Tag Archives: love

March 7, 2014 · 11:47 pm

A Walk to Remember

I remember the walk with my mom as if it were yesterday. The towering pines stretched with all their might into the vast expanse of blue above, touching what had to be the floor of heaven itself. The half-foot of snow that had fallen the night before glistened in the afternoon sun and crunched beneath our feet as we wended our way to my brother’s grave.

It was a good day to say “hello” to him, our faces warm and ruddy from the trek, and our spirits buoyed by what was surely a whisper of spring in those boughs of evergreen.

I can still see her merrily trudging along, nearly swallowed by her red, winter coat and hood, a tinier version of the woman I remember as a child since cancer had begun its dreaded course of consumption. Nevertheless, she wore a smile and the most striking hue of lipstick…red, of course, echoing the beauty that emanated from within. The mom I knew and loved was still here, walking and talking with me, soaking up the sun, drinking in the sky, which was impossibly blue, eager to seize the day.

I don’t recall exactly what we talked about on that wintry jaunt, but I remember being genuinely happy and inordinately grateful, thinking, quite simply, “This is one of those moments in life where everything is perfect, despite life’s inherent imperfection and the unbearable nature of loss that no one can escape, because I get to spend this delicious wedge of time with my mom.”

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Filed under Gratitude, Love and Loss

Tagged as cancer, death, love, moms, mothers, parenting, special moments, winter

February 13, 2014 · 6:58 pm

V is for Valentine

V is for the valiant deeds you do as a matter of course—like traipsing through our home in the dead of night in your underwear to find the source of a sound I’ve tried (and failed miserably) to adequately describe, except to say that it is “most definitely not a normal ‘house sound.’” Moreover, you’ve rushed to my aid on countless occasions to thwart the spillage of veritable pools of repulsiveness, unstopping the loo with remarkable aplomb, never once pausing to judge the ridiculous nature of my fear and loathing.

A is for your appreciative nature and for your inclination to express said appreciation in the form of chocolate. And almonds. Perhaps dark chocolate-covered almonds, if I were asked to more accurately define the essence of your appreciative ilk, my dear Romeo.

L is for loveable, given the endearing creature that you are. That said, you’re kind and compassionate, thoughtful and engaging, generous to a fault and more romantic than you’ll ever know. I never have to question your love for me or your ability to make me laugh even when the bottom falls out and the wheels fly off (think: projectile vomiting and flooded basements). You know just what to say and when to say it, reading me as well as any book you’ve ever held in your hands. Even your foibles (which, by many standards, should’ve made me certifiably insane by now) are marginally unobjectionable—something I never thought humanly possible.

E is for the enthusiasm with which you approach life—even in the face of my less-than-enthusiastic view toward tedious chores like cleaning the garage, weatherproofing the deck and planning the totality of every summer vacation we’ve ever been so fortunate to take. Furthermore, the restraint you demonstrated for the duration of my Orlando-inspired tirade (i.e. the one involving shameful histrionics in which I accused Disney characters of being creepy and a certain airline of being patently tyrannical) was most admirable. For that alone, I love you dearly.

N is for your nonjudgmental nature. You don’t care that I sometimes forget to cook. Or dust. Or shop. Or water plants. You accept me for who I am, unconditionally, and know that a lot of plants will likely die in my care.

T is for the tolerance you exhibit each and every day. Admittedly, I’m difficult to live with. I’m needy, erratic and I have a crippling aversion to spiders. I swill milk straight from the jug, my showers are of an interminable length and I’ve been known to mock your shortcomings with merciless precision (i.e. “Can’t you at least pretend to be organized?”) What’s more, I am physically incapable of getting anywhere in a timely fashion, which I’m certain rankles you to the core. You’ll never know how grateful I am for your tolerance in the abovementioned arenas.

I is for the ingenuity you routinely display when you’re called upon to delve into our brood’s unwieldy school projects—the ones that ought to warn parents of the perils of working with way too much glue and far too little direction. So clever and resourceful are you, utilizing an unlikely arsenal of duct tape, crusty pizza boxes and errant screws. You’re perfectly selfless, too, embracing the celebrated and often untimely excursion to Jo-Ann Fabrics without the slightest objection or hint of frustration. After all, you reason, it gives you a chance to bond with other parents who have made the very same trek—to gather paint, to compare the circumference of various styrofoam balls and to suffer the ill effects of pipe cleaner envy.

