Duck Pond

During my time of avoidance we celebrated my mother's birthday. I was dreading it.

I love my mother more than I ever knew and I hate being reminded how much I miss her. It's this pain that is completely indescribable. It hurts Iike no other pain. It engulfs me in such sadness I'm left sobbing and shaking at everything that should have been and everything that isn't.

Unlike June 9th, April 20th isn't supposed to be a sorrow filled day. By its very definition, a birth day is always a celebration. That's where I struggle. I have an internal battle with my emotions, trying to be happy for the life my mom lived, celebrating her, keeping her day alive for my daughter, all the while I'm drowning in sorrow.

Somehow I managed. I'm quite sure my mom was proud of me. I had my moments, the night before her birthday and the night of, alone in my house drowning in my tears, unable to stop. But, I managed to keep the depressing feelings at bay during her day. My mother was the eternal family motivator/organizer. She kept us together and connected. I try really hard to keep that alive, though I'm often met with resistance from family members, I still try for Alice. This year I made arrangements for my sisters and our families to go to brunch together and visit a duck pond afterwards. In all honesty, it was nice. Alice picked out a balloon to take to the restaurant for her and her cousin, because no birthday celebration is complete without a balloon. It was my way of reminding Alice and my niece why we were gathering together, why this day was so special. The girls had a good time playing together, at brunch and at the duck pond.

Something happened at the duck pond. At the time I didn't think anything of it, only afterwards when I was reviewing the pictures I took did it hit me. When we ran out of bread to feed the ducks, the girls took to playing and climbing on the trees, and of course we started taking pictures. Sitting on the couch, looking at the pictures, it reminded me of being a child. My mom was never without her camera, and I remember this one photo shoot she did of us climbing trees. Now, my mom was far more overbearing, forcing us into bizarre poses and positions, often resulting in grumpy frowns. But that day, taking pictures of Alice and my niece in the tree, I got it. I got why my mom did what she did at that photo shoot. It's just what moms do. We love our babies so much we want to freeze every moment, never to be forgotten. If there was one thing I never doubted growing up, it was my mother's love for me. And I make it my mission every singe day of my life to show Alice how much I love her. I don't want a single day to go by where she doubts it.

The Oath

I haven't been writing. More accurately I've been avoiding writing. Even more honest, I've been avoiding processing and dealing with difficult events in my life. If I don't write about them, I am only forced to address them as much as life requires. If I don't write, I don't have to swim in my feelings. I can just go on.

The problem with this logic, I can't seem to go on. I can't just skip over them and write as if they didn't occur. To do so feels as if I'm lying.

Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

I will tell the whole truth. On the 8th, I had to take Ellie to the vet to be euthanized. My mother's birthday was this past Saturday. I haven't had the words or the energy to write about either. But both deserve a proper post. I will give them this much. I will tell their story in their own separate posts. I do solemnly swear.

Life Absent of a Mother

You know the saying, "time heals all wounds." Maybe you've even said it yourself in an attempt to comfort someone. I am here to tell you, this is not true. Not at all.

Some wounds never heal.

My mother died 6 years ago. Everyone said it will get easier, it hasn't. It's still just as hard to know I will never see her again. My mother never met Alice. She asks about her all the time.

"Mama? Did you take those pictures of your mama because you wanted me to know what she looked like?" she asked me just today on the ride to Toys R Us.

I am forced to spend the rest of my life trying to teach her about a woman she will never meet. Even when sometimes I'd rather not. Even when sometimes I'd rather just cry.

I walk through my days, motherless. Most days it's just that, life absent of a mother. The dishes are loaded in the dishwasher. The towels are switched to the dryer. The dog is fed. And then, there are the moments that hit like a grenade to my core. The moments that force me to think about the severity of everything I lost. The moments that make me relive it all over again.

