively stable, energetic person. So that's nice. Less than one paragraph and we have already established my awesomeness. What we have yet to establish is WHY IN THE WORLD I'M UP FOUR TIMES EVERY NIGHT.
The answer? I don't know and it's driving me CRAZY. What I do know is that when Christopher was this age he was sleeping through the night. And we're not talking about the Baby Book Definition here. This is no five-hour stretch of sleep. We're speaking of down at seven, up at seven. That's right. TWELVE HOURS of blissful sleep. It was also at that time that I realized, albeit reluctantly, that a baby who sleeps for TWELVE HOURS STRAIGHT does not need to go down a mere two hours later for a morning nap. This was a hard realization for me to accept, but I eventually caught on, we gave up the morning nap, and life was wonderful. Surprisingly, I did not miss the morning nap nearly as much as I expected that I would. Especially considering that it made the afternoon nap stretch from two hours to three. Boy did that make for some blissful afternoons. Still does, actually.
Let's make something clear right here - I am not one to compare babies. I don't like it, it bothers me when I actually DO it, and I am harshly judgmental of those who compare my babies to other peoples' or other peoples' babies to other peoples' babies. You know what I mean. It really fries my bacon even when, in the comparisons, my babies come out on top. (Which they always do because the only people I ever hang out with are family and they are obligated to believe that my children are far superior to others). That said, I can't help but ask my darling little Jacob why he can't just sleep like his brother did! WHY, JACOB, WHY?
It's getting to the point where I can feel myself turning into Bad Lifetime Movie Mom - the one who can't handle the pressure of being a mom and who just wants to stand up in a huff, stomp into whatever room ANY OTHER HUMAN BEING is inhabiting, and pass him off so I can just be done with the whole thing. Not the whole mom thing, of course, but the whole nursing, rocking, bouncing, singing, burping, nursing, bouncing, nursing, pacifier giving, humming, JUST GO TO SLEEP ALREADY thing.
The exhaustion of the past few weeks, dealing with Grandma's funeral, cleaning out her house, sorting through this that and the other thing, ON TOP OF the Great Sleep Boycott has pushed me just far enough that I can't even manage to sit and rock him anymore. There have been a number of nights when I've given up and carted him back into my room with me where, of course, he sleeps for hours on end with nary a single peep. That came to an abrupt stop, though, the morning I woke up to find my pillow completely covering his face.
Bad mom of the year award? Anyone?
We've diagnosed the problem - at least part of it - as teething. The fact that his upper gums look like they're pulled taut over a string of pearls leads me to believe that he's got some serious pressure in there. Another thing that we can compare against Christopher, my child who drooled like a Saint Bernard, but never let out a single peep over any emerging teeth. I've never seen Jakie drool, really EVER, and yet the emergence of the two bottom teeth that he does have disrupted our lives something fierce. That being said, I feel so guilty letting him cry for even a few minutes because I really think that we're dealing with more here than a baby who is, as of yet, unable to settle himself back down after he's woken up. If he's in pain (which, can I just say? Our first pediatrician tried to convince me was a myth. A MYTH. No doctor, I don't imagine it WOULD hurt if sharp-edged square pieces of enamel were protruding through my baby-fine flesh. Whatsoever would make anyone think THAT?) Anyway, if he's in pain, then I can't just leave him in his dark room to suffer alone.
So pray, PLEASE PRAY, that those teeth will come in and we can be done with this. And when they do? Well then you can stay tuned for the adventures of nursing a biter. Because BOY DOES HE LIKE TO DO THAT. And once he's got TWO rows of teeth? It'll all be down hill from there.
The answer? I don't know and it's driving me CRAZY. What I do know is that when Christopher was this age he was sleeping through the night. And we're not talking about the Baby Book Definition here. This is no five-hour stretch of sleep. We're speaking of down at seven, up at seven. That's right. TWELVE HOURS of blissful sleep. It was also at that time that I realized, albeit reluctantly, that a baby who sleeps for TWELVE HOURS STRAIGHT does not need to go down a mere two hours later for a morning nap. This was a hard realization for me to accept, but I eventually caught on, we gave up the morning nap, and life was wonderful. Surprisingly, I did not miss the morning nap nearly as much as I expected that I would. Especially considering that it made the afternoon nap stretch from two hours to three. Boy did that make for some blissful afternoons. Still does, actually.
Let's make something clear right here - I am not one to compare babies. I don't like it, it bothers me when I actually DO it, and I am harshly judgmental of those who compare my babies to other peoples' or other peoples' babies to other peoples' babies. You know what I mean. It really fries my bacon even when, in the comparisons, my babies come out on top. (Which they always do because the only people I ever hang out with are family and they are obligated to believe that my children are far superior to others). That said, I can't help but ask my darling little Jacob why he can't just sleep like his brother did! WHY, JACOB, WHY?
