Mostly Jenine

Fit for a Queen

2012-04-26T02:43:50Z

Remember this princess? (see Original Post here)

This week we have been sorting and cleaning, and I have gone through scores of kindergarten journals, and papers - and have had so many sweet memories. Andra wrote about finding a rock that "lookid like a pes of meat" (looked like a piece of meat) and Grace wrote about getting in trouble for biting Andra, because Andra "called me an Ityeit in prescool" (called me an idiot in preschool).

We laughed, and we loved all kinds of goodies from years past and then we took that sweet pink crown, and repurposed it to be more appropriate for a big girl. You might even say we made it fit for a queen.

The best laid plans

2012-04-19T00:26:42Z

When we moved into our house, we started planning the front yard's landscaping. For me, it was planning a future - planning a backdrop to all the first day of school photos, the photos with friends, maybe even cocktail parties, receptions. I envisioned the progress of seeing the plants grow, as a backdrop to the girls growing.

We picked rocks, we picked trees.   We planned flowers and bushes and planted them where we wanted them to grow.

Just after our first planting, things went missing. Holes were dug. And we realized that javelina and rabbits rule in the unfenced front porch area. So I did research, and studied to find plants that would not only attract butterflies and hummingbirds to liven up my background, but would be resistant to wild things that want to eat them. I ordered at will, and reordered the things no one ate - things likes catmint, and sage, oregano and thyme - I called them the hot and smelly garden plants, because they were xeriscape friendly. They smelled good to us, but not the animals who we would cook as a main dish with the plants as seasonings.

We were on our way to the plan. But then we had volunteers. For those of you without a clever mother who married a wise farmer (without whom I would never know this term), a volunteer is

"A plant that is growing from an unintentionally included seed, a seed that is shed or dropped by a previous crop."

There were unintentionally included seeds everywhere. Something about roughing up sterile dirt, rocks and uninhabitable ground makes it workable - and volunteers were up everywhere. Palo Verdes by the dozens, creosote, desert marigolds, brittle bush. Plants that one of us loves (we don't love the same ones, unfortunately) so depending on whether Phil or I do the weeding, the volunteers stay or go.

Right now, our front porch looks lovely. And as I look at it today, with yellow spring flowers blooming from any number of different volunteer plants, and the carefully selected purchased plants growing in behind them to bloom through summer and fall, the porch doesn't look at all like I expected it to. The trees aren't as big as I thought they might be by now, but the flowers are much more showy and widespread than I could have imagined. As a backdrop, while not what we originally planned, it is still lovely and a measure of our lives.

Lately, I think often about the path our lives take. The ones we plan, and the one we grow into with the volunteers that pick us. It is a reminder that we don't end up where we wanted to, much of the time. Things don't turn out how we expect. People we planned on having forever leave before we are ready for them to. I can't see spring flowers without expecting to see Andra with her camera, taking photos to print for her walls, or edit on her ipod. That makes me sad for the flowers, who are trying so hard to fill in the space on our front porch, getting ready for their close up.

It may, however, be those same flowers that are also trying to send us a message. Even when your plans fall through, volunteers kick in to fill in and help along what you started.  There are still flowers blooming. They aren't the ones we planned on. They don't look like we expected. But if you didn't know what was missing, it would look like a pretty nice place.

This isn't the life I planned on. But if I didn't know what was missing, it would look like a pretty nice place.

pause

Today, I caught some song lyrics I have heard a million times that I never really heard (this happens often to me these days and usually with poor results) but today it was where I was, in a hopeful and very grateful kind of way. So a little Pearl Jam (not at all what you expected, huh?) that made me grateful for all the volunteers that grow in our yard (that's you).

    Just Breathe.

     Yes, I understand that every life must end,
     As we sit alone, I know someday we must go,
     Oh I'm a lucky man, to count on both hands the ones I love,
     Some folks just have one, yeah, others, they've got none,

     Stay with me,
     Let's just breathe.
    ...

Love you till I die,
Meet you on the other side.

<3

Reflections

2012-03-19T02:28:58Z

These days, it seems like it has been long enough that we shouldn't miss Andra as much as we do. These days, it seems terribly strange that it doesn't seem so strange anymore. But we do, and it is.

Last week when we were on vacation in Seattle with my Mom and sisters, I noticed all of us doing something that make me think of Andra, and I thought to myself, "There is so much of her in each of us." Whether she got it from us, or we got it from her is irrelevant. She is with us. We're like her.