Recently, I visited a very good friend's father in the hospital. Sitting in a chair in a small room filled with machines and wires and monitors, it all came flooding back to me. Six years flew past me and it was yesterday. It was my mom lying in that bed. It was my mom talking about the food she requested for tomorrow's breakfast. It was my sisters and I talking about the next days agenda and who would be there in the morning. It was my mother's room the nurse walked in when she wrote her name on the board. It was my mother's styrofoam cup with the bendy straw sitting on the bed tray. It was me worried and terrified about what was going to happen next. I sat in that chair and mindlessly chitchatted with my heart and my mind a million miles away.

I live a motherless life and it isn't getting easier.

Day One = Success

Good morning, fine friends. I really mean that. It is a good morning. Isn't that fantastic?!

It started out rough. I pulled a Hatta and realized 10 minutes into the drive I had left my phone at home. I contemplated taking one for the team and doing without for a few days. That could be fun, right? I hear how wonderful and freeing it is to disconnect and genuinely be present in your life for a change. Then it dawned on me, whoever said that was a moron. I needed my phone now more than ever. I quickly had us turned around and headed back home. Conveniently, Alice began complaining of a stomach ache. She wanted to poop. A 20 minute pit stop, complete with phrases like, "I can't keep pushing. The poop needs to catch its breath," and we were on our way again.

The drive turned out exactly how I expected. Alice was tired and refused to sleep. I was accused of fondling my leather wrapped steering wheel. We had to stop more times than I can bring myself to admit making the drive at least 30 minutes longer than necessary...not including my cellphone screw up. Eventually we arrived at the beach, mostly unscathed.

I shit you not, Hatta had a Summer Shandy in my hand within 3 minutes of walking in the front door. He's a standup guy like that. From that moment on, life was good. We quickly had beers in a cooler, swimsuits donned, and our bodies on the boat headed to the bay.

Something happens to me every time I'm on a boat. I'm reminded this is the one place I feel at home. I suppose it's the way some people feel when they eat a familiar food or visit a town from a past life, transported back to the comfort of your childhood. With my mother no longer alive, many of those old comforts trigger sad feelings for me. Except the boat. There's something about being on the water, the salt air blowing through my hair that makes me feel my childhood. Driving through the inlet, remembering all the times we would come to this spot to greet my father, a waterman, as he returned home after a week long trip. We would wave and jump up and down, he would sound the horn, knowing we would finally get to see each other again.

So, yeah, I was enjoying myself. We spent a few hours anchored at what turned out to be our very own private beach. I spent a few hours doing absolutely nothing and it was awesome. I drank. I sunbathed. I watched my daughter from a distance. I willingly played beer wench for Hatta as he fished. I would have breathtaking pictures to post for you...but I forgot my phone, again.

We Eloped aka Taking the Easy Way Out

Here's a fun tidbit about me you probably didn't know...Hatta and I eloped to Vegas to get married. Not like yesterday or anything. This is old, but pertinent information for today's post.

Let's travel back in time, shall we. The year is 2006. Hatta proposed to me and I, for one wild reason or another, agreed to be his bride. I started an account on The Knot. We registered at Macy's and Crate and Barrel. I went wedding dress shopping. All normal things for a newly engaged couple to do. Then, the crazy took over. Not me, I wasn't like Bridezilla or anything. The family. Oh, the family. Everyone's two cents were constantly being thrown at us. But, let me be clear, when I say two cents that's completely metaphorical. No one was actually offering us money. The wedding would be paid for on our dime. Back to the unsolicited advice...Who we should invite. Who we shouldn't invite. Don't forget to invite these family members you have never even met. Where it should be. Where it shouldn't be. It must be in a church. You can't get married not in a church! Hatta and I, sensing the mounting tension surrounding our upcoming nuptials, contemplated a destination wedding. Jamaica was mentioned. Cue the family. You can't expect people to pay that much money to come to your wedding! If you get married out of the country *insert names here* won't be able to come. It's just selfish, that's what it is! Hatta, fearing for his raised catholic life, dismissed the destination wedding idea. Back on track for a traditional-ish wedding, we set a date and continued planning. I bought a book or two and started a binder. I contacted countless caterers, florist, musicians, wedding sites...the list goes on. Meanwhile, the growing strain of planning our wedding and trying to make everyone happy was taking a toll on us as a couple. Instead of sticking it out and problem solving our asses out of the situation, we took the easy was out.