It's getting to the point where I can feel myself turning into Bad Lifetime Movie Mom - the one who can't handle the pressure of being a mom and who just wants to stand up in a huff, stomp into whatever room ANY OTHER HUMAN BEING is inhabiting, and pass him off so I can just be done with the whole thing. Not the whole mom thing, of course, but the whole nursing, rocking, bouncing, singing, burping, nursing, bouncing, nursing, pacifier giving, humming, JUST GO TO SLEEP ALREADY thing.
The exhaustion of the past few weeks, dealing with Grandma's funeral, cleaning out her house, sorting through this that and the other thing, ON TOP OF the Great Sleep Boycott has pushed me just far enough that I can't even manage to sit and rock him anymore. There have been a number of nights when I've given up and carted him back into my room with me where, of course, he sleeps for hours on end with nary a single peep. That came to an abrupt stop, though, the morning I woke up to find my pillow completely covering his face.
Bad mom of the year award? Anyone?
We've diagnosed the problem - at least part of it - as teething. The fact that his upper gums look like they're pulled taut over a string of pearls leads me to believe that he's got some serious pressure in there. Another thing that we can compare against Christopher, my child who drooled like a Saint Bernard, but never let out a single peep over any emerging teeth. I've never seen Jakie drool, really EVER, and yet the emergence of the two bottom teeth that he does have disrupted our lives something fierce. That being said, I feel so guilty letting him cry for even a few minutes because I really think that we're dealing with more here than a baby who is, as of yet, unable to settle himself back down after he's woken up. If he's in pain (which, can I just say? Our first pediatrician tried to convince me was a myth. A MYTH. No doctor, I don't imagine it WOULD hurt if sharp-edged square pieces of enamel were protruding through my baby-fine flesh. Whatsoever would make anyone think THAT?) Anyway, if he's in pain, then I can't just leave him in his dark room to suffer alone.
So pray, PLEASE PRAY, that those teeth will come in and we can be done with this. And when they do? Well then you can stay tuned for the adventures of nursing a biter. Because BOY DOES HE LIKE TO DO THAT. And once he's got TWO rows of teeth? It'll all be down hill from there.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Dear Blogger, Why Do You Hate Me?
Seriously. More to come. If the hosting site will opt to actually PUBLISH MY POSTS.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Makes You Want To Hold Your Husband Close.
Devastating news in blogville today, which you may already know if you have followed any of the Catholic blogs linked to the right. Please keep this family in your prayers.
Monday, February 2, 2009
To Whom It May Concern
You know that place where exhausted meets anxious meets mourning meets reminiscing meets laughing, crying, yelling and pouting all at the same time?
I am so standing on that red dot. (If you don't have that commercial in your country, then my apologies.)
At any rate, in my world, that place is called "Just Tired." And when you're Just Tired, at least this time, judgmental is the name of the game. And so, I present you with a small sampling of those things that have incurred my wrath over the past week and a half.
I read Emily's post this morning, and while my first response was, "GET OUT OF MY HEAD, WOMAN!" I did consider just wiping out this post. EVERY SENTENCE was one-hundred percent how I feel...and yet, I have to say it all again because it's just that important to me.
It has recently occurred to me that nearly every show I watch on HG is EXACTLY THE SAME. I don't know how this has gone by unnoticed for the past three years of my viewing pleasure, but it has. Until now. It is only now that I realize that whether I'm watching Property Virgins, My First Place, House Hunters, or....well, does it really matter if I know the name or not? Just give me three options and a choice and I've got the rubric for every single half hour of air time. I complain about this every time I watch this channel, and yet I suppose I'm just one of those people who prefers to be miserable, as it has not yet effected any change in my television watching behavior.
The other day while my family was lounging in front of the TV (So what. You know you watch a lot of TV too.) Christopher was happily watching one of his favorite shows which, on this day, was featuring a little piggy bank that was floating along on a magic carpet. (Don't ask. I don't know.) My little one, who had recently discovered hippos, was thrilled to see what he thought was a hippo on this happy little carpet. "Hippo! Mommy! Hippo!" The fact that I was lounging along with everyone else should lead the reader to understand that I was too tired to be doing anything else, and thus, severely disinterested in explaining the difference between a hippo and a pig to this little person who could clearly Care Less. As I half-heartedly pondered the value of making clear this distinction, the little piggy fell off of the magic carpet and rolled down a little sandy hill, to be met by an alien who is just popping out of his groundhog hole. (Again. I DON'T KNOW.) Instantly, the jubilant "Mommy! Hippo!" turned into my little boy backing away from the TV, pressing himself into my chest, with TEARS POURING FROM HIS EYES, screaming, "OH NO! MOMMY! HIPPO! NOOOO!" I had no idea that my heart could break over a cartoon. But it did.
