Ghosts

Today would have been my Grandma E-A's birthday.   I miss her as much today as I did when she died twelve years ago.  The pain has dulled, but it's still there.  Her death changed the landscape of my family.  This fall, I wrote this piece in honor of all of my grandparents and the traditions they passed down.  I was going to include it in Christmas cards, but that seemed kind of pretentious.  So, I held onto it, wanting to find the right forum.  Today, in honor of  E-A, I've decided to post it here.  

Up here on the mountain, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Much to my husband’s dismay, I have already begun all the lists – not just the naughty and nice list, but the menus, the shipping supplies, the cards, and more. Santa’s got nothing on me when it comes to holiday lists.

While it may sound like my focus is on the secular aspects of the holidays, it is all rooted deep in my heart and my memory. My Christmas fanaticism comes from wanting to recreate the holidays of my childhood. Much like a Dickens character, I am haunted by the Ghosts of Christmas Past.

The holidays were very important in my family. Christmas was spent with my mother’s big Italian extended family; New Years with my father’s boisterous Irish one. For most of the first 23 years of my life, that was the norm.

Houses were filled to the brim with grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends that might as well have been family. We ate foods we only got once a year. The seafood feast on Christmas Eve and the lasagna on Christmas Day at my Great Grandmother’s were the stuff of legend. My Grandma Rita’s spiced beef on New Year’s Day was a bit of salty heaven.

And this was probably the only time of year there were no arguments about going to church. Midnight mass on Christmas Eve was magical with the candles and incense and the choir singing in Latin and Italian. On New Year’s Day we were there in the pews, bleary eyed and some a little green around the gills, but there, to give thanks for the year ahead.

Much of this ended with the deaths of my grandparents. The houses we filled now have new owners. Our families are scattered and re-arranged. The traditions are fading. My parent’s divorce meant even my immediate family would never be in the same city.

When Elwood was born, my husband and I decided that unless there were special circumstances, we would celebrate Christmas at home. We would open our doors to whoever wanted to come, but our children would wake up in their own beds and Santa would always know where to find us.

I don’t regret that decision at all and I don’t miss the packing and driving. But I miss those wonderful times together with so many members of my family and I want my boys to have the same thing. I do everything I can recapture that feeling, but it’s not the same. Mailing a gift to my niece doesn’t give me the same joy as watching her find it under the tree. The boys matching pajamas are adorable on Christmas morning, but the pictures e-mailed to extended family don’t do them justice. I’ve mastered Grandma Testa’s lasagna, but it will never taste the same to me.

Last year, we hosted Christmas Eve. The people were different. The house was different. The food was different. But there was something comforting and familiar about it. I said a little prayer of thanks as I watched Elwood & Finn with their cousins.

I also began to let go of the idea that I had to recreate the holidays of my childhood. I’ll tell my boys the stories and I’ll show them the pictures. They’ll learn the traditions I learned and we’ll make the special meals. But together, our family will create our own traditions that feel just as right. Hopefully, my boys will want to recreate them when they have families of their own.

My First Kid

Long before I became a mom, I was a big sister - twice over actually. My brother Patrick and I were contemporaries. With two years separating us, we spent most of our time fighting. We have become friends as adults, but those teen years were tough. But Dominic, 10 1/2 years my junior, was different.

I call him my "first kid". He calls me his "unwed teenage mother" (for the record, neither of our parents find that amusing.) Dominic and I spent a lot of time together from the time he was born until he became a surly, independent teenager. And even after that, we still hung out from time to time. Not all of it was idyllic, Disney movie, sweetness and light.   There were plenty of times I wanted to throttle him.  But, I still have many wonderful memories of my baby brother. Like the Halloween that I made us Bill and Ted costumes. He was Bill S. Preston, Esq. and I was Ted "Theodore" Logan. Or the Bill Clinton rally I dragged him to where he almost passed out from heat stroke and also got a great picture of President Clinton with his disposable camera.

He turns 24 today. He celebrates his birthday while serving his second tour in Afghanistan. He isn't a kid anymore, but he will always be Baby Bro to me. I knew him when he was the same age as my boys are now. I cuddled with him as I cuddle with them now. I watched him sleep as I watch them sleep now. He was my first kid.

Happy Birthday Baby Bro! Stay safe and keep your a** down!

Free-Toes

Free-toes a la Elwood

Free-toes a la Finn

An Answer

In response to yesterday's post, yes, that child was sick. At least sick enough to be kept home today. But well enough to be desperate to go outside and play on this gorgeous day. So, we made a deal when I came home at noon. Eat some lunch and take a nap (which he never does anymore), and we can go outside. He complied, so we'll be heading out into the last of the afternoon sunshine shortly. Maybe we can even do a little "Wearin' O' The Green" on this St. Patrick's Day (grass stains, that is!)