Friday we went to the cemetery with some of Andra's friends. We piled flowers on her grave, and we left love notes in the secret compartment we built in for love notes. And while I have debated posting a photo of the headstone, here is the shot that changed my mind.

Although faint, you can see the reflections of Hailey, Lily and Tiffany in the finish of the headstone. We didn't plan it that way, but there they are.

Not only is there some of Andra in each of us, but we are all a reflection of her goodness and love.

Making a Plan

2012-01-31T05:57:12Z

When my Dad was first diagnosed with cancer, we talked about doing a "Live Like You're Dying Tour" - a poor man's version of the Bucket List, if you will. But the reality was that he was quite concerned with being uncomfortable or away from his doctors, so we stayed pretty close to home. I wondered at the time if it wasn't better to do the "Live Like You're Dying Tour" when all was well in your life.

A couple summers ago, when all was well in my life, I teased the girls that I was going to buy a woody station wagon and take them out of school for a year and we would just tour the country and I would home school them. However, they weren't entirely on board with that idea so I let someone else buy that beautiful station wagon dream.

I was sorry I missed both of those opportunities to plan something wonderful.

But in recent days planning is hard. I struggle with it daily. Planning anything, from dinner to lessons to having to just about be anywhere but work or home is difficult. Even harder, is planning to actually GO somewhere, not to mention somewhere out of state. Somehow, we managed to travel quite a bit last year - but I packed the night before and was lucky to have most of what we needed.

This year, I am Making a Plan. (deep booming voice)

Somewhere between a full out Live Like Your Dying tour and the way we live regularly (if there is such a thing) is where I hope to fall out.

So far, we have sent the dog to training, made additional dog training appointments, made a golf lesson and invited Levi to dinner. We received the unbelievable gift of a piano, and we are planning piano lessons (thanks Bill and Rena!). Grace is playing basketball and doing dance. She's selling girl scout cookies. Lots of plans.

We bought tickets to the rodeo. Made hotel reservations in Seattle for a girls weekend. Scheduled a San Francisco Spring Break trip for Grace and I. We won a trip to Texas (travel date TBD), we are talking about going to Hawaii and to Mom and Earl's over the summer. Plans, plans, plans.

Phil and I established a non profit called the Andra Heart Foundation, and just sent 315 Valentines to announce it. I am working with lots of amazing people to do more cardiac screenings. So. Much. Planning.

It feels good. Really good. And I intend to execute my plan now whether anyone else is on board or not, while it still seems like a great idea to me. And if I need a reminder of why, I refer to the wise gentleman George S. Patton:

A good plan violently executed now is better than a perfect plan executed next week.
George S. Patton

In 2012, I think a good plan is just what we need.

Sidebar: What we don't need in 2012 is a big desert deer for ~~Captain Ahab~~ Mr. MostlyPhillip. Because he filled his tag Sunday. Which frees him up to make some good plans of his own .

Dear Mick,

2012-01-14T23:49:51Z

This week, I was out of town for work. I had a nice time, and accomplished the purpose I was meant to at the meetings. I also paddle boarded. I parasailed. And yet, I was disappointed to find how socially awkward I still am. At an event where you network, and at every table, and break and meal you are seated by people you mostly don't know, the natural thing is to talk. The perfunctory "where do you work what is your job" soon evolves into the things we all really care about like "where do you live do you have children?" That is where the trouble begins. There are two options, for most folks, but really 3 for us. Tell the truth. Lie. Tell what feels like a lie but is mostly the truth. The easiest for everyone else, is the hardest for me.

Phil and I have discussed the issue - because inevitably, when you tell the whole truth, you often feel awful that you did. But when you the lie that is like the truth (leaving Andra out and saying you have one child), then you feel awful too.

The first night of the trip, I was standing by a beautiful campfire on a small island in the Florida Keys, talking to a gentleman who is just about to retire. As we were discussing his future plans, he turned to me and asked me "Are you lucky?" Am I lucky? It is an interesting question. Here is my final answer:

Dear Mick,

Tuesday night you asked me, across a lovely flickering fire in the warm air, if I was lucky. I think, in hindsight that you were asking me if I knew I was lucky to work where I work. I do know. I am very lucky to work with great people. Not OMG! Like you are so great! great, but the kind of great that changes lives, creates jobs, and provides a whole bunch of people the opportunity to grow families and friendships. I want to be like them, I am exactly where I am meant to be and in that regard I am very lucky.