Dear Kipper,
I love you. I think you're a cute little hound dog, and I'm especially partial to your British accent. Your theme song is catchy, and I find it precious that you carry around a slobbery little slipper. But, I would ask that in the future you might want to refrain from SCARING SMALL CHILDREN with your magic carpet-riding, alien-meeting hippo shaped piggy banks. Much obliged.
Oh Man. I Was Just Getting Ready To Say Something Nice....
I am so standing on that red dot. (If you don't have that commercial in your country, then my apologies.)
At any rate, in my world, that place is called "Just Tired." And when you're Just Tired, at least this time, judgmental is the name of the game. And so, I present you with a small sampling of those things that have incurred my wrath over the past week and a half.
House Hunters...AND EVERY OTHER SHOW ON HGTV.
I read Emily's post this morning, and while my first response was, "GET OUT OF MY HEAD, WOMAN!" I did consider just wiping out this post. EVERY SENTENCE was one-hundred percent how I feel...and yet, I have to say it all again because it's just that important to me.
It has recently occurred to me that nearly every show I watch on HG is EXACTLY THE SAME. I don't know how this has gone by unnoticed for the past three years of my viewing pleasure, but it has. Until now. It is only now that I realize that whether I'm watching Property Virgins, My First Place, House Hunters, or....well, does it really matter if I know the name or not? Just give me three options and a choice and I've got the rubric for every single half hour of air time. I complain about this every time I watch this channel, and yet I suppose I'm just one of those people who prefers to be miserable, as it has not yet effected any change in my television watching behavior.
Can I say, though, that I have to FORCE MYSELF to be nice inside of my head while watching these shows. It's getting to the point where I think I'm racking up some serious Purgatory time while I'm criticizing all of these innocent people. And yet, are they REALLY that innocent? Anyone who is willing to put their ridiculous selves on national TV is fair game, in my opinion. And thus we get to last night's critique, which goes a little like this:
Dear Guy On The Stagers,
Knee-length man shorts, white oxford shirts, and skinny ties do not a professional look make. Okay? So put on some real clothes, start acting like a professional, and get a blasted haircut. Much obliged.
Do you SEE why I need to go to Confession? Nearly EVERY SINGLE DAY?
Can I also say, while we're on the topic, that the injustice of what I call the HG Situation is becoming more than I can bear. Seriously. Seriously! Am I the only one who feels that the people on those shows have absolutely NO TASTE WHATSOEVER? I'm sorry, but I find it supremely unfair that these people with such ridiculously bad taste own (or are buying) their very own homes while people like myself (who, naturally, have incredibly good taste) are stuck renting apartments with carpet that is so dirty that I am left to wonder why I have a floor at all.
Kipper. Kipper the Dog. (The Dog With The Slipper.)
Dear Guy On The Stagers,
Knee-length man shorts, white oxford shirts, and skinny ties do not a professional look make. Okay? So put on some real clothes, start acting like a professional, and get a blasted haircut. Much obliged.
Do you SEE why I need to go to Confession? Nearly EVERY SINGLE DAY?
Can I also say, while we're on the topic, that the injustice of what I call the HG Situation is becoming more than I can bear. Seriously. Seriously! Am I the only one who feels that the people on those shows have absolutely NO TASTE WHATSOEVER? I'm sorry, but I find it supremely unfair that these people with such ridiculously bad taste own (or are buying) their very own homes while people like myself (who, naturally, have incredibly good taste) are stuck renting apartments with carpet that is so dirty that I am left to wonder why I have a floor at all.
Kipper. Kipper the Dog. (The Dog With The Slipper.)
The other day while my family was lounging in front of the TV (So what. You know you watch a lot of TV too.) Christopher was happily watching one of his favorite shows which, on this day, was featuring a little piggy bank that was floating along on a magic carpet. (Don't ask. I don't know.) My little one, who had recently discovered hippos, was thrilled to see what he thought was a hippo on this happy little carpet. "Hippo! Mommy! Hippo!" The fact that I was lounging along with everyone else should lead the reader to understand that I was too tired to be doing anything else, and thus, severely disinterested in explaining the difference between a hippo and a pig to this little person who could clearly Care Less. As I half-heartedly pondered the value of making clear this distinction, the little piggy fell off of the magic carpet and rolled down a little sandy hill, to be met by an alien who is just popping out of his groundhog hole. (Again. I DON'T KNOW.) Instantly, the jubilant "Mommy! Hippo!" turned into my little boy backing away from the TV, pressing himself into my chest, with TEARS POURING FROM HIS EYES, screaming, "OH NO! MOMMY! HIPPO! NOOOO!" I had no idea that my heart could break over a cartoon. But it did.