That is what today's post is about.

We had a vacation scheduled to Vegas for a kick ass Halloween music festival. While we were there, we told no one in advance, and were married at The Little White Wedding Chapel by Reverend Keith Love. Not Elvis, much to Hatta's dismay. I loved our wedding. Truly. My mother had recently died and I couldn't imagine walking down the isle without my mom there. The way I saw it, for a brief moment all was right with the world. Hatta and I did it our way, putting the emphasis on our love not everyone else's happiness. And, my mother was the only guest there. Well, aside from the group of Italian tourist that flocked to watch as we said our vows outdoors.

Here lies the problem we never solved...family. Had we solved the family problem all those years ago we would know how to navigate them when they arise now. And boy do they arise. We took the easy way out, living in a dream world where no one else mattered but us. The honeymoon period, where that is concerned, is over. I assure you.

I honestly feel that we skipped a step in joining our two lives. Not because I needed the fairy tale wedding, I did not. As a little girl, you wouldn't have found me with a pillowcase on my head as a makeshift veil. I didn't fantasize about my wedding, having it all planned out well before I found a groom. The wedding didn't matter much to me. But successfully planning it, would have exposed Hatta and I to the complications family impose on a couple. In real life, you don't only marry your partner you also marry his (or her) entire family.

A fact I was made very aware of last weekend. The weekend forever known to me as hell weekend. I will not go into details, but suffice it to say that my in-laws greatly overstepped boundaries regarding the parenting of my daughter. The event as a whole made me so sad. Sad for me. Sad for Alice. But mostly sad for my husband. He is a good father and he deserves respect. Maybe, possibly, these most recent events will force Hatta and I to finally problem solve our asses out of the situation.

Technology, Ain't it Great

Growing up, in my family, I was always known as the computer savy one of the bunch. I was the youngest, so computers had been a part of my life longer than my eldest sister. I remember the good old Commodore 64. I loved playing Double Dare and Family Fued on that big clunky machine. My love of computers caused my mother to send me to Computer Science summer camp, or commonly referred to by my sisters as Dork Camp. In high school, as a member of the year book staff, people came to me for Photoshop help. In college, I took a class where our semester long project was to create a website using html. I got an A and enjoyed every freakin moment of it. I was good with technology, you could say.

Let's get back to now, shall we. Somewhere between graduating college and present day I lost my tech savy-ness. And once again, I didn't even know it. I'm starting to think I lost my pre-baby brain when I lost my pre-baby body. See, one day, I was having a conversation with a friend. He was likely on his iPhone and I was likely on a cell phone that flipped and had an antennae. For some reason, the topic of wifi came up. At that moment, I knew as much about wifi as I did about space travel. I suppose I had no need to educate myself about it, my laptop in its condition wasn't even compatible. It was soo old. Like, turn the computer on, go make breakfast, settle down with the paper, enjoy the meal, and when you were done it was finally booted up. Anyway, where was I? Wifi, right. So the friend on his fancy schmancy phone was mocking me for not having wifi in 2011. I ignored him. As you should when someone begins mocking you. Several months later, the same friend asked how the wifi was coming. Yet again, I think he was mocking me. He was on to me and my wifi ignorance, knowing damn well how it was coming. Meanwhile, old laptop died and we inherited a slightly newer hand-me-down model from my in-laws. This one could handle wireless. But still, we remained tethered to the wall. The rest of the free world was sitting on their couches perusing the Internet, skyping with loved ones from the comfort of their beds. Not me, I was standing strong on my refusal to join the 21st century. Then, I got an iPad. You know how awesome it is to buy an iPad, bring home the sleek and sensual, thin piece of power...only to not be able to use it? For two weeks, I "borrowed" wifi from the nearby Radio Shack. It was spotty and in the evenings I was out of luck completely. It was not a good plan. I needed wifi. And I, still, was clueless. Tail between my legs, I crawled to the knowledge of my friend who, for the record, is not smarter than me. Turns out it's pretty damn easy to have your very own wireless connection these days. One simple amazon purchase and I had taken my house into a whole new world.