Of course, right now, any reference to being lucky makes me immediately think of my personal life, which on a fundamental level doesn't feel lucky right now. I am sorry I cried, but I suspect since you have lived a good life that you have seen women cry before. People who live good lives tend to experience joys and sadess, and tears are part of both.

However. I wanted to tell you what I want to believe.

I am lucky. I have always been lucky. I have worked very hard to gain the things that make me feel lucky - my job, my family, my home - but some things just come to me, like love, my friends, and my parents and sisters. I am lucky Phil picked me, and that Andra and Grace picked me too. I have amazing friends and I have been supported through this year by unbelievable people, including the people you were probably asking about.

I am sorry it took me getting all the way home before I had the whole answer, but I think more clearly when I am here.

Yes, Mick. I am lucky.

Thanks for asking.

Jenine

Sidebar: As part of my socially awkward behavior, one issue I have is that I can't help but bring Andra up in every possible conversation. This makes other people uncomfortable. I know this. I can't stop myself. Nonetheless, I have a story about Andra now. Once when I was taking Grace to the doctor, the doctor walked in and told Andra "Your mom is very lucky." at which point Andra turned around and violently spat out "She is NOT Yucky!" Not yucky indeed.

Fear Factor(y)

2012-01-09T14:50:39Z

I have spent so much of the last year being terrified that I have gotten quite used to it. Every phone call, or lack of a phone call, or anytime someone calls and I miss it or they don't answer when I call - these all start me thinking. Sometimes, thinking is bad.

New things start me thinking. Like dropping Grace off at school, or not knowing if she is running in PE or wondering if Phil has updated his contact information at the gym or if everyone knows I love them. Thinking. Worrying. Fear. I am afraid if I don't stop emailing Grace's doctor he will change his email, and stop giving me free advice on how to manage my fear.

I used to say that "Worry is a wasted emotion" but apparently, I have lots of emotion to waste.

This week, I am headed to Florida for a work conference. And I am slightly less afraid than usual, which, of course, scares me.

It was just weeks before Andra died that Phil and the girls went on a hunting trip together, and usually, that would leave me worrying the whole time about all the awful things that could happen, but that time, I opened my heart and said to myself "Stop worrying. This doesn't happen to people. This just doesn't happen to people." And I honestly felt like I was letting go of the fear that had plagued me. You all know how that ended - and having lost all faith that things I don't want to happen won't, I am back on the fear train, and how.

I am hoping I can travel without hard liquor (my flight is before noon). I am hoping I can focus when I am supposed to be working, and that I can relax when the water beckons. Maybe there will be something calming about a place that has a high temperature, a low temperature and a water temperature that are all about the same.

Plus, if I were really smart, I will be investing some extra energy worrying about running in to my loser ex boyfriend who lives in Florida - that would be really scary.

2012.

2012-01-09T00:23:07Z

2011 was something of a black hole. I struggle to find memories of anything before about May, and I don't know if the memories were made, and then vacuumed up in moments of loss or if the record button just never got pressed.

I do know that every time a tsunami wave of grief knocked me over that I lost about a half hour, and maybe the waves just kept coming last year so there was scarcely a memorable moment left.

I do know that the waves still come, and will come forever. More days run together without big waves, but the waves are out there, and roll to shore without warning. But the waves only hit to my neck now, and usually, I can stay on my feet. With each wave there is a constriction of the lungs, and a gulp of air and a stabbing in the heart that drifts up to the head - the heart feels it first, and then the realization dawns on me.  It still hurts each time, but I am used to it now. Its awful, but its mine.

During 2011, I respected the process. I let myself live it. I was patient with myself (kind of). I lay around when I wanted to do nothing. I drank more than was respectable. I cut us all a whole lot of slack, and spent a lot of money if I thought it would make us feel better, even for a second. I did learn stillness in 2011, which I think I will keep practicing. Sometimes, sitting still turns out to be just fine. I never knew that before. Which is funny, because in general, I feel like I know a lot less than I used to know, about everything. The funniest part is that I now know things, that I can't remember why I know. So I can answer a question quickly, but then I second guess myself - how do I know that? Is that true? Did I just make it up? Oddly enough, I am right as often as I am wrong, which makes the whole thing worse because I don't trust myself. I suppose trust is one of the hardest things to win back, when you are as betrayed by your sense of the universe as we were.