N is for the novelty you employ practically every time you pack someone’s lunch, adding a touch of love and creativity to an otherwise banal event. Never mind that you’ve replaced me as the Sandwich Captain and Scrawler of Lunchbox Notes. Of course, I was envious at first, harboring a visceral brand of resentment for a time. But I’ve come to realize that you’ve taken on the task to lighten my load. What’s more, I genuinely appreciate your flair for catering to creatures who are, at best, a challenge to nourish.

E is for your emboldening ways. In a word, you’re my biggest advocate in this life—silencing my doubts, offering definitive proof that my cup runneth over much of the time and always, always providing a soft spot to land when I fall. Valentine, I love you more than words could ever say.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (spelling it out for my special valentine). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under In the Trenches of Parentville, Love and Other Drugs, Romance for Dummies

Tagged as children, humor, love, marriage, parenting, Valentine's Day

June 15, 2013 · 1:50 pm

Ten Ways to Say “Thank you, Dad”

Fathers come in all shapes and sizes, temperaments and talents. On the whole, I’d daresay they are a thankless lot—often underappreciated, largely misunderstood—an entire populace of men rarely acknowledged for the many and varied ways in which they contribute as parents. Mothers, deservedly or not, garner the lion’s share of recognition when it comes to the important business of raising a family. But Father’s Day, with its prominently marketed golf wares, grilling must-haves and sea of manly fragrances, forces us to shift our collective sentiment and pay homage to dear, old Dad.

And as I wander the aisles in search of the perfect greeting card for my father—one that I believe captures the essence of our relationship, keys on our shared allegiance to witticism and adequately gives thanks for the sacrifices he’s made and the wisdom he’s imparted, I find myself settling for that which falls disappointingly short. Hallmark, it seems, hasn’t stumbled upon the right assemblage of words just yet. Somehow their writers have missed the mark, along with all the other clever wordsmiths who’ve failed to deliver the sort of message my father needs to receive—the one that perhaps all fathers need to receive. So thank you, Dad, for so many things…

…for encouraging me to forge my own path instead of assuming that the paths of others would necessarily be right for me…for letting me climb to the tops of trees and to skateboard with wild abandon…for ferrying me to the ER when necessary.

…for teaching me how to throw a fastball, wield a mean golf club and sink a jump shot on command…for being my biggest advocate (even still) and for believing in me even before I believed in myself.

…for being oh-so-generous with your time…for listening intently to my wishes and worries…for considering me a worthy companion as we jogged over the back roads of town, watched doubleheaders into the wee hours and sat in scratchy lawn chairs together, completely mesmerized by the thunderstorms that rolled across the skies in the midst of July’s unbearable heat, summer after endless summer.

…for letting me date boys with mustaches and muscle cars…for traipsing around the kitchen in your underwear late at night, when said boys needed reminding that it was time to go home (an infinitely mortifying experience then, but absolutely hilarious now)…for walking me down the aisle—twice—and never once saying I told you so.

…for introducing me to the concept of balancing a checkbook, as well as finding balance in my life…for teaching me to accept failure when it comes to call and to learn from my missteps…to appreciate having grandparents, a roof overhead and acres of woods all around.

…for tolerating my teenage years (Oy!), for trusting me with your beloved cars even though the voices inside your head must have screamed, “Noooo!” and for resisting the overwhelming desire to share with my High School Yearbook Committee that hideous photo of me with the mumps. For that alone, I love you dearly.

…for navigating so many road trips—to distant airports, to a good number of college campuses I considered calling home, to my very first job interview in the city. Never mind that we got horribly lost in the process; but getting a glimpse of the White House at rush hour surely was grand.

…for inspiring me to be a responsible individual, to work hard and to strive to do good in this world…for illustrating the power of forgiveness, the refuge of one’s church and the necessary nature of grieving our losses…for reminding me that things usually work out in the end—even when they look entirely hopeless at the start.

