Christmas Circa 1974. It was packaged in a large, round hat box topped with a giant blue bow. I saved it for last, expecting to find a coveted basketball inside, or maybe roller skates. I pulled the ribbon, threw off the lid, and found a piece of paper with fancy cursive writing (that I couldn’t decipher) instead. Turned out I had received piano lessons, gifted by my grandmother. I faked a smile, gave an exaggerated hug, and stifled the sadness in my heart. My first lesson was two Fridays later at 3:30pm. Mrs Miller arrived in a dress with a briefcase and a handful of peppermints. She sat on my right side and patiently taught me week after week after week after week…. I was not a natural. I learned the right hand notes pretty well, but I couldn’t master the left. I had to really study to play songs - I memorized them, and once I had them, I HAD them! My favorite pieces were: The Pink Panther, Mexican Hat Dance, Brian’s Song, and Fur Elise (I can still play them, kind of). Growing up, when I was at my Grandma’s house, she'd say “Margaret, why don’t you play us a little something on the piano”. Then she and my grandpa (and whoever else was near) would sit in the living room as I fumbled through some elementary piece. She’d comment, “Oh, you’re so talented, I just love to listen to you play!” She lied, and I love her for it. My Christmas gift lasted 7 years before I finally quit. I never learned to sight read, I never got the rhythm down, I never gained an understanding of music; it just never ‘spoke’ to me. My grandma died when I was in college and I took her piano. I’ve had it with me in all of my homes. Each of my kids banged on it when they were babies and played little songs and duets with me over the years. But as our schedules filled, the piano sat unplayed, out of tune, dusty, and forgotten. Once in a while I’d fumble with the keys until favorite songs came together, but those moments were few.
I gave my piano away today. First I offered it to my siblings, all of whom either already have a piano or don’t want one, so I put it on Craigslist for “FREE”. Once it was listed, I cried; I don’t know why, but I cried. Mike and I have been talking about selling it for years, and the time seemed right today. A woman called and came to look tonight - she was so happy when her fingers hit the keys, and it was easy to tell she felt the music in a way I never had. She mentioned that she did not have family, and that my piano will bring her "so much joy" this Christmas. She didn’t seem bothered that it was unkept and out of tune. I can’t help but wonder if SHE is the reason I dragged that piano to all 6 of my homes - so that finally, it could be celebrated and cherished by someone to whom it brought such joy.
Tonight I realized that I loved my piano as a ’thing’, and I was reminded that life is not about ‘things', its about celebrating and appreciating what brings us joy!
Merry Christmas!
Margaret
Monday, December 24, 2018
Monday, December 3, 2018
Awareness and Blessings
I grew up in a literal fairy tale…I had a mom and dad who loved me, siblings to fight with, friends to play with, and an early bedtime. I was never worried or stressed or overwhelmed, that I can remember. I ate good food, laughed a lot, spent days at the pool or in the park, sang songs in the car, and spent entire evenings playing Kick the Can, Tag, or Gray Ghost (that was my favorite). I rode my bike all.over.the.neighborhood! I bought candy at the corner store, buried treasure in my backyard, and hid from the world in my friend’s tree fort. I had nothing that needed awareness; I knew no one who needed awareness. Even through high school and most of college, I remained sheltered and, basically, unaware. I trusted everyone, believed everyone was good, and viewed everyone as if they were just like me. Man, has that ever changed!
I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but when I graduated college with my Master’s in Speech Language Pathology, I still believed I would work (mostly) with typically developing kids who just didn’t have all their sounds right. I wasn’t familiar with, let alone comfortable with, people who were much different than I was. I’d never been friends with anyone who used a wheelchair or an electric voice or a picture exchange system; no one who had major food or environmental allergies, growth challenges, or noticeable developmental delays. I either wasn’t exposed to people who were different, or I simply didn’t process them as being different. Either way, I’ve fallen in love with kids and families and causes over and over again ever since.
My most personal cause for awareness is the focus of this day - PKU (short for phenylketonuria). It’s a metabolic disease that affects 0.004% of the population. The short explanation is that people with PKU lack the ability to metabolize an essential amino acid in the protein molecule. Left untreated, it builds up in the bloodstream causing a multitude of issues including possible intellectual impairments, seizures, hair loss, system retardation, and even death. There is no cure. My son has PKU. It is treated with a severely restricted diet. My child has never had even one bite of beef, pork, fish, eggs or poultry (except when he pulled a chicken leg out of the trash when he was two). He doesn’t eat things made with regular flour, wheat, oats, or grains. He doesn’t drink cow’s milk (or almond milk or goat milk…). He does eat measured amounts of fruits and vegetables (not many green ones) French fries, and scientifically modified foods. He is fueled on oil and sugar. I have to advocate substantially for my son and my family. I wrote a book to spread awareness (Everybody Has Something, 1994), I spoke at schools and clinics, I talked with SO many insurance representatives and filed SO many appeals in an attempt to build awareness and advocate for insurance coverage (I’m still working on that). Most recently, I created a non-profit public charity called Metabolic Bright that will help families pay for necessary medical formula and food not covered by insurance, which can cost in excess of $20,000 dollars a year.
And that’s just my battle…you guys know what I’m talking about - you advocate for families who are trying to get AAC devices, respite care, financial aid, or medical equipment. You see the parents who work and work to get their kids services. We all took the ice bucket challenge for ALS, walked the AIDS walk, and gave money to the March of Dimes. We write letters, sign petitions, make phone calls, donate food, donate money, and donate time to multiple causes. We make people aware that we need help, that our friends need help, that our neighbor's cousin’s daughter needs help, or that a boy in another country needs help. It’s almost profound when you realize that most of life is helping other people get through it! No one does this alone! It doesn’t have to be PKU, or autism, or some terrible disease, it's simply an awareness of what other people are dealing with; what their life looks like. When we’re aware, we offer hugs and love to people who need it, we take food after a surgery, we share pictures of lost dogs, we call to check on elderly neighbors, we volunteer to help, we hold hands, we offer shoulders, we pray. I think the secret to a happy life is being aware of what other people are living, acknowledging their life, and sharing in it with them. We are all so blessed.