In any case, in the dawn of 2012, I feel a little lighter. I think I need to do a Susan Powter, and remind myself (screaming if necessary) that "You gotta eat, you gotta breathe and you gotta MOVE!"  These are all important. I will try all 3. I will also try to cut back on spending. I probably should request a new credit nard number, and one that is very hard to memorize while I am at it.

I will try and write, again. When I can. Grace asks why I am not writing, and for the first time in my life I am not writing. I found a notebook I have carried with me all year that has one page that says "2011", one page that has 4 lines of description of the excruciating first camping trip without Andra and one page that has a grocery list. Sometimes I think I should be writing, so I have it all down in case I want to use it someday but I can not thing of a single useful thing that would justify me reliving this pain. And since I don't want to live it, I can't imagine why you would want to so I have rationalized not writing to you either.

There are some good analogies I spout, that maybe I should get down - like "Grief is like an onion, one layer after another and they all stink." or "Losing Andra is like losing a color. Everything still looks structurally the same, and everything still works but it looks completely different without blue." Hopefully, I will remember those if I need them.

But for now, I will start with eating, breathing and moving. And when I have those off my list, I will try writing, too.

Thankful, every day.

2011-11-28T01:32:03Z

I don't know why one day is harder than another, sometimes. Last week, I had one of the hard ones. Okay, I probably set myself up, by starting my day with 2 cups of coffee and Andra's homework binder. Sitting on the floor. Next to her bed. With only the best intentions to constructively move a few things around in her room (which is quite a different thing from the furtive picking up and putting down I usually do).

I have been feeling like I should tidy up her room a little. I don't know why. We use her room all the time. Grace wants it to stay just the way it is. It is certainly no sterile shrine to her - Grace pulls out clothes, and jewelry every day, we have used it to stage heart screenings, and Operation Christmas Child shoe boxes, and Andra heart Ben's Bells. We are in and out of it all the time. People stay there. Sometimes people hang out in there, just to be close to Andra.

Maybe last Sunday, I got a little too close to Andra. Sitting there, going through her notebook, I was living her quirkly life, reviewing what she was learning, reading her writing assignments and just feeling her energy buzzing through the notebook that she carried every day. I can hear her, clearly. I can see her - and more importantly, the real her. Not the her at the end, which sometimes overpowers the real her in my mind. I am so thankful for her, but sometimes when I feel her with me so clearly it breaks my heart all over again into such itty, bitty, tiny pieces that you can never hope to put them back together.

Right now, I feel like we may have swept the pieces into a pile. That's progress. We may have found some glue. That's progress. But we are still walking around barefoot because we can't remember to put on shoes (or else Rex the wonder dog has carried them off) and we find splintered pieces of our own broken hearts with our feet that cut and bleed. Sometimes, we can just tend to the wound and go on, but sometimes we stumble and knock over that already fractured pile and the shards spray out and have to be swept up again, with tears, woe and a renewal of disbelief. How can you knock over a pile that shouldn't even be there? There shouldn't be pieces. My heart should be whole.

Last week, Andra's headstone was set. It is beautiful, and at the same time the most awful thing I have ever seen. It knocks over the pile every time I think of it. Thankfully, this Thanksgiving, I can look back with awe at my early grief's wisdom. When I had it made, I knew. I just knew that I would need to be reminded.

So I had this carved into the back.

"I will be thankful every time I remember you."

And with the reminder, I am.

October. Ow.

2011-10-28T23:11:18Z

As we started last week, rocketing forward towards the first anniversary of the worst days of our life, I was surprised to find that the whole week was dragging us down in sympathy for the days at the end of it.

I expected, and planned for it to be difficult. I didn't really expect the flashbacks and the recurrence of thoughts and images I have learned to manage - that now again, I can not manage.

But through it all, we did last week what we have done all year. Protected ourselves, surrounded ourselves with people who love us and who loved Andra, and kept busy with things that honor Andra.

Last week, we dedicated the garden at the Children's Museum Tucson. It is beautiful. And a very positive place for remembrance.

We had an open house. We painted beautiful Andra Heart Ben's Bells. We packed 20 shoe boxes for Operation Christmas Child.

Our sweetest member battled pneumonia.

And yet, we survived it. The year. The day. The day after day heartbreak of missing someone so much it actually hurts.

And honestly? We couldn't have done it without you. Thank you.