Dear Kipper,
I love you. I think you're a cute little hound dog, and I'm especially partial to your British accent. Your theme song is catchy, and I find it precious that you carry around a slobbery little slipper. But, I would ask that in the future you might want to refrain from SCARING SMALL CHILDREN with your magic carpet-riding, alien-meeting hippo shaped piggy banks. Much obliged.
Oh Man. I Was Just Getting Ready To Say Something Nice....
I am incredibly saddened by the disappointment that is rapidly becoming this year's Westminster Dog Show. It was only a few minutes ago, now, that the most beautiful English Bulldog plodded up and down that green carpet. "English Bulldog Number 7." GORGEOUS. But did he win his group? Better yet, has ANY GOOD DOG AT ALL won yet tonight? NO. What a waste of an ice-cream laden evening. If you think me overly dramatic, then clearly you do not know of the joy that Dog Show Night brings to the Troy Family. It really is our favorite night of the year. Christmas? Too crazy. Valentine's Day? Are you kidding? We don't do Valentine's day. Birthdays? Too. Well, okay. It's tied with my birthday, I suppose. Because, you know, I LOVE MY BIRTHDAY. Seriously. We look forward to the Dog Show with the anticipation of a child awaiting the tooth fairy. And thus far, NO BUENO.
Granted, watching the dog show also has the ability to send me to Purgatory faster than nearly all other events, what with the skirt-suits, opaque tights, loafers, and general AWFULNESS that characterizes 99% of the handler's wardrobes. This reminds me - did you ever see the What Not To Wear in which there was actually a real live DOG HANDLER receiving the sage advice of Stacy and Clinton? I was THRILLED at the thought that, perhaps just maybe, they would be able to start a trend. My hopes have been dashed. No one listened to them.
Dear Stacy and Clinton,
The Dog Show World needs you. You can easily get an entire New Year's Day Marathon out of the fashion faux pas that is currently prancing around Madison Square Garden.
Just looked up at the TV.
MUST STOP TYPING BEFORE I HAVE TO TO CONFESSION.
AGAIN.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
A Sad Day.
Yesterday morning, in what seemed like only minutes before Jakie woke me up screaming for GOD KNOWS WHAT at 6:30 am, I had a dream about my Grandma. In it, I was packing up at the end of the semester to head home to Tahoe for the summer. But I was in Tahoe. But I was in College. But I was in Novato. But I was me. Now. Not college-aged me.
Well, you know how dreams are.
So I was packing up and heading out the door when my Grandma caught my arm. She was sitting right there by the door, in the same position I've watched her sit for years (even after the stroke. even after the broken neck). She grabbed my arm so that I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. When I leaned down to kiss her, I noticed that her legs weren't quite as thin anymore. That her hair, though showing more grey, was perfectly coiffed. That she looked well. Strong. Healthy. As I was saying goodbye to her, I thought in my head that I wouldn't get to see her as often because I'd be further away, but that I'd still be coming down every week or so with my Dad. I thought to myself, "say that to her," but I did not say that. Rather, I said, "I love you Grandma." She kissed me and told me that she loved me.
And then Jakie woke me up. So, per my usual, I stumbled into his room to scoop him out of his bed. Just as I plopped myself down in his rocking chair, our telephone rang.
It's never good when your phone rings that early in the morning. It's also never good when your phone rings that early in the morning and the upstairs receiver is broken.
My poor little Jakie must have gotten really shaken up as we trotted down the stairs, getting to the phone just in time to miss my mom's message. The message that said, "I'm so sorry to leave this on your machine, but Grandma died last night. Please call me."
The next few minutes were a blur of activity as I rushed back upstairs, grabbed the cell phone, and alternated frustrations as my mom and I were both trying to call each other at the same time and kept getting each other's voicemail. While I got, at the very least, a sympathetic voice on my answering machine, my poor husband got the news from his harried wife who barely had her head on straight.
"Who was that? What happened?"
"Mom. Grandma died last night."
I've never seen him shoot out of bed so quickly. I think that part of me has been expecting this for so long now that I was ready for it and ready to get down to business and take care of whatever needed to be taken care of. Then there was the other part of me was so shocked and caught off-guard about it that emotion got pushed out of the way while I tried to figure out what to do and what to make of it.
Perhaps it was an up to an hour later when that emotion finally found it's way out, and a 30-year old mommy, reading to her toddler who awoke from all of the activity, started sobbing during that part in "The Little Engine That Could" when the train "all of a sudden stopped with a jerk. She simply could not go another inch." It was then that Tim and I sat on my bed, embracing. Sobbing. What a ridiculously strange moment - to be expecting something for so long....to even be praying for it... and yet to be caught so off guard by it.