Margaret
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
Go Hug a KId Today
At the start of the year, I promised myself I’d write ‘a blog a month’…I started January 1st and it's the last day of February, so I barely made it! It works out well though, because today is Rare Disease Day – not necessarily a day to celebrate, but definitely a day to spread awareness.
Most of you know the story of my Jack and his ever-challenging life with Phenylketonuria, PKU. I won’t tell the whole story again, but here are the bullets: PKU is a genetic disease caused by two defective recessive genes on the 23rd chromosome. It’s a metabolic disease of the liver – Jacks body cannot metabolize one of the essential amino acids in the protein molecule, and because of that, he eats a severely restricted diet, almost void of animal protein. He’s not ‘vegan’. He doesn’t eat animal products (meat, eggs, cheese, milk, fish, poultry...etc), but he also doesn’t eat grains, seeds, beans, soy and higher protein veggies (like peas, broccoli, and asparagus). In addition, he cannot eat most store-bought breads, pasta, pastries, cereals…you get the idea. There is no cure for PKU, or for hundreds of other rare diseases. Jack is healthy because he drinks a medical formula that keeps his metabolic system balanced. Kansas does not require insurance to pay for metabolic formula, even though without it affected people would be significantly developmentally delayed, to the point of possible system failures and even death. Of course, it can cost thousands of dollars monthly.
Even so, on this day to spread awareness of rare disease, we can celebrate the lives of extraordinary kids, the sisterhood of parenting them, and the appreciation for medical professionals who love them like we do. We sleep at night knowing that science is working to save our children, and our children are working to stay healthy until that happens. We celebrate the bond of knowing just how hard it is to appeal insurance (again), to get a good finger stick on the first attempt, and to find a new low-protein food that actually tastes decent. We share the excitement of finding a gram scale on sale, scoring a new mixing container that fits easily in a cooler, and learning tips for a successful sleepover. We feel blessed to know that we are not alone. We love it when people ask us questions. We genuinely understand that “kids are kids” no matter what size, shape, color, religion, economic status, education, or disease.
Go hug a kid today.
Margaret
Most of you know the story of my Jack and his ever-challenging life with Phenylketonuria, PKU. I won’t tell the whole story again, but here are the bullets: PKU is a genetic disease caused by two defective recessive genes on the 23rd chromosome. It’s a metabolic disease of the liver – Jacks body cannot metabolize one of the essential amino acids in the protein molecule, and because of that, he eats a severely restricted diet, almost void of animal protein. He’s not ‘vegan’. He doesn’t eat animal products (meat, eggs, cheese, milk, fish, poultry...etc), but he also doesn’t eat grains, seeds, beans, soy and higher protein veggies (like peas, broccoli, and asparagus). In addition, he cannot eat most store-bought breads, pasta, pastries, cereals…you get the idea. There is no cure for PKU, or for hundreds of other rare diseases. Jack is healthy because he drinks a medical formula that keeps his metabolic system balanced. Kansas does not require insurance to pay for metabolic formula, even though without it affected people would be significantly developmentally delayed, to the point of possible system failures and even death. Of course, it can cost thousands of dollars monthly.
Even so, on this day to spread awareness of rare disease, we can celebrate the lives of extraordinary kids, the sisterhood of parenting them, and the appreciation for medical professionals who love them like we do. We sleep at night knowing that science is working to save our children, and our children are working to stay healthy until that happens. We celebrate the bond of knowing just how hard it is to appeal insurance (again), to get a good finger stick on the first attempt, and to find a new low-protein food that actually tastes decent. We share the excitement of finding a gram scale on sale, scoring a new mixing container that fits easily in a cooler, and learning tips for a successful sleepover. We feel blessed to know that we are not alone. We love it when people ask us questions. We genuinely understand that “kids are kids” no matter what size, shape, color, religion, economic status, education, or disease.
Go hug a kid today.
Margaret
Monday, January 1, 2018
The Cost of Love
“I knew I’d be able to take care of you, and buy you nice things here and there, but DANG, loving you is expensive!” -Mike Domnick, 1992
It’s true, love does cost a lot.
It costs moments of insecurity, wonder, risk, and passion. Moments spent fantasizing about a future with a person you’ve just met, or a person you’ve known forever. Moments that eventually become memories.
Love costs holidays with different friends, different family, different traditions, different foods, and in different surroundings. It’s stressful meeting new people and making first impressions. It costs little pieces of yourself while you try to fit into another person’s world. Everything about your life changes when you love another person.
Of course, love costs money too, and time, patience, compassion and understanding, right alongside doubt, frustration, uncertainty and anxiety.
If you have children, love costs years (literally) of sleepless/restless/interrupted nights filled with walking/rocking/bouncing a fussy baby; feeding them, burping them, and cuddling them close to your heart. You help your children sleep, and when they do sleep, you check to make sure they’re breathing. You pray for your children, you hope for them, care for them, and raise them. And you do this together with your spouse, on whom you continue to spend time and moments.
Love costs hours of concerned conversation about bites, burns, coughs, fevers, shots, screen time, vitamins, and milestones to learn about whatever your child is experiencing. Love costs many, many, hours of waiting – for buses, for programs, for appointments, for naptime, for the crying to stop, the sun to come out, or the toys to be put away. It also costs tears, pain, fear, stress, joy, laughter, and gratitude. It’s a wave of emotion that hits over and over again, and when you finally settle in to the rhythm, it changes. Love requires balance.