Small Surprises

2011-09-12T01:18:47Z

Some one told me that he thinks of his son in heaven as God's right hand man, making sure John sees good things in the world. Sometimes, I think he is right.

This summer, while Jacki and I strolled a flower farm, I smelled a rose. And then jumped, because there was something in the rose. It was a good thing, and not at all what I expected.

Yesterday, after going to the zoo I was reflecting on how difficult it is to mingle with all the life going on around us, all the evidence of the continuance of the universe, all the display of the basic human experience (babies, toddlers, couples, thirteen year old girls). It really is an exercise in pain, somedays to see other people living. I can't help but over relate all that living to my experience, to my story. I have a had time seeing that other people have anything else to their story, because I am so absorbed in envy of the appearance of their family.

We stopped at the store after leaving the zoo, and for the first time in a long time, I talked to the man in front of me, offering him a funny comment after I let him cut in line since he only had a bag of bread rolls, and then he called home to tell his daughter to listen to her Nana. I told him how once Andra told me she always listened to her Grammy, she just didn't listen to ME. He proceeded to tell me his story - that he had recently returned from Afghanistan, where he was a Marine. That he recently received a phone call that one of his good buddies who was also a Marine, in Afghanistan, had returned to the states, gone on a date with his wife who was 9 months pregnant, and they were both hit by a semi truck and killed. The baby survived. With his three big sisters, 5, 7 and 10. His buddy had left all 4 children in his will to the man in front of me. Who already had a 7 and 10 year old.

So 5 months ago, he was a guy, who got his own kids every other weekend and was going back to college after serving his country. Today, he has 6 kids - 5 girls and an infant boy, and he is trying to make sense of his unexpected situation. He is trying to understand how an acquaintance leaves you their 4 kids without telling you. He is grappling with the knowledge that when faced with just living the life he picked, but knowing you were breaking up a family, he chose those kids. It struck me that I am trying daily to make sense of the quiet of my life, and it was a stark contrast to the noise this man was going through.

I wish him great luck. I hope for those children. And I am reminded that everything is not always what it seems - sometimes, a guy buying bread has more to his story than it appears. And I hope when he steps back some day he sees the frog in the rose as a beautiful thing. I was glad for the reminder that other people have a story too.

money CAN buy you love

2011-08-08T16:26:57Z

Along this wandering path, someone said "I love that heart. I want a necklace of it." Since I just need people to tell me what to do these days, I went ahead and made Melissa a necklace of the Andra Heart.

I made some extras. If you want one, you can buy one, and $20 from each necklace (that's the whole profit) will go to support the Andra Heart Foundation. The Andra Heart Foudnation is a 501c3 we started to help us save the world.

A photo, or two. Either email me at jenine@andraheart.org or else go straight to Ebay CLICK HERE (item number 110726664918) to buy on credit.

Necklaces are red or stainless, and are $40 each.

The necklaces are about one and one half inches wide, and comes with an 18 inch chain.

Thanks to the artist, Melissa Borrell, who helped us with the creation!

We had a pretty good weekend.

2011-08-08T04:01:28Z

Imagine one day you are driving home from work, thinking about what to cook for dinner, and you blink and then BAM! you are in the middle of the ocean.

You know when you jump into the ocean, and it is cold and the water shocks you, your lungs contract and you panic until you realize you jumped. You picked this. You'll be ok. This isn't like that. You didn't jump. You didn't see the black water coming and you can't breathe. For a long time.

Once you calm down, you realize you can sink or swim. And your first reaction is to swim, to swim like hell. But swimming like hell wears you out. And you can't see land. And you really don't even remember why you are swimming anyway. And the water is cold, and it seems like an eternity before you will feel ok again. So you sink. It is easy to sink. And sometimes, even if you think you are ready to swim again, you just can't.

Today I couldn't swim. I cried through church. I cried through the grocery store. I violated Grace's three cry per day rule. A couple times.

We wrapped up our evening sitting on the back porch, watching it rain and grilling burgers. We had burgers, with a beautiful greek salad, tzatziki sauce for the burgers and chips and ice cold water. Then we did yard work. And went swimming in a 90 degree pool. We got out, and sat poolside to watch a beautiful sunset.

And Grace turned around to look at me and said "We had a pretty good weekend, Mom."