I had just sat with her last week. The day after her appointment with her doctor in which he informed her that "everything checks out. We'll see you in 6 months." I had just laughed with her while sharing the story of how Christopher walked into the pole. I had just sympathized with her while listening again to her saga of being kidnapped, always waking up in a new bed or a new hospital, and wondering how it was that I always seemed to find her no matter where they'd taken her. I had just kissed her on the forehead and told her that I'd be back to see her again next week.
And then Monday night, she drank her six o'clock coffee and went to sleep. No more stories about Chris and Jake. No more worries about getting kidnapped or running away or suing the nursing home over her broken legs (all of which, of course, never happened). No more visit next week. Instead, I will make my weekly visit to the nursing home tomorrow morning, and when I walk out the door, I'll be carrying her purse. Her clothing. Her TV. And her big, warm, beautiful blanket that my brother and his wife had just brought her for Christmas - a blanket which she always commented on. "Isn't it beautiful? It's SO WARM." When I walk out that door tomorrow, there will be no, "I'll see you next week." There will be no return to 265 Acacia Ave. - the home where she only lived for two weeks.
These past four months have been exhausting. They have been challenging in ways I could not anticipate, and have been SO JOYFUL, SO FUN, in others. During this time, I have not only learned how to love my Grandma (hopefully a lesson that I'll carry into my other relationships) but I have learned WHO SHE IS. I met a woman who, on a good day, had the biggest, brightest, most childlike smile you have ever seen - a woman who could spit nails on a bad one. Without this time - without these challenges - I know that the memories that would be pervading my mind today would be of those shooting nails. No smile. No joy. Just drama and anger that had developed over years and years of family discord. Without this time, though it seems awful to say, I would not miss my grandma.
But we did have this time. I did get to stand by her bedside three months ago while she was suffering that awful stroke. I did get to hold her hand and sit next to her while she told me that she "had a terrible dream last night. And you know, nightmares are supposed to be over by midnight...but this one was so bad that it just kept going." I did get to sit with her and my dad as they had two very peaceful, dare I say, joyful visits - two of only a handful of visits over the last twenty years. I did get to pray with her and for her, even though I don't think she was conscious of it. And I did get to introduce her to her second great-grandson and sit with her while she held my Jacob on her lab and gave Christopher a high-five.
These are the things I will remember about my Grandmother. She told me once, when talking about her husband and how sick he was when he died, "I have only good memories." How grateful am I to be able to say the same.
Well, you know how dreams are.
So I was packing up and heading out the door when my Grandma caught my arm. She was sitting right there by the door, in the same position I've watched her sit for years (even after the stroke. even after the broken neck). She grabbed my arm so that I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. When I leaned down to kiss her, I noticed that her legs weren't quite as thin anymore. That her hair, though showing more grey, was perfectly coiffed. That she looked well. Strong. Healthy. As I was saying goodbye to her, I thought in my head that I wouldn't get to see her as often because I'd be further away, but that I'd still be coming down every week or so with my Dad. I thought to myself, "say that to her," but I did not say that. Rather, I said, "I love you Grandma." She kissed me and told me that she loved me.
And then Jakie woke me up. So, per my usual, I stumbled into his room to scoop him out of his bed. Just as I plopped myself down in his rocking chair, our telephone rang.
It's never good when your phone rings that early in the morning. It's also never good when your phone rings that early in the morning and the upstairs receiver is broken.
My poor little Jakie must have gotten really shaken up as we trotted down the stairs, getting to the phone just in time to miss my mom's message. The message that said, "I'm so sorry to leave this on your machine, but Grandma died last night. Please call me."
The next few minutes were a blur of activity as I rushed back upstairs, grabbed the cell phone, and alternated frustrations as my mom and I were both trying to call each other at the same time and kept getting each other's voicemail. While I got, at the very least, a sympathetic voice on my answering machine, my poor husband got the news from his harried wife who barely had her head on straight.
"Who was that? What happened?"
"Mom. Grandma died last night."
I've never seen him shoot out of bed so quickly. I think that part of me has been expecting this for so long now that I was ready for it and ready to get down to business and take care of whatever needed to be taken care of. Then there was the other part of me was so shocked and caught off-guard about it that emotion got pushed out of the way while I tried to figure out what to do and what to make of it.
Perhaps it was an up to an hour later when that emotion finally found it's way out, and a 30-year old mommy, reading to her toddler who awoke from all of the activity, started sobbing during that part in "The Little Engine That Could" when the train "all of a sudden stopped with a jerk. She simply could not go another inch." It was then that Tim and I sat on my bed, embracing. Sobbing. What a ridiculously strange moment - to be expecting something for so long....to even be praying for it... and yet to be caught so off guard by it.