Love also costs time - to find the right words to soothe hurt feelings, or a bruised ego, or a failed attempt. It costs time reading, coloring, pushing the swing, or learning to tie shoes. Sometimes love costs all your time, leaving little for you to spend on yourself. You give up time with friends, time at the movies, time eating out or shopping or at Happy Hour with coworkers. You miss out-of-town events in favor of keeping schedules consistent. You skip manicures, massages, and spa treatments to afford music lessons, gymnastics, and tee-ball. And you’re happy to pay those costs.
And it doesn’t end when the kids leave home – when you aren’t spending time taking care of them, you spend time worrying about them. You wonder if they’re sleeping enough, studying enough, eating enough. You worry about date drugs, drunk drivers, and sex trafficking. You keep your phone with you in case they need you – and you like it when they do, as long as they’re safe. You wonder if your advice is appreciated, if you raised them well, if you did enough. You blame yourself for everything that goes wrong, and praise them for everything that goes right.
So it’s true, love does cost a lot! It costs everything, and it’s priceless!
It’s true, love does cost a lot.
It costs moments of insecurity, wonder, risk, and passion. Moments spent fantasizing about a future with a person you’ve just met, or a person you’ve known forever. Moments that eventually become memories.
Love costs holidays with different friends, different family, different traditions, different foods, and in different surroundings. It’s stressful meeting new people and making first impressions. It costs little pieces of yourself while you try to fit into another person’s world. Everything about your life changes when you love another person.
Of course, love costs money too, and time, patience, compassion and understanding, right alongside doubt, frustration, uncertainty and anxiety.
If you have children, love costs years (literally) of sleepless/restless/interrupted nights filled with walking/rocking/bouncing a fussy baby; feeding them, burping them, and cuddling them close to your heart. You help your children sleep, and when they do sleep, you check to make sure they’re breathing. You pray for your children, you hope for them, care for them, and raise them. And you do this together with your spouse, on whom you continue to spend time and moments.
Love costs hours of concerned conversation about bites, burns, coughs, fevers, shots, screen time, vitamins, and milestones to learn about whatever your child is experiencing. Love costs many, many, hours of waiting – for buses, for programs, for appointments, for naptime, for the crying to stop, the sun to come out, or the toys to be put away. It also costs tears, pain, fear, stress, joy, laughter, and gratitude. It’s a wave of emotion that hits over and over again, and when you finally settle in to the rhythm, it changes. Love requires balance.
Love also costs time - to find the right words to soothe hurt feelings, or a bruised ego, or a failed attempt. It costs time reading, coloring, pushing the swing, or learning to tie shoes. Sometimes love costs all your time, leaving little for you to spend on yourself. You give up time with friends, time at the movies, time eating out or shopping or at Happy Hour with coworkers. You miss out-of-town events in favor of keeping schedules consistent. You skip manicures, massages, and spa treatments to afford music lessons, gymnastics, and tee-ball. And you’re happy to pay those costs.
And it doesn’t end when the kids leave home – when you aren’t spending time taking care of them, you spend time worrying about them. You wonder if they’re sleeping enough, studying enough, eating enough. You worry about date drugs, drunk drivers, and sex trafficking. You keep your phone with you in case they need you – and you like it when they do, as long as they’re safe. You wonder if your advice is appreciated, if you raised them well, if you did enough. You blame yourself for everything that goes wrong, and praise them for everything that goes right.
So it’s true, love does cost a lot! It costs everything, and it’s priceless!
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
It's a Matter of Screening
Originally written in September, 2015.
He was born on a Thursday morning in the summer of 1996 - all 7 pounds, 1 ounce, and 18 inches of him. He had a long big toe and a mop of dark hair and bright blue eyes, and he was perfect…for 8 days. It turned out that our beautiful, happy, healthy-looking boy had Phenylketonuria, or PKU for short. His liver was missing something that it needed, and he would have to make many adjustments in his life because of it. There was (and still is) no cure.
Literally, in one moment, our son went from ‘normal’ to ‘different’, ‘healthy’ to ‘sick’, ‘perfect’, to ‘not-quite perfect’. It was scary. We were uncertain and nervous and confused; it was the most raw, anxious, and emotional time of our lives.
Thankfully, PKU was one of the five (yes, only five) diseases the state of Kansas tested for at birth in 1996 (along with galactosemia, hypothyroidism, sickle cell anemia, and hearing). That newborn screening for PKU saved my son’s future, and possibly his life.
Fortunately, the Kansas newborn screening panel now includes all 29 diseases recommended by the American College of Medical Genetics. In addition, Kansas has a comprehensive system in place to support the 2,000 (or so) babies who are identified through newborn screening each year, including: follow-up, diagnoses, management, education and evaluation.
September is National Newborn Screening Awareness Month – and we can celebrate knowing that we live in a state that understands that newborn screenings save lives, plain and simple, and I know how that feels personally, some of you do too.
Fast-forward 19 years and that beautiful, happy, healthy-looking boy is just that! He’s in college studying dietetics, living a normal life with a lot of adjustments, but aren’t we all? It’s the basis of humanity - that our amazing, resilient, individual bodies are flawed, yet wonderful. We’re a group of imperfect people living in an imperfect world, doing the best we can do with help from each other. And I love that!
Margaret
He was born on a Thursday morning in the summer of 1996 - all 7 pounds, 1 ounce, and 18 inches of him. He had a long big toe and a mop of dark hair and bright blue eyes, and he was perfect…for 8 days. It turned out that our beautiful, happy, healthy-looking boy had Phenylketonuria, or PKU for short. His liver was missing something that it needed, and he would have to make many adjustments in his life because of it. There was (and still is) no cure.
Literally, in one moment, our son went from ‘normal’ to ‘different’, ‘healthy’ to ‘sick’, ‘perfect’, to ‘not-quite perfect’. It was scary. We were uncertain and nervous and confused; it was the most raw, anxious, and emotional time of our lives.