And just like that I'm swimming again.

the dog days are over

2011-08-06T18:04:06Z

As we enter the dog days of summer, I realize how much I have blogged in my head, and how litte I have actually blogged. I thought I would take pictures and keep track and post all these journeys of our summer so you all wouldn't worry about us. Some days I couldn't. Some days I tracked, but didn't post. So I will rewind, quickly through our summer, since SCHOOL ALREADY STARTED.

Here is the first day of school, Thursday.

Before that, we played with cousins:

Grace went to an amazing 8 day summer camp near South Lake Tahoe with Anni and Kiki - and we celebrated official pigtails day as we dropped them off!

Over the 4th of July we went to Disneyland. Grace rode a very special horse on the carousel.

Wherever we went we were surrounded by love.

Andra was never far from our minds, this summer, as we did some of our same old summer things, and tried some new summer things. We are mostly holding up, and continue to be grateful for all of you holding us up when we can't do it for ourselves. Love may never end, and while it is still a million degrees here, some things, like summer vacation, do come to an end. Hope yours are wrapping up nicely.

Happy Andra Heart Day.

2011-07-01T17:11:38Z

This first of many Andra Heart days, please look around for all the wonderful things Andra left us. In addition, you can look for some new things, too.

There is a fresh, new beautiful garden, full of sun and dirt and tall sunflowers.

There are Ben's Bells, Andra Heart style.

There are postcards, and donations and pandas (and manatees).

There is love, all around us. Keep looking for it, and when you find it, give it away.

Love grows tall, and changes us all.

2011-07-01T01:28:10Z

Andra's garden at the Children's Museum Tucson is growing and growing.

Now there is a wall, with tiles painted by friends and family.

The tiles are beautiful, and tell Andra's story - of what she loved, and who loved her. They also remind us how lucky, how deeply and truly lucky, we all were to know her. I often hear the song from Wicked in my head when I think of Andra, and how it says:

"Now I know I have been changed for the better. Because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

She changed us all. We would all do well to remember that we can change others for the good, too.

Cruel Summer

2011-06-06T01:20:36Z

This weeked it was hot. The kind of hot where you spend all the energy you have thinking of things you can make without cooking until you can't eat anymore cold salads, but you don't want to go out because it is too hot. The kind of hot where you lie around and get tired just thinking about the things on your to do list.

Everyone's first summer in Tucson is cruel. Every time you go outside it feels like you are walking into a blast furnace, and every surface is too hot to touch - door knobs, mailboxes, even the very ground you walk on burns if you touch it without some sort of protection. Everything around you has the potential to hurt you. Things you took for granted in the spring are now almost impossible to do.

Everyone tells you you will get used to it. You probably will. But while you are suffering through the first cruel summer, you are sure no one knows how you feel. No one knows how where you come from, the cool evenings make up for any of the heat of the day. Where the green grass is cool on your feet, and you can turn on the sprinklers to cool down if you need a break from the heat.

Your memories of those summers, by the lake, or in the mountains, only make that first, hot summer harder to bear. You can't get them out of your mind, especially when that heat rolls over you like a wave, as you remember lying on the grass in the evenings and looking up at the stars, or how her foot fit on the inside of your elbow when she breast fed, or how her smile lit up the room. Once the memories start, they come in waves - the green of her eyes, the sound of marble games coming from her room when she couldn't sleep at night, her beautiful broad, crooked back in her burgundy ballet leotard. How she still, even at 12, said callapitter, and blanklie and scunscreen.

This summer? It's going to be a scorcher.

The Key to Happyness

2011-05-20T17:33:54Z

I often accused Andra of being a loser (of things). But maybe instead of be a loser she was just a leaver.
Recently, our neighbor Michelle found another thing Andra left behind, an essay titled "The Key to Happyness".

I have had the distinct feeling lately that I have lived three lives. The life of my childhood, which was rich and unfettered, full of dirt and trees and scabby knees and elbows. Summer camp, swimming in creeks and lakes and hours spent reading and writing and running around.  I lived right there, right then. I was insecure and indecisive, but I was happy.

Then there was my life with Phil, which started when I was 21. It was a life of hard work, career, and confidence. I became sure of what I wanted, and worked hard to build that life. After 9 years of marriage, I became a mother, and I loved being a mother so much, my friends called me the Zealot. With time, we had Grace too, and it really seems like so much more than ten years ago that I was given the gift of these two girls. Jump rope, and kids songs, climbing trees and swimming - having children reminded me so much of my own childhood, and I was able to overcome the serious "rules" girl I was from 20 to 30, and reconnect with the child I once was.   Putting jammies under the pillow, and enjoying popsicles in the sun, and s'mores around a campfire. I was very happy in this life. This life was about building, and looking forward - I often had to remind myself to live in the moment in between planning and investing in our future, but isn't hope grand?