I had just sat with her last week. The day after her appointment with her doctor in which he informed her that "everything checks out. We'll see you in 6 months." I had just laughed with her while sharing the story of how Christopher walked into the pole. I had just sympathized with her while listening again to her saga of being kidnapped, always waking up in a new bed or a new hospital, and wondering how it was that I always seemed to find her no matter where they'd taken her. I had just kissed her on the forehead and told her that I'd be back to see her again next week.
And then Monday night, she drank her six o'clock coffee and went to sleep. No more stories about Chris and Jake. No more worries about getting kidnapped or running away or suing the nursing home over her broken legs (all of which, of course, never happened). No more visit next week. Instead, I will make my weekly visit to the nursing home tomorrow morning, and when I walk out the door, I'll be carrying her purse. Her clothing. Her TV. And her big, warm, beautiful blanket that my brother and his wife had just brought her for Christmas - a blanket which she always commented on. "Isn't it beautiful? It's SO WARM." When I walk out that door tomorrow, there will be no, "I'll see you next week." There will be no return to 265 Acacia Ave. - the home where she only lived for two weeks.
These past four months have been exhausting. They have been challenging in ways I could not anticipate, and have been SO JOYFUL, SO FUN, in others. During this time, I have not only learned how to love my Grandma (hopefully a lesson that I'll carry into my other relationships) but I have learned WHO SHE IS. I met a woman who, on a good day, had the biggest, brightest, most childlike smile you have ever seen - a woman who could spit nails on a bad one. Without this time - without these challenges - I know that the memories that would be pervading my mind today would be of those shooting nails. No smile. No joy. Just drama and anger that had developed over years and years of family discord. Without this time, though it seems awful to say, I would not miss my grandma.
But we did have this time. I did get to stand by her bedside three months ago while she was suffering that awful stroke. I did get to hold her hand and sit next to her while she told me that she "had a terrible dream last night. And you know, nightmares are supposed to be over by midnight...but this one was so bad that it just kept going." I did get to sit with her and my dad as they had two very peaceful, dare I say, joyful visits - two of only a handful of visits over the last twenty years. I did get to pray with her and for her, even though I don't think she was conscious of it. And I did get to introduce her to her second great-grandson and sit with her while she held my Jacob on her lab and gave Christopher a high-five.
These are the things I will remember about my Grandmother. She told me once, when talking about her husband and how sick he was when he died, "I have only good memories." How grateful am I to be able to say the same.
Lillian Julia Quinn
March 9, 1921 ~ January 20, 2009
Eternal Rest, grant unto her, Oh Lord.
And may Perpetual Light Shine upon her.
May she rest in peace.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Seven Quick Takes...
Ha. November 12th. I suppose it's about time I got back down to business. To be honest, the thought of updating the blog has been a constant in my mind, but with each day that has passed it seemed like more and more of a challenge. The more thoughts of "oooh, I should write about this," the more daunting of a task it became. So, following the lead of some others I've been enjoying...
1.) I decided to take some time off from the blog so that I could devote my much needed minutes to finishing Jacob's stocking. In all, it took 36+ hours. Good thing I started as early as I did. And boy did it come out cute, if I do say so myself. It was a really fun project, and I'm so glad to have this Christmas keepsake for my boys to use every year and to eventually take into their own homes with their own families. My mom made our stockings when we were babies, and I've always loved how creative and beautiful they were. Little did I know how HUGE of a project it was! To be honest, I'm very proud of the finished product and it feels so good to be able to display it in our home - especially during those years, such as this one, that will be a bit more modest and understated in terms of Christmas decorating.
2.) My Grandma is beginning to lose track of who I am. Not really, but a little. The thoughts I'd like to share on this issue range for heart-wrenching to knee-slapping, but the gist of it is that the past few months have been a roller-coaster ride between hospitals and nursing homes, laughter and tears, navigating social services, meeting new doctors, and accepting the fact that Being There means being loved and appreciated one day, despised and yelled at the next. Starting with her fall in mid-august, to the first senior home, through standing by her bed in the ER for HOURS ON END during her stroke, to the second fall and resulting hospital stay due to her broken neck AND back, back to the senior home, back to the hospital (because she was being so mean to everyone) and now to a new senior home - these months have been only manageable because of the strength and encouragement of my beloved husband who has gone with me on nearly every single visit, and has (somehow) been able to talk some sense into Grandma when necessary. He has stood by me and held me up through her anger and my tears. The Grandma who is ill is not the one who I've been close with all these years - she is the one with whom I have had many challenging moments. While there's a much bigger blog post brewing about this, what I can say now is that I have truly learned what it means to be family through all of this. I have learned what it means to love - not just to love her, but to love my dad and serve him through the care that I can extend to her. It's not even an issue of what it will be like to look back - I can say now, as we're in it, with certainty that I can see the grace in these moments and the blessing of what this time means for all of us. Relationships are being mended. Hearts are healing. And finally, after 30 years of being her granddaughter, I am getting to know my grandmother.