Thankfully, PKU was one of the five (yes, only five) diseases the state of Kansas tested for at birth in 1996 (along with galactosemia, hypothyroidism, sickle cell anemia, and hearing). That newborn screening for PKU saved my son’s future, and possibly his life.
Fortunately, the Kansas newborn screening panel now includes all 29 diseases recommended by the American College of Medical Genetics. In addition, Kansas has a comprehensive system in place to support the 2,000 (or so) babies who are identified through newborn screening each year, including: follow-up, diagnoses, management, education and evaluation.
September is National Newborn Screening Awareness Month – and we can celebrate knowing that we live in a state that understands that newborn screenings save lives, plain and simple, and I know how that feels personally, some of you do too.
Fast-forward 19 years and that beautiful, happy, healthy-looking boy is just that! He’s in college studying dietetics, living a normal life with a lot of adjustments, but aren’t we all? It’s the basis of humanity - that our amazing, resilient, individual bodies are flawed, yet wonderful. We’re a group of imperfect people living in an imperfect world, doing the best we can do with help from each other. And I love that!
Margaret
Friday, January 1, 2016
New Year's Day
Every year around this time I sit down and make a list of all the awesome things I want to accomplish in the New Year, because that’s what we do, right? I refer to my “to do” list as “inspirations” rather than “resolutions”, because it sounds more spiritual or doable or something. In the past my lists included: losing weight, eating healthy, being positive, finding the good, getting more sleep, spending less, praying more, reading more, relaxing more…and all those things are good. But the fact is, I weigh more than I ever have, I don’t eat healthy, I’m cynical (even negative), I stay up crazy late, buy what I want, pray marginally, read occasionally, and relax almost never. I guess I’m one of those optimists who plan big and fizzle out. But the important part of that is the “plan big” part.
I can think of a hundred things I’ve started in my lifetime that I didn’t finish – the snow fort when I was 10, the yard I thought would be fun to rake, the Thank You cards for my 8th grade graduation… more recently, my 2015 Christmas Cards (they’re coming, I promise). Months and months ago I asked two old friends to help me brainstorm some ideas for a speaking gig about that book I wrote 10 years ago, and then I never sent them copies of the book…why did I do that? Why do I start big things and then not follow through? I want to change and learn and grow; I want to push my limitations, step into a new setting, challenge my being…but I often stop before I really start.
I did that with piano lessons too, and traveling and cooking and organizing and budgeting and writing and exercising and a lot of other things. I was super excited to get one of those Mandela coloring books for my birthday last year and was finished with it before the first picture was complete; it stressed me out with all the tiny spaces, different colors, time…I learned that tedious, slow-paced activities are not my thing. I learn something from all my unfinished starts – something about myself, about what I like and don’t like and want and don’t want; something about timing or relationships or desire or talent. I learn to adapt, to plan, to do it differently or not do it at all.
At 48 I’m finally accepting and honest about who I am, what I like and don’t like, what I’m good at and not-so-good at, and most of that information came from all those endless beginnings. I didn’t make a list of inspirations/resolutions/to-do’s this year, I just made a decision – to begin again.
This New Year I wish you the opportunity to begin again too, to begin something, anything.
Margaret
I can think of a hundred things I’ve started in my lifetime that I didn’t finish – the snow fort when I was 10, the yard I thought would be fun to rake, the Thank You cards for my 8th grade graduation… more recently, my 2015 Christmas Cards (they’re coming, I promise). Months and months ago I asked two old friends to help me brainstorm some ideas for a speaking gig about that book I wrote 10 years ago, and then I never sent them copies of the book…why did I do that? Why do I start big things and then not follow through? I want to change and learn and grow; I want to push my limitations, step into a new setting, challenge my being…but I often stop before I really start.
I did that with piano lessons too, and traveling and cooking and organizing and budgeting and writing and exercising and a lot of other things. I was super excited to get one of those Mandela coloring books for my birthday last year and was finished with it before the first picture was complete; it stressed me out with all the tiny spaces, different colors, time…I learned that tedious, slow-paced activities are not my thing. I learn something from all my unfinished starts – something about myself, about what I like and don’t like and want and don’t want; something about timing or relationships or desire or talent. I learn to adapt, to plan, to do it differently or not do it at all.
At 48 I’m finally accepting and honest about who I am, what I like and don’t like, what I’m good at and not-so-good at, and most of that information came from all those endless beginnings. I didn’t make a list of inspirations/resolutions/to-do’s this year, I just made a decision – to begin again.
This New Year I wish you the opportunity to begin again too, to begin something, anything.
Margaret
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
It's All (sort of) In the Plan
When I was in grade-school, I played those little folded paper games, the ones with the squares that glided back and forth on my index fingers and thumbs; the ones that predicted my future. I’d answer a series of questions and find my fate written in tiny printed pencil under the fold of the third choice. Or, I’d make lists of my favorite boy names, vehicles, pets, jobs, and homes and eliminate them one-by-one by crossing off every 4th (or 6th, or 9th) word, over and over, until there was only one option left in each category – my future - I’d marry a guy named Frank, drive a bicycle, have a pet fish, work as a nurse, and live in a mansion. It was fun! And, I got really good at it too! I knew how to list the options and pick the number to create the future I wanted every.single.time. If only real life were as predictable…
I consider myself a planner - I make lists, clip coupons, prepare driving routes and meals and trips to see my mother. I buy anniversary/birthday/graduation cards before I need them, have Tylenol and Band-Aids in my car, and fold laundry right out of the dryer (because there’s just something satisfying about neatly folded piles of tees and sheets). I get kids in for dental cleanings, sport physicals, and annual check-ups...but still, no matter how much I plan, life smacks me in the face on a regular basis, because that’s what life does!