…for underscoring the importance of finding time for one’s children, time for one’s marriage and time for oneself…for helping me recognize the inherent value of ice cream sundaes, the versatility of duct tape and the irreplaceable nature of a good friend.

…for loving your grandchildren with as much ferocity as you loved me, for implanting within me the seeds of faith and for showing me the beauty of marrying one’s best friend.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (giving thanks for my dad). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Growing Pains

Tagged as dads, Father's Day, fathers, gratitude, growing pains, growing up, love, parenting

February 19, 2013 · 2:59 pm

Be Careful What You Wish For

“If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.” I remember hearing that expression as a child, but I never fully understood the particulars of its meaning. Needless to say, my charges are equally baffled by such utterances, shooting me that patented Mom-is-slightly-deranged look whenever I make mention of horses and beggars.

“We’re not asking for a pony, Mom—just a golden retriever and a hotel thingy for our hamsters.” Odds are, I reach for such an idiom because I’ve grown weary of my brood’s ceaseless petitioning. Indeed, I’ve become fairly intolerant of the phrase, “I want…” or “I wish…” when coupled with anything even remotely frivolous.

I suppose that my plight in this regard is not all that uncommon. Whiny children are ubiquitous, and the allure of summoning hope in the face of impossibility is simply too delicious for any of us to resist. That said, we all wish for things we cannot have—if only to taste, ever so fleetingly, what could be. It’s as if we forget our practical selves and instead indulge in unbridled possibility. At least I do.

So I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from my progenies. Nor should I be appalled to learn that one of them had the audacity to make a desperate plea for something entirely self-serving—like the abolishment of a certain brand of schoolwork. Technically speaking, she didn’t actually MAKE the wish (or so I was later informed), but its merits were heavily weighed against the drawbacks. Thankfully, she came to her senses.

“I’ve been thinking about my wishing stone, Mom…” (i.e. the perfectly wonderful keepsake harvested from the shores of Nova Scotia by two of the most thoughtful neighbors I’ve encountered in recent memory). “I really hate math and I almost wished that math homework were NEVER INVENTED!”

Of course, I gasped for dramatic effect.

“But then I realized if I didn’t have math homework, I’d probably never learn how to cash my paychecks and stuff—which would be horrible,” she continued.

“Good point,” I acknowledged. “Luckily, you didn’t follow through.”

“Yep. I saw a shooting star once and wished that I could see my third grade teacher AND THE VERY NEXT DAY I got to visit her. Shooting stars really work, Mom…if you wish hard. I’m pretty sure this stone will work, too, so I might wish I could fly next—which would be awesome, but it’s sort of silly, isn’t it? People can’t fly.”

And at that, I was silenced. All my mothering instincts and kernels of wisdom abandoned me, rendering me incapable of responding. A wish is still a wish, right? Whether exceedingly outlandish or pitifully sensible. Whether it’s spelled out in great detail upon the pages of one’s diary or whispered earnestly into the folds of one’s blankets, long after tuck ins are complete and the shroud of night has fallen. Perhaps I would do well as the appointed curator of my kids’ beloved supplications to handle them with more care, resisting the urge to dismiss them as trifling or unworthy of anyone’s time.

Indeed, nothing serves to ground me more than being privy to their cache of profoundly compassionate longings—the ones so completely unrelated to that which is fanciful or imprudent.

“I wish Freddy didn’t have to move away.”

“I wish everyone in the world had a house to live in.”

“I wish Grandma’s cancer would go away.”

More than once I’ve made the mistake of assuming that the “I wish…” portion of their plea would be followed by something entirely foolish. Shame on me.

Likewise, I distinctly remember wishing my oldest daughter would grow up sooner—because it seemed vastly more impressive to parent a child whose age in years could be expressed with two digits, as opposed to something as unremarkable as an eight or a nine. Naturally, it followed that having a teenager trumped having a 12-year-old, and so on. So many years later, it is plain to see that my wish was granted—a wish I now lament ever having made.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (ever-mindful of the gravity of wishes—great and small). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom. Previously published in the Khaleej Times Weekender.