Since then, my house has exploded with technology. New phones, new tablets, new cameras! All we need to update is the laptop. Someday, when money allows a nice new MacBook.

Today, searching for a picture on my camera, I became lost in picture land. When I found myself looking at pictures of Alice and our dog, Marley, in the snow, it occured to me I have a new technology problem. Pictures. When it's 100 degrees outside I shouldn't have snow pictures on the camera. I loathe our computer, so I never log on to unload the memory card. Never a problem, unless it's Christmas morning and the card is full or until I actually want to do something with these great pictures I take. Who am I kidding? It's a problem. I have years and years worth of pictures just sitting on a hard drive. That's a big problem. One day I'll tackle the task of ordering prints and creating albums. One day. Until then, it turns out it's pretty easy to solve the memory card situation. I didn't even need to ask for live help, that's how smart I am. I just googled. For a low, low price of $30 I can buy an iPad camera connection device.

It's my new goal, I'm putting it out there for the world to hold me accountable, to take more pictures, unload them in a prompt fashion, and use them however I see fit. My mother was a picture taker. She always had her camera with her and took pictures often. She would stage ridiculous photo shoots of my sisters and I. Candids were her thing too. It shocked me, sorting pictures after her death, how many pictures she took of us just riding in the car. She documented everything. If my mother was still alive today, she would fully support this goal.

June 9th

June 9th, 2006, the day I got the call. That phone call changed my life forever.

My story begins the Saturday before, in my mother's hospice room. I was 26 years old. Alone, just me and my mom, I laid with her and cried, my cheek to her's. She was unconscious and had been for several days. Her body had done this before, enter a comatose state for a day or two until her levels stabilized. She would awaken and life would begin again. This time, this coma, was different than all the others. This was the end. We all knew it. It was only a matter of time, without food and water, before her heart would finally cease to beat and her lungs would take their last breath. It was the sad, heart wrenching reality of science. I think talking with God at this point was no longer a prayer of life, but rather swiftness in death.

That day would be the last time I saw my mother ever again. Lying with her, I knew this as fact. For what seemed like an eternity, my life had become my mother's life. My world revolved around her. I took a leave of absence from my job to devote my days to my mother. I canceled a trip to Sanibel Island when it looked like my mother was taking a turn for the worst. I backed out of plans and stopped making them all together. Cell phone always with me, even while I slept. I lived my life for her, to be there for every moment she had left. To spend as much time as I possibly could with her. To have no regrets.

And yet, that Saturday I finally started living again. My husband (at the time my boyfriend) and I had our annual trip to the Outerbanks of North Carolina planned for the next day. I needed this trip. He needed this trip. He had been a rock for me and my two older sisters during this horrible time in our life. He picked up the slack when we couldn't. And I'm sure, given the mental state I was in, he was my emotional punching bag. Though, as much as I needed this trip, I didn't know how I was ever going to go. To cancel would have been easier. Continue sitting by her side, waiting for her to die. It was all I knew at that point. The grief couselors advised me not to cancel. They wanted me to go, to live. They reminded me, sometimes sick people wait for loved ones to leave them before they pass. They assured me it was okay to go. I wasn't a bad daughter. I knew everything they said to be true. I knew, for me, I had to go. However, I had no idea how to go.

How do I walk out of the room knowing it would be the last? I couldn't. I talked with my mom, not knowing if she could hear me. I let her know I would keep us all together just as she had done. I told her I was happy in my relationship, that we were going to get married and have kids one day. I reassured her I would never stop loving her and she would never be forgotten, a worry of hers. And I told her it was okay to go. I begged her. As I cried the words, they sounded foolish. How does one go? How do you stop living? My mother had so much to live for, asking her to let go was a rediculous request. She didn't want to go, she wanted to be here with her daughters. She lived for us.