I didn’t plan to have four kids (only two), live in Wichita (try NYC), or be a speech-language pathologist (writer). I didn’t plan on natural childbirth, asthma attacks, or near-death scares. Or raising a child with special needs. I didn’t plan on calls to poison control, trips to the ER, spinal fractures, sleepless nights or car accidents. I didn’t plan to understand the worry over a sick kiddo, the frustration of another denied insurance claim, or the guilt of losing my temper, again... Or hundreds of other little moments.
But, I also didn’t plan on the sweet smell of a freshly bathed baby, or the soft, smooth, warm snuggles of tiny cheeks. I didn’t plan on belly laughs, bedtime stories, or butterfly kisses. Or the awe of a sleeping child on my chest or in my arms or in my heart. I didn’t plan to care so much about that first smile, first step, first bite, or first birthday. I didn’t plan to understand the joy of a walk around the block with a toddler, or a walk around the mall with a tween, or the excitement of a first date, first kiss, first love… Or hundreds of other little moments.
My life looks nothing like I planned it to look, thank goodness, because I’d never planned to love it so damn much!
Margaret
I consider myself a planner - I make lists, clip coupons, prepare driving routes and meals and trips to see my mother. I buy anniversary/birthday/graduation cards before I need them, have Tylenol and Band-Aids in my car, and fold laundry right out of the dryer (because there’s just something satisfying about neatly folded piles of tees and sheets). I get kids in for dental cleanings, sport physicals, and annual check-ups...but still, no matter how much I plan, life smacks me in the face on a regular basis, because that’s what life does!
I didn’t plan to have four kids (only two), live in Wichita (try NYC), or be a speech-language pathologist (writer). I didn’t plan on natural childbirth, asthma attacks, or near-death scares. Or raising a child with special needs. I didn’t plan on calls to poison control, trips to the ER, spinal fractures, sleepless nights or car accidents. I didn’t plan to understand the worry over a sick kiddo, the frustration of another denied insurance claim, or the guilt of losing my temper, again... Or hundreds of other little moments.
But, I also didn’t plan on the sweet smell of a freshly bathed baby, or the soft, smooth, warm snuggles of tiny cheeks. I didn’t plan on belly laughs, bedtime stories, or butterfly kisses. Or the awe of a sleeping child on my chest or in my arms or in my heart. I didn’t plan to care so much about that first smile, first step, first bite, or first birthday. I didn’t plan to understand the joy of a walk around the block with a toddler, or a walk around the mall with a tween, or the excitement of a first date, first kiss, first love… Or hundreds of other little moments.
My life looks nothing like I planned it to look, thank goodness, because I’d never planned to love it so damn much!
Margaret
Thursday, June 4, 2015
The Nest
I had my first glimpse of the infamous ‘empty nest’ today. From a woman who has secretly been looking forward to quiet, calm, time-on-my-hands evenings, it kind of sucked. I’d been home for a while and reached out to each of my four kids hoping to go with one of them to a movie or on a walk or out for ice-cream or something. It didn’t happen. They were all busy with their friends – one was already at a movie, one at a soccer game, one on their way to work, and one playing football with his buddies. I was happy that they were happy and involved and engaged, but I was kind of sad too.
It wasn’t too long ago that I didn’t have a minute to myself. I was holding or feeding or wiping or changing or bathing or cuddling or walking or bouncing a baby. I cooked and cut and cleaned and explained and fixed things. I planned play-dates and read stories and baked cookies and watched hours of educational television. I was never alone, not even while showering or dressing or using the bathroom. And as the kids grew, the responsibilities grew too - evenings were filled with parent meetings, school plays, team dinners, and every-kind-of-ballgame-you-can-imagine in the heat, the cold, the rain and even the snow. I proofread, quizzed, practiced, quizzed, reviewed, and quizzed every subject nightly. I soothed sore muscles, and mended broken hearts - and prayed endlessly. “It will go fast”, they promised, “enjoy it while it lasts” they whispered - and I did. But I still longed for stillness and uninterrupted moments. Or at least I thought I did.
It’s funny how you don’t notice changes when they’re happening right in front of you. Stick-figure drawings evolve into portraits, story-books into novels, and play-dates into car-dates. Friends play longer and bedtimes move back. Bathroom doors close. Morning routines, once filled with miss-matched socks, miss-placed library books and nearly-missed busses, merge into a schedule of alarms, breakfasts, book bags, and keys. You purchase a variety of lotions, creams, sprays, and pastes. Your friends become the parents of your kids friends and the activity calendar is jam-packed. You learn how to text, update, chat, post, and tweet. Sweaty socks, work-out clothes and ball uniforms fill the laundry, Summer job applications fill the kitchen table, and graduation thank-you cards get mailed out. You don't see any of it as out-of-the-ordinary...until you do.
That ‘empty nest’ I’ve been looking forward to? It kind of sucks.
Margaret
Monday, March 23, 2015
Why Be Normal?
When I was in high school my friends and I wore upside-down pins on our shirts that read “Why Be Normal?” We had some other pins too: “Smile”, “Ask Me If I Care”, “Somebody Loves You”, and a lot more that I can’t remember but the “Why Be Normal?” one was always my favorite and it became kind of a moto for our little group. Maybe it was the fact that we allowed ourselves to behave differently than our peers, we were comfortable stepping outside the social box so to speak – but not too far out, just far enough to be different, and it was good.
I didn’t grow up with kids who were much different than I was. My brother had a friend on his baseball team who had a lower leg prosthesis (and I had a crush on him), but that was about it. I didn’t know anyone who talked differently or walked differently or used a wheelchair or a walker, anyone who communicated via computer or who had a rare disease or a syndrome or cancer or autism or anything else. I’m sure all those things were out there, I just don’t remember seeing them. I don’t think people celebrated being different 30 years ago. In fact, when someone told me I should be a speech language pathologist I didn’t even know what it was because I’d never known anyone who needed one!