Does This Child Look Sick to You?

There has been an unwelcome visitor in our home for the last eight days. A stomach bug of unknown origins took up residence here starting last Sunday and for the past week, one of us has been sick. First, it was Finn. Then, it was me. By Saturday morning, Elwood had finally fallen. He got the worst of it - not to be too graphic but for a while it was coming out of both ends. He spent most of Sunday sleeping, but around 5 p.m., he perked up, asked for food, and seemed to be on the mend. Which led us to the debate every parent dreads - is he well enough to go back to the baby sitter? He hadn't thrown up in over 24 hours by that point and he was starting to eat and drink. Having used almost 2 days of sick time last week, I wanted to try and send him. I knew he'd be tired, but I hoped he would take it easy and that we would be okay.

Why, oh why, did I think a 3 year old would take it easy? He over did it and threw up this afternoon. I know that's all it was - not a relapse. But now, we have to figure out what to do tomorrow. With no fever and no outward signs of being sick, do I send him back and risk being "The Mom Who Sent Her Sick Kid" or do I stay home or see if Grandma & Papaw can watch him and become "The Crazy Over Cautious Mom" (which, is what I tend towards anyways)? I guess we'll wait and see how the rest of the night goes.

In the meantime, I ask - does that kid look sick to you?

There Is Always a Beginning

Last summer, I took a leap without thinking. I volunteered to contribute something to the local parenting magazine, SE Parent. It was very unlike me - I just did it. But I knew that if I thought too long, I would talk myself out of it. But, I couldn't come up with a name for the column. I had a ton of topics I thought about covering, but no name. Then, one night, as I was laying in bed with Elwood trying to get him to sleep, it came to me. And thus, Climbing Mommy Mountain was born. This is where it started.

I couldn’t come up with a title for my column. I laid in bed, wide awake in the dark, worrying about what to call my little piece of journalistic property. I wanted something that conveyed the wonder, frustration, beauty and fatigue that come with being a parent.

Out of nowhere came the idea of comparing motherhood to mountain climbing. The more I thought about what I know (and guessed) about mountain climbing, the more it made sense. Thus, Climbing Mommy Mountain was born.

When you climb a mountain, there are months of preparation to make sure you’re ready for the journey ahead. You gather a team to support you, both along side you on the trek and those back at base camp to offer guidance and advice.

There are amazing highs and heart breaking lows. Often you don’t know what the next step will bring. You operate on adrenaline while bone tired.

As you climb higher up the mountain, the challenges you face change, but you are more sure of your footing and your ability to make the right decision. All the while, you are in the midst of beauty that takes your breath away and sometimes make you weep with joy.

To me, this sounds a lot like being a mom.

I began my climb 2 ½ years ago when Elwood was born. I remember crying to my mother as she prepared to go home after spending the first week with us “ I can’t do it Mommy – I don’t know what to do!” She gently reassured me that I was doing great and we’d be fine. She also said all I need to do was call and she’d be back.

My husband and I still laugh about that first night home alone with Elwood. We were so scared and timid with him – like he was made of glass. While my husband went to change his diaper, I laid in bed, waiting to see if he would need help. His yell for me to come quickly filled me with fear. Imagine my relief to find that the emergency was simply that Elwood had pooped with enough force to splatter the wall at the end of the changing table.

We made it thru that night and I never made that call to summon my mother back. There have been many more, less dire calls, to both her and my mother-in-law, trying to decipher the perplexing behavior of my boys.

That’s right – we enjoyed the climb so much we decided to add another mountain to our range. Ten months ago, Finn came along and brought with him familiar terrain and new challenges. Now we have the joy of not only watching our children grow as individuals, but also at brothers

Exhaustion and exhilaration. Excitement and exasperation. These are some of the words that best describe my journey up the mountain – a journey that has changed my heart, my mind, and my soul. Thanks for tagging along.

More of the Same?

I recognize that there is a glut of "mommy" blogs and sites out there. Hell, I probably wouldn't have even thought about blogging if I hadn't become enthralled with several of them during my first pregnancy. But, everyone has a voice and everyone is different, so I'm going to put mine out there.

This is more of a public diary than anything else. A public diary chronicling my climb up what I affectionately call "Mommy Mountain". In a column I did for a local parenting magazine, I compared motherhood to mountain climbing. You start at base camp with a team to support you. You start out, not really knowing what's coming. You are exhausted, but you keep going. You are surrounded by amazing beauty. (Since I'm a little unclear on whether or not I can post that column here, I'm paraphrasing.)

The point is - it's hard and it's amazing and it's crazy and it's rewarding. And I want to savor every minute of it because it goes by way too fast. So here is my story - my family's story.