Sadly, the hours past. The sun had set, the room had grown dark. The wicked, scary end was coming. I felt the dread creeping into my lungs. I still hadn't figured out, in my heart, how do I physically walk out of the room knowing I will never see my mother again? How was I supposed to say goodbye? I was dying inside. I was too young to have to be so brave. She was too young. It hurt. It played on all my feelings of guilt. Was I wrong, should I have canceled the trip and been by my mother's side, letting her decide how it should end? I cried until it seemed I could cry no more. I kissed her, held her and couldn't let go. My heart wouldn't let my arms release her. On my time, I grew strong, knowing I had to. I whispered in her ear, "I love you, Mom," kissed her cheek, stood and walked out the door. I couldn't look back. It hurt me that I couldn't, but I knew it would make leaving so much harder if I did. As I shut the door to her room, the click of the latch triggered the release, tears fell silently from my swollen eyelids down my cheeks.

From that moment forward, I knew my life would never be the same. June 9th was merely a formality.

In our beach rental house, as I was prepping myself for a day lounging in the sun and watching the guys fish, my phone rang. Before I answered, I knew. It was the call I had been dreading. To hear the words from the grief counselors, "I'm so sorry. Your mom has passed away." The rest of the phone call, a blur of insignificant details. I hung up and went to them, my sister, her boyfriend, and my own. I don't remember a thing, but I'm certain I told them the life altering news. All I remember is holding my one sister, pained for my eldest sister who was not with us. And in that moment, I felt the most bizarre feeling. I wanted to be as far from my family as possible. Remove myself from the nightmare that had consumed us for so long. I had lived and breathed them for what seemed like a lifetime. I needed to get away, to escape everyone that reminded me of my mom. They no longer provided comfort.

I found myself, not at the beach where you would normally find me, but rather at the pool. I stood leaning against a railing, overlooking the pool, away from the hustle and bustle of the kids playing, and called my dearest friend from my childhood. A friend who wasn't involved with the situation that had consumed my life for months, a friend who knew me sometimes better than I knew myself. And I told my story. I found comfort in that phone call. Comfort that my sisters and my boyfriend could not provide. In that phone call, I felt peace. Not exactly peace with my mother dying, but instead, that I would have peace in my life again.

A Day at the Flower Shop

Mother's Day is on Sunday. For me, the day is very bittersweet. I can not fully embrace it with my mother no longer living. However, I am a mother. The day was created for me, too. So, I do my best to think of positive memories of my mom and let the sadness go and be happy.

This morning, while showering, I was thinking. My best thinking happens in the shower, it has to be said. Anyway, I was thinking of childhood memories involving my mom. I found myself lost in a scene in my mother's flower shop. I was about 7 years old, I'm guessing. It was summer time, and not being old enough to stay home alone, I would accompany my mother to her shop. I loved it. My mom would come armed with craft projects galore. Paint by numbers, friendship bracelets, wooden boxes to paint. I can't even imagine how many loop n loom pot holders I made that summer! She would give me odd jobs around the shop, my favorite being pre-filling the floral water tubes. Living in a beach town, I would walk up to the boardwalk and bring us back the most delicious french fries drenched in vinegar. My mom would stop working and share them with me. We would sit on our tall, wooden stools together and talk. It made me feel important. Special.

Now as an adult, a mother myself, I think about that memory a little different. I see the other side. I believe you truly appreciate your mother when you become one yourself, when you've walked in similar shoes. I'm sure my mother loved the time we spent together during those summer days at her shop. I'm also sure, given the choice, she would have rather sent me to summer camp so she could work more productively.