Fast forward to today – we all took the ice-bucket challenge for ALS, we wear pink for cancer and red for heart disease, we walk for MS or Alzheimer’s or Down’s syndrome, we run for autism and bike in the mountains for PKU (my son’s disease). We hold fundraisers, write letters, change profile pictures, sell cookies or candy or wrapping paper or nuts. We share, teach, support, donate, sponsor, educate and advocate for our children, our friends, our families, the boy down the block or in the next town or across the ocean. We talk out loud about our issues, tell people what we have, what we do, and what we don’t do. We build awareness everyday about the disorders that affect us, and it’s good, because people can’t accept what they don’t know, and it’s our job to teach them.
Eventually, it will be ‘normal’ to have Something that makes you different, and until then, “Why Be Normal?”
March is Developmental Disabilities Awareness Month; make somebody aware of your Something.
Margaret
Friday, January 2, 2015
Let It Go...
So, I haven’t written a blog in a full year. I’ve had a lot of blog ideas, but no action. That was kind of my way of life last year – lots of plans with no action. I planned to work on my budget, lose some weight, write more thank-you notes, find the good, be positive…blah, blah, blah, I didn’t do any of it for any meaningful amount of time. I was (still am?) in a funk. I’ve considered medication, tried meditation, sought relaxation, but ended with frustration. Why? I think I figured it out and I just need to write it down and let it go…
My dad died August 17th, 2013 and I think I’ve finally worked through it. It wasn’t really a surprise event, he’d been sick for a long time; well his body was sick anyway. We were fortunate that he was almost always able to talk. I could write pages and pages about my dad and the awesome conversations and meaningful moments and honest comments and genuine love we shared, but none of those are why losing him was so difficult.
Dad was really sick the Christmas of 2012. I took my family to see him when we came home for the holiday and it was awful. He kept bundling up his blanket and patting it like he was keeping a baby safe. He was mumbling to himself, but couldn’t converse or make any meaningful connection. I went back and sat with dad after the Christmas hoop-la, before heading home. I talked about the kids and their activities and my work and my marriage and some of my best memories. I asked him about death and God and the meaning of life. I apologized for not coming home more and not calling everyday and not doing all the things I thought I should have been doing. Then I promised him I’d make the drive home to see him every Sunday. Then I left.
The next morning my mom called and dad was awake and eating. By the weekend he was better! I went home Sunday to a perfectly typical father. He didn’t remember being sick, didn’t remember Christmas or our conversation or anything about his previous condition. He was back! I went home the next week too…and then never again. Someone had a tournament, someone else had practice and Mike was out of town and friends were coming over – life got in my way, and I allowed it to happen. Dad was better, all was good, back to normal. I don’t know that I can ever regret anything as strongly as I regret my choice to break that promise. I will always struggle with that, but I can accept it, it was my choice.
Fast forward a few months…two strokes in succession and dad was unconscious. Hospice was there, and most of my immediate family. I went home. We talked and laughed and reminisced and ate and watched and cried. Random people came and went. Nurses stopped by. Someone sang Amazing Grace. We ordered pizza, said a prayer, paced, made plans, counted breaths…
(And this is where my breakdown starts...and this is only my take on it – I hesitate to write it down because others don’t share my perspective and I don’t want to stir up emotions for my family that don’t exist for them, but this is my reality and I need to let it go…)
The Hospice worker suggested, several times, that we leave for the night, and said she'd call if anything changed. We looked around at each other, someone said it was a good idea. The nurse explained that in her experience the sick person usually slips away when no one is there, or if people are there, they go when no one is watching. Dad was barely holding on. Then someone said that dad told them he wanted to be alone, and someone else said that he never liked being the center of attention. And somehow, we all said goodbye and walked out. I was numb. It didn’t feel right to me, but I didn't say anything. Thirty (or so) minutes later we got the call that dad had passed. He died alone in the room with someone he didn’t know at all. A tiny part of me wondered if the hospice nurse smothered him (terrible, I know, but it did cross my mind). I’ve heard it is as much a miracle to watch someone leave this world as it is to watch them enter it. I may never know.
Most of my family feels that it was a perfect exit. They know that dad needed us to leave so he could let go. And I accept that a little bit. I understand that my dad loved his family more than anything else and while we were all there laughing and talking and telling stories, it was hard to leave. But, seriously, we just let him go. I struggle because I wish we had sent him off! We could have stood around his bed and prayed the rosary and sent him off with prayer; we could have sat quietly remembering our best memories and sent him off with good thoughts; we could have put hands on him and sent him off with love; we could have gone to the chapel as a family and prayed for his salvation. But we didn’t. We all just left him there to figure it out on his own. And he did. And I know that it’s easy to look back at what you'd do differently, but we would never have left on our own, and we’ll never have the chance to do it again and stay.
My brother snuck rum (I think it was rum) in to dad's room and we had a celebratory drink for dad. I loved that! It was a happy event, he was ready to go; I just wish he went surrounded by family, that’s all.
Death is a funny thing…it affects everyone differently and no one as they expect it will…or at least that’s my experience.
Margaret
My dad died August 17th, 2013 and I think I’ve finally worked through it. It wasn’t really a surprise event, he’d been sick for a long time; well his body was sick anyway. We were fortunate that he was almost always able to talk. I could write pages and pages about my dad and the awesome conversations and meaningful moments and honest comments and genuine love we shared, but none of those are why losing him was so difficult.
Dad was really sick the Christmas of 2012. I took my family to see him when we came home for the holiday and it was awful. He kept bundling up his blanket and patting it like he was keeping a baby safe. He was mumbling to himself, but couldn’t converse or make any meaningful connection. I went back and sat with dad after the Christmas hoop-la, before heading home. I talked about the kids and their activities and my work and my marriage and some of my best memories. I asked him about death and God and the meaning of life. I apologized for not coming home more and not calling everyday and not doing all the things I thought I should have been doing. Then I promised him I’d make the drive home to see him every Sunday. Then I left.