3.) Speaking of 30 years, another development since my last post? I TURNED THIRTY. And it was AWESOME! Not because I had this huge party with all of my family and friends. Not because I received awesome and expensive and meaningful gifts...but because, in what has been an incredibly challenging year, I was loved on my birthday. Truly loved. That probably comes off sounding really cheesy, but it's true. There's no other way to explain the joy that I felt through the blessings I received this year - starting with my awesome visit with my girlfriends in the spring, to a surprise visit from my buddy on my birthday weekend. And, lest I forget, my mom's surprise gift of the new stroller I had been eyeing for the boys. The stroller that I'd been saving and saving for, but whose fund kept ending up getting swallowed into the "needs" part of the budget because it really did fall under the "want" category. The gifts that I received for my birthday were all things that I truly needed at each moment that they were received - down to the gift certificate to a restaurant in the city from my brother and sister-in-law, on the very day that I sat venting to my husband about how "when we get back on track, all I want to do is go out to dinner. Just once. Just to feel 'normal' again." Even remembering it now makes my eyes fill up. I will always remember the year I turned 30 as the year I not only truly learned to love, but also truly learned how to receive it.
4.) Yesterday, Christopher ran into a pole. Yup, he got off the slide and took off full speed ahead, looking down, until that mean old pole got in his way. The way the metal made that "BONG" sound would make anyone think we were headed to the ER, but I'm telling you, that kid has the hardest head you've ever seen. He's a tough kid with a tough head - and lately, a pretty rock-star vocabulary. My favorite of his many words, these days, is "Hoop." (For the uninitiated, "Help.") "Mommy, Hoop." It's so cute. Everything he says, of course, is at a decibel level that can't be good for anyone's hearing - volume control is not something we're interested in around here. So, it's really, "HOOP!" or "BYE-BYEEE MOMMY! BYE!!!" or "NIGHT NIGHT YAYAAA!" to the sleeping baby in the next room. Each new word makes my pride swell and, of course (you know me...) my eyes well up.
5.) Thankfully, his brother is so chill that the volume doesn't bother him much. But the teeth are making that kid crazy....and having the same effect on his mommy. I don't remember Christopher having NEARLY this much trouble with his teeth. I don't remember because HE DIDN'T. One night last week, Jacob SCREAMED. ALL. NIGHT. LONG. Really. I'm not exaggerating. For a little boy who hardly ever cries, this was bordering on the ridiculous. Tylenol didn't touch it. Watching mommy cry didn't touch it. Watching Daddy sleep didn't even touch it. Just kidding. Well, only a little. In the last couple of days, though, Jakie has really taken to the Two Nap Schedule, and as a result, has been sleeping better at night. THANK GOD FOR SLEEP BREEDS SLEEP.
6.) On an unrelated note, Twitter is my new favorite website. This surprises me because, seriously? WHO CARES WHAT I'M DOING EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY? But, honestly, it's FABULOUS. And it's also partially to blame for the fact that I have not updated my blog - everything that has seemed like too big of a post to take the time to write out has been whittled down to 140 characters or less. If you don't know Twitter, you should get acquainted. After all, don't YOU want to know what I was thinking at 3:02pm yesterday? Of COURSE you do!
7.) So, for my New Year's Resolution, I'll really make a point to get back to the blog and to be consistent. It will be taking second place, though, to our family resolution which is....LEARNING TO ROSARY IN LATIN. Really. I know. We should have it down by 2010.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum. Benedicta tu....
1.) I decided to take some time off from the blog so that I could devote my much needed minutes to finishing Jacob's stocking. In all, it took 36+ hours. Good thing I started as early as I did. And boy did it come out cute, if I do say so myself. It was a really fun project, and I'm so glad to have this Christmas keepsake for my boys to use every year and to eventually take into their own homes with their own families. My mom made our stockings when we were babies, and I've always loved how creative and beautiful they were. Little did I know how HUGE of a project it was! To be honest, I'm very proud of the finished product and it feels so good to be able to display it in our home - especially during those years, such as this one, that will be a bit more modest and understated in terms of Christmas decorating.