I believe my mother was juggling it all at that exact moment. Divorced from my father, she was primarily raising me and my oldest sister alone, while working full time running her own business. Occasionally I remember seeing my mother stressed, like, for example, during the second biggest flower gifting holiday, Mother's Day. But mostly, I just remember how damn happy she was. Sunshiney happy. She never let on to the feelings she must have been feeling as she embarked upon a day at the shop, daugher in tow...how am I going to keep Nelly occupied for 8 hours straight so I can work. I don't recall her flipping out trying to rush us both out the door early in the morning, screaming "hurry up! We're going to be late!" When I distracted her with a million questions, like I was known to do, she never showed she was loosing patience. When I grew bored of one activity, she had an infinite supply of ideas to entertain me and they all sounded, well, fun. My mother made me feel like she wanted me in the shop with her. Like we were best friends.

I treasure the memories we made in her flower shop. They absolutely hold a dear place in my heart. More importantly, maybe the memories have taught me something about how to be a better, happier mother. Maybe the next time I'm finding myself frazzled with Alice and her antics and I'm about to go to that place I'm not particularly proud of, I should think of my mom. Think of how she handled it. With patience and a smile. With the right attitude, even the simplest most mundane tasks can be thrilling to a child. I should embrace this knowledge, because one day, many years from now, Alice will reflectively look back on her memories of me. What will she see? A stressed out, impatient mother? Or one who embraces fun at every opportunity? I will strive to make sure her memories are all of the loop n loom and water tube filling caliber.

Issues

Quite a few years ago, Hatta and I lived with his grandmother. Her husband had recently died and she had developed lameness of some sort. The cause, knee surgery...broken hip, escapes me at the moment. Regardless, it wasn't safe for her to be living alone, so we moved in temporarily. Before moving in, we attemped to convert the upstairs into "our space." We cleaned. We painted. We tried to make it feel like home. But, it didn't change things. We never settled in at her house. We left the vast majority of our belongings boxed up, only unpacking necessities. We never felt at home there.

Meanwhile, life kept turning during the brief time we lived there. I changed careers and even though it was what I wanted to do, it was emotionally hard. My mother's illness became much more prominent. I vividly remember having a phone conversation trying to convince her of the severity of her illness. Previously, we had been living in the city and loved it. Moving in with Hatta's grandmother meant us moving to the county, and not an area of the county we usually frequented. We became homesick, in a sense. I developed county allergies. Literally. I guess my system wasn't used to the trees, grass, and pollen because that spring I had asthmatic allergies like I've never had since.

Those few months were hard, but we made it thought them. When his grandmother was well again, Hatta and I moved back to the city, into the same house we had lived in before, only this time the larger first floor apartment was vacant. So, really, it all did work out for the best.




I shared this story with you to help explain where I'm at right now...blog speaking. I used to write elsewhere. And even though I know A Tea Tray in the Sky is not temporary, it doesn't feel like my home. I'm having a hard time getting settled in. My belongings are still boxed up. I haven't even picked out paint colors. I'm terribly homesick. Meanwhile, the trials and tribulations of life are still spinning around, making this whole settling in process even harder. But, like before, I will make it through and come out for the better on the other side. Please bear with me as I try to get adjusted here. Possibly my feng shui is off. Maybe my colors aren't projecting the right energy or I should just add a mirror.

Everyone Heals Differently

I've been playing this game for awhile, maybe you've heard of it? It's called "How Long Can I Avoid Having My Wisdom Teeth Removed?" It's similar to another game I like called "How Long Can I Avoid a Tetanus Shot?" I rock at that game. I'm the reigning champion. I think the last time I was forced to get a tetanus shot was middle school. College was a close call with it being mandatory for admittance and all. I dodged it as long as I could. Just as I was about to be forced to forfeit, luck turned up on my side by way of a vaccination shortage.

You might ask why one would choose to play these games. Let me enlighten thee. It's rather simple. Either a.) You're afraid of needles, b.) You're afraid of hospitals and doctors offices, c.) You're afraid of pain or d.) All of the above. I can attest, avoidance is always easier.

Anyway, back to the original game I've been playing for quite some time. It seems, sadly, my time playing was all for nothing. I must graciously bow out, admit defeat. All four of my wisdom teeth will be forcefully sliced and ripped from my mouth a week from Thursday. Nevermind the months I patiently suffered while my wisdom teeth tore every filament of my gums just so they could break the surface and join the rest of my teeth. Forget about the extra minutes I was forced to spend every week brushing and flossing four extra teeth. All for naught, I tell you. All for naught.