These days when I wake up in the morning, I have a very difficult time connecting those two lives with the one I am living now. It is a new life. It hurts to be present, but it is agonizing to look forward at all the things that will not be.  I honestly wonder some days if I imagined those past lives because they are so hard to reconcile to this one. And I can't imagine ever admitting I am happy in this new life, in a broad sense, in spite of the fact that we will all have happy moments - I am sure of that.  Grace and I had loads of happy moments today - from a little mother/ daughter shopping, to a nice lunch, to ice cold peach kool-aid at a road side kool-aid stand to some sweet cupcakes. Today alone, we strung together little happynesses like beads a necklace. But I am not sure if little happynesses can make you deeply happy, especially when you are profoundly unhappy ten times a day.

Regardless, I live in this third life. Next week, I will turn 43. The next twenty one years are upon me and I can scarcely envision what they will be like. I have been thinking, that maybe, just maybe, the key to Happyness is in accepting that this is another life, built upon the first two, but separate and apart from them as well. If it is separate, it might be easier to actually seek happyness, real happyness, and accept it if we find it.  There will be some way to be happy in this third life, this life of three, this life of Grace. I suppose we owe it to ourselves to search like the dickens to find it. Perhaps I need to see this new life as a new start, beginning where Andra left off.

Her story, the Key to Happyness, ends this way, "This must be my key to happyness. That's how my story ends. Actually, begins..."

We shall begin too.

PS When challenged, the only thing any of us could think of to say about Andra that was unflattering or bad, was that she was a bad speller. Happyness indeed!

Mothers

2011-05-08T00:38:00Z

This Mothers' Day, I am thankful for the reminder to be thankful for being a mother. Mostly because lately, being a mother has been breaking my heart more than uplifting it. I am so grateful for all the mothers around me who are such good examples of how to be mothers, starting with my mother.

and then her mother.

I am also thankful for Eddie's mother.

I am lucky to be close to Levi and Kara's mother, and Anna and Garrett's mother, and all the other mothers out there who show me how its done.

But mostly, I am so, so glad I got to be Andra and Grace's mother. I should be thanking them today.

everything is bigger..... in Texas

2011-05-01T17:06:00Z

As we move through this year of painful firsts, we can check off our first trip with three. Being away is a good distraction, but also makes the missing piece to our four piece puzzle so much more obvious. In addition, whenever you encounter a "first" there are new situations - sleeping arrangements, and seat assignments and a table for three, oh my.

We ate a huge Cinnamon roll. We drank big drinks. We stayed in a big hotel, on a high floor. We saw our friend Teryn. We went to Sea World. But mostly, we started figuring out how to be three. That was the biggest thing in Texas.

On the river walk.

Feeding the Lorikeets.

Drinking our big drinks.

I will remember her.

2011-04-28T04:37:00Z

I never met Phil's grandmother Ireta. And yet, every day I stand in my kitchen and cook for her grandson, using her cannisters, her salt and pepper shakers, and checking time on her skillet clock, that is hanging on my wall.

I use her dessert dishes to serve my girls ice cream and smoothies, and I wear her apron when we bake.

I think of her all the time, and the stories Phil tells me of her, while my fingers pull the lid from the sugar cannister that her fingers pulled, over 20 years ago.

Lately, I feel just the tiniest bit better. And I don't want to. I wage a war daily with myself, afraid that if I close my eyes to feel the sun on my face, or if I laugh about something stupid, but funny, that somehow, it takes me away from Andra. I am afraid that feeling better means I am forgetting to be be miserable, and that if I forget to be miserable, then I am forgetting Andra. It is ridiculous of course, but nonetheless, I fear it.

It gave me comfort, tonight, to realize how often I think of and truly, deeply appreciate a woman I never met. A woman who taught Phil to embroider, and to make country style eggs on holiday mornings.

I won't forget Andra. And you won't forget Andra. And somewhere, there is someone who may not have even known her, who will learn of her, and hear her story and appreciate her. Even if I am not miserable. I'm not ready to give up being miserable yet, but maybe there is hope that someday I will be ready. And on that day, maybe I will stop worrying about forgetting Andra long enough to remember her.