2.) My Grandma is beginning to lose track of who I am. Not really, but a little. The thoughts I'd like to share on this issue range for heart-wrenching to knee-slapping, but the gist of it is that the past few months have been a roller-coaster ride between hospitals and nursing homes, laughter and tears, navigating social services, meeting new doctors, and accepting the fact that Being There means being loved and appreciated one day, despised and yelled at the next. Starting with her fall in mid-august, to the first senior home, through standing by her bed in the ER for HOURS ON END during her stroke, to the second fall and resulting hospital stay due to her broken neck AND back, back to the senior home, back to the hospital (because she was being so mean to everyone) and now to a new senior home - these months have been only manageable because of the strength and encouragement of my beloved husband who has gone with me on nearly every single visit, and has (somehow) been able to talk some sense into Grandma when necessary. He has stood by me and held me up through her anger and my tears. The Grandma who is ill is not the one who I've been close with all these years - she is the one with whom I have had many challenging moments. While there's a much bigger blog post brewing about this, what I can say now is that I have truly learned what it means to be family through all of this. I have learned what it means to love - not just to love her, but to love my dad and serve him through the care that I can extend to her. It's not even an issue of what it will be like to look back - I can say now, as we're in it, with certainty that I can see the grace in these moments and the blessing of what this time means for all of us. Relationships are being mended. Hearts are healing. And finally, after 30 years of being her granddaughter, I am getting to know my grandmother.
3.) Speaking of 30 years, another development since my last post? I TURNED THIRTY. And it was AWESOME! Not because I had this huge party with all of my family and friends. Not because I received awesome and expensive and meaningful gifts...but because, in what has been an incredibly challenging year, I was loved on my birthday. Truly loved. That probably comes off sounding really cheesy, but it's true. There's no other way to explain the joy that I felt through the blessings I received this year - starting with my awesome visit with my girlfriends in the spring, to a surprise visit from my buddy on my birthday weekend. And, lest I forget, my mom's surprise gift of the new stroller I had been eyeing for the boys. The stroller that I'd been saving and saving for, but whose fund kept ending up getting swallowed into the "needs" part of the budget because it really did fall under the "want" category. The gifts that I received for my birthday were all things that I truly needed at each moment that they were received - down to the gift certificate to a restaurant in the city from my brother and sister-in-law, on the very day that I sat venting to my husband about how "when we get back on track, all I want to do is go out to dinner. Just once. Just to feel 'normal' again." Even remembering it now makes my eyes fill up. I will always remember the year I turned 30 as the year I not only truly learned to love, but also truly learned how to receive it.
4.) Yesterday, Christopher ran into a pole. Yup, he got off the slide and took off full speed ahead, looking down, until that mean old pole got in his way. The way the metal made that "BONG" sound would make anyone think we were headed to the ER, but I'm telling you, that kid has the hardest head you've ever seen. He's a tough kid with a tough head - and lately, a pretty rock-star vocabulary. My favorite of his many words, these days, is "Hoop." (For the uninitiated, "Help.") "Mommy, Hoop." It's so cute. Everything he says, of course, is at a decibel level that can't be good for anyone's hearing - volume control is not something we're interested in around here. So, it's really, "HOOP!" or "BYE-BYEEE MOMMY! BYE!!!" or "NIGHT NIGHT YAYAAA!" to the sleeping baby in the next room. Each new word makes my pride swell and, of course (you know me...) my eyes well up.
5.) Thankfully, his brother is so chill that the volume doesn't bother him much. But the teeth are making that kid crazy....and having the same effect on his mommy. I don't remember Christopher having NEARLY this much trouble with his teeth. I don't remember because HE DIDN'T. One night last week, Jacob SCREAMED. ALL. NIGHT. LONG. Really. I'm not exaggerating. For a little boy who hardly ever cries, this was bordering on the ridiculous. Tylenol didn't touch it. Watching mommy cry didn't touch it. Watching Daddy sleep didn't even touch it. Just kidding. Well, only a little. In the last couple of days, though, Jakie has really taken to the Two Nap Schedule, and as a result, has been sleeping better at night. THANK GOD FOR SLEEP BREEDS SLEEP.
6.) On an unrelated note, Twitter is my new favorite website. This surprises me because, seriously? WHO CARES WHAT I'M DOING EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY? But, honestly, it's FABULOUS. And it's also partially to blame for the fact that I have not updated my blog - everything that has seemed like too big of a post to take the time to write out has been whittled down to 140 characters or less. If you don't know Twitter, you should get acquainted. After all, don't YOU want to know what I was thinking at 3:02pm yesterday? Of COURSE you do!
7.) So, for my New Year's Resolution, I'll really make a point to get back to the blog and to be consistent. It will be taking second place, though, to our family resolution which is....LEARNING TO ROSARY IN LATIN. Really. I know. We should have it down by 2010.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum. Benedicta tu....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)