Today, I found myself in the oral surgeons office, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, filling out pages 1,2,3, and 7 where I'm sure I agreed not to sue them if they cause me pain and suffering by accidentally removing the wrong teeth. I was trying to complete the paperwork with my legs shaking the clipboard (see letters a, b, c, and d from above,) when up to the counter walks this small, dark haired college girl. I guess she was about 19. I listen to her conversation with the office assistant and instantly, I'm sucked in like a moth to a flame. I could have given up rights to my second child in the paperwork for all I know.

She's trying to make an appointment to have her wisdom teeth out.

"I have an 8, a 9:45, and a 10:30."

"Don't you have anything later, I have class in the morning."

"No, I'm sorry we only do them in the mornings. Blah blah blah dehydration. Blah blah blah. And you know you have to have somebody here to drive you home after surgery," the assistant tells her with a tone in her voice.

"Oh, okay. I guess my mom could bring me and my friend could pick me up."

"No, no that's not going to work. Someone has to be here in the office the entire time of the surgery and then drive you home." This time she's a touch rude with the meek girl.

"Um, okay. I'll be able to go back to school after the surgery cause I have class, right?"

"No, no. You're going to have to stay home the rest of the day,"

"But the next day, I'll be able to go to class the next morning, though."

"It all depends, everyone heals differently," she says. And I have to applaud her for not laughing aloud in the poor, foolish girls face.

Has this dewey-eyed girl never known anyone who's had their wisdom teeth removed? I nursed a boyfriend during college through his recovery, I still shudder at the blood and the pain. I was friends with my husband when he had his removed. I watched him eat mashed potatoes and jell-o for days. This little girl has clearly not been playing the game. She's one of those that never even knew the game existed. I feel for her. On Wednesday, at 8:00am, she will experience what my mother referred to as worse than childbirth. She delivered three babies, naturally, without drugs. Wisdom teeth extraction worse than that. And this girl hasn't got a clue. Had she, she would've been playing the game right alongside me.

Happy Birthday, Dear Mom

Today is my mom's birthday. This is the first year since 2006, when my mother died, that I have honestly attempted to celebrate this day.

The first three years after her death, I pretended April 20th didn't exist. It seemed easier that way. If I ignored it, I could also ignore the pain I felt. After all, how can the day that is all about her exist if she's not even here?

The next few years, I spent April 20th in a state of depression and silent anger. Angry that I couldn't celebrate my mom's birthday like other 30 year olds and send a card or maybe flowers, go out to dinner together, at least a call to sing her happy birthday. I was angry at my husband for not recognizing the state I was in, for not seeing how this day could be a bad day in my eyes. It was a bad day. Right there with June 9th, the day she died.

This year, I suppose I'm making progress. I can say today is my mom's birthday, and even though my eyes well with tears there may be a hint of a smile on my lips as I say it. Because today should not be a sad day. It should not. Today should be the day to celebrate all the amazingly wonderful things that made my mom brilliantly unique.

I have never known anyone quite as optimistic as my mom. She was happy. One day, her and I were outside in the garden at Hospice. My mother was a florist and an avid gardener. We were leisurely walking around the path and my mom was telling me the name of this flower and that one. It was a beautiful spring day. The gardener was there working and my mom wanted to talk to her. She was asking her about multiple aspects of the job, how many days a week was she there, did they have volunteers helping, etc. Without even hesitating, my mother tells the lady, "when I'm well again, I would like to volunteer here gardening." The eternal optimist. We knew she was not going to be well again. But her? She wouldn't allow herself to believe it. I don't even know if deep down inside, in that place where your brain holds you accountable for reality, she accepted it. That's who she was. Never ending sunshine.

So...to my mother, who I miss more than imaginable, I sing this to you in my perk, perk, perkiest voice.

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday, dear Mom!

Happy birthday to you!