The next morning my mom called and dad was awake and eating. By the weekend he was better! I went home Sunday to a perfectly typical father. He didn’t remember being sick, didn’t remember Christmas or our conversation or anything about his previous condition. He was back! I went home the next week too…and then never again. Someone had a tournament, someone else had practice and Mike was out of town and friends were coming over – life got in my way, and I allowed it to happen. Dad was better, all was good, back to normal. I don’t know that I can ever regret anything as strongly as I regret my choice to break that promise. I will always struggle with that, but I can accept it, it was my choice.
Fast forward a few months…two strokes in succession and dad was unconscious. Hospice was there, and most of my immediate family. I went home. We talked and laughed and reminisced and ate and watched and cried. Random people came and went. Nurses stopped by. Someone sang Amazing Grace. We ordered pizza, said a prayer, paced, made plans, counted breaths…
(And this is where my breakdown starts...and this is only my take on it – I hesitate to write it down because others don’t share my perspective and I don’t want to stir up emotions for my family that don’t exist for them, but this is my reality and I need to let it go…)
The Hospice worker suggested, several times, that we leave for the night, and said she'd call if anything changed. We looked around at each other, someone said it was a good idea. The nurse explained that in her experience the sick person usually slips away when no one is there, or if people are there, they go when no one is watching. Dad was barely holding on. Then someone said that dad told them he wanted to be alone, and someone else said that he never liked being the center of attention. And somehow, we all said goodbye and walked out. I was numb. It didn’t feel right to me, but I didn't say anything. Thirty (or so) minutes later we got the call that dad had passed. He died alone in the room with someone he didn’t know at all. A tiny part of me wondered if the hospice nurse smothered him (terrible, I know, but it did cross my mind). I’ve heard it is as much a miracle to watch someone leave this world as it is to watch them enter it. I may never know.
Most of my family feels that it was a perfect exit. They know that dad needed us to leave so he could let go. And I accept that a little bit. I understand that my dad loved his family more than anything else and while we were all there laughing and talking and telling stories, it was hard to leave. But, seriously, we just let him go. I struggle because I wish we had sent him off! We could have stood around his bed and prayed the rosary and sent him off with prayer; we could have sat quietly remembering our best memories and sent him off with good thoughts; we could have put hands on him and sent him off with love; we could have gone to the chapel as a family and prayed for his salvation. But we didn’t. We all just left him there to figure it out on his own. And he did. And I know that it’s easy to look back at what you'd do differently, but we would never have left on our own, and we’ll never have the chance to do it again and stay.
My brother snuck rum (I think it was rum) in to dad's room and we had a celebratory drink for dad. I loved that! It was a happy event, he was ready to go; I just wish he went surrounded by family, that’s all.
Death is a funny thing…it affects everyone differently and no one as they expect it will…or at least that’s my experience.
Margaret
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Let's Talk...
I ate lunch with an old friend over the holiday. It’d been years since we’d seen each other and I was anxious, excited, and eager to catch up. We’d carved out three hours to sit and eat and drink and chat. I arrived early, picked a quiet table, and waited. When she slipped into her side of the booth, we both squealed a little, hugged over the table, threw out a few compliments, and then settled in for a good old-fashioned girlfriend lunch.
It was perfect. Except…
We’d only covered one vacation and a tiny bit of family before her phone buzzed. She apologized, put it upside-down on the table and continued…we’d just reached a grade-school spin-the-bottle memory when her phone rang again. She sighed, held up a “wait-a-sec” finger, punched out a quick message, and got right back to the story. And that’s how it went the whole three hours; a bitter-sweet symphony of chatter, laughter, and phone banter. It reminded me of the conversations I had when my four kids were all small – trying to finish a thought while slicing grapes into slivers, pouring juice and putting out all kinds of fires. Don’t get me wrong, I loved seeing my friend and I’m looking forward to our next get-together, but it made me realize just how attached adults can be to their phones.
It could be part of the instant gratification theory, or maybe just a byproduct of everybody having a phone with them all the time. I mean, I keep my phone close to me and answer it when it rings and return texts when I get them (most of the time anyway). I don’t have my phone on ALL the time, but when I do, I use it. Face it, when we’re bored we check Facebook; when something’s funny we Instagram it, when we’re lost we pull up Google maps. Our phones store numbers and addresses and messages and reminders; they hold schedules and notes and pictures. We need our phones, we just don’t need them all the time!
Everybody knows that a phone call or text or picture or vine is NOT as important as face-to-face communication, but (do we even realize?) we don’t always show it. When we’re engaging with other humans in any way – having lunch, shopping, talking, meeting, whatever – let’s remember to turn our phones OFF or at least put them on silent, and offer our undivided attention to who we’re with.
It was perfect. Except…
We’d only covered one vacation and a tiny bit of family before her phone buzzed. She apologized, put it upside-down on the table and continued…we’d just reached a grade-school spin-the-bottle memory when her phone rang again. She sighed, held up a “wait-a-sec” finger, punched out a quick message, and got right back to the story. And that’s how it went the whole three hours; a bitter-sweet symphony of chatter, laughter, and phone banter. It reminded me of the conversations I had when my four kids were all small – trying to finish a thought while slicing grapes into slivers, pouring juice and putting out all kinds of fires. Don’t get me wrong, I loved seeing my friend and I’m looking forward to our next get-together, but it made me realize just how attached adults can be to their phones.
It could be part of the instant gratification theory, or maybe just a byproduct of everybody having a phone with them all the time. I mean, I keep my phone close to me and answer it when it rings and return texts when I get them (most of the time anyway). I don’t have my phone on ALL the time, but when I do, I use it. Face it, when we’re bored we check Facebook; when something’s funny we Instagram it, when we’re lost we pull up Google maps. Our phones store numbers and addresses and messages and reminders; they hold schedules and notes and pictures. We need our phones, we just don’t need them all the time!
Everybody knows that a phone call or text or picture or vine is NOT as important as face-to-face communication, but (do we even realize?) we don’t always show it. When we’re engaging with other humans in any way – having lunch, shopping, talking, meeting, whatever – let’s remember to turn our phones OFF or at least put them on silent, and offer our undivided attention to who we’re with.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Sports, Games and All That Stuff....
I started running track in 4th grade. My coach was Mrs. Letourneau, and I loved her. She made me feel good, like I belonged on the track, like she was happy I was on her team. I continued running throughout junior high and high school, even branching out into cross country my sophomore year. Yes, I ran 100 meter sprints and 3 mile races, and I loved it all!
I grew up while running. I gained confidence, maturity, mental strength, and freedom. I learned about work ethic and responsibility and leadership and respect and success and failure. I met friends. I worked hard and fought hard - partly for me, but mostly for my team. I was part of something great! And, more importantly, I felt like I was a contributing part of that greatness. I was rewarded for all the aches and pains and bruises earned in the heat and rain and dust.
My coaches knew me. They knew what I did well, and what I didn’t. They built up my strengths and left the rest alone. I continued to get better and better at the things I did well, and my confidence grew; my self-concept grew too; and my performances improved. I was guided out of my comfort zone, I tried new events, and I pushed my limits. I was happy with the role I played on the team, and the effort I gave, and the reinforcement I was given. It was a two-way street.
I was encouraged to perform, but not pressured; I was rewarded for great effort, but not pushed; I was challenged to try, but not forced; and, I was free to be me.
I was never punished for a poor performance or for a bad decision, and believe me, there were plenty of opportunities. I remember feeling bad when I didn’t run well, but it was of my own doing. I was never yelled at or belittled or embarrassed by anyone - ever - at least not by coaches. Some of my teachers yelled and belittled and made me embarrassed sometimes, and I hated it, and I didn’t perform well for them. But that’s a different blog.
There were a lot of runners running “my” races, and the competition was there, but not the comparisons. I was genuinely happy for my team to win, even if it wasn’t me breaking the ribbon at the finish. That behavior was taught. Sportsmanship is learned.
Maybe times have changed, but as a coach’s wife and athlete’s mom, I am viewing the sport scene as something completely different than I experienced. I see stressed kids, upset parents and tense coaches. I see “work” rather than “passion”. I see a lot of frustration, and even if it’s because of “the game” it often appears to be because of “the player”. I’m confident that every athlete that risks playing a sport, unless they are forced to participate against their will, is giving their best effort. They might be burned out, from playing all year long; or tired, from getting up early most of the summer; or frustrated, from working hard all year for little playing time, but they’re there, and they’re doing the best they can do. We all need to remember to encourage our kids, to find what they do right, to remind them what they love about their sport, and show them how to react when all is good, and when it’s not so good.
What kind of seasons would we have if parents fully supported their kids coaches; and coaches encouraged their players through positive reinforcement and respect; and players had a little fun, played with passion, and brought the ‘game’ back into the sport?
Here’s to a great year!
Margaret
I grew up while running. I gained confidence, maturity, mental strength, and freedom. I learned about work ethic and responsibility and leadership and respect and success and failure. I met friends. I worked hard and fought hard - partly for me, but mostly for my team. I was part of something great! And, more importantly, I felt like I was a contributing part of that greatness. I was rewarded for all the aches and pains and bruises earned in the heat and rain and dust.
My coaches knew me. They knew what I did well, and what I didn’t. They built up my strengths and left the rest alone. I continued to get better and better at the things I did well, and my confidence grew; my self-concept grew too; and my performances improved. I was guided out of my comfort zone, I tried new events, and I pushed my limits. I was happy with the role I played on the team, and the effort I gave, and the reinforcement I was given. It was a two-way street.
I was encouraged to perform, but not pressured; I was rewarded for great effort, but not pushed; I was challenged to try, but not forced; and, I was free to be me.
I was never punished for a poor performance or for a bad decision, and believe me, there were plenty of opportunities. I remember feeling bad when I didn’t run well, but it was of my own doing. I was never yelled at or belittled or embarrassed by anyone - ever - at least not by coaches. Some of my teachers yelled and belittled and made me embarrassed sometimes, and I hated it, and I didn’t perform well for them. But that’s a different blog.
There were a lot of runners running “my” races, and the competition was there, but not the comparisons. I was genuinely happy for my team to win, even if it wasn’t me breaking the ribbon at the finish. That behavior was taught. Sportsmanship is learned.
Maybe times have changed, but as a coach’s wife and athlete’s mom, I am viewing the sport scene as something completely different than I experienced. I see stressed kids, upset parents and tense coaches. I see “work” rather than “passion”. I see a lot of frustration, and even if it’s because of “the game” it often appears to be because of “the player”. I’m confident that every athlete that risks playing a sport, unless they are forced to participate against their will, is giving their best effort. They might be burned out, from playing all year long; or tired, from getting up early most of the summer; or frustrated, from working hard all year for little playing time, but they’re there, and they’re doing the best they can do. We all need to remember to encourage our kids, to find what they do right, to remind them what they love about their sport, and show them how to react when all is good, and when it’s not so good.
What kind of seasons would we have if parents fully supported their kids coaches; and coaches encouraged their players through positive reinforcement and respect; and players had a little fun, played with passion, and brought the ‘game’ back into the sport?
Here’s to a great year!
Margaret
Saturday, August 24, 2013
The Eulogy
My mom asked me to write and read the eulogy for my dad's funeral service. I stopped breathing for a second, then said "I'd be honored". I lied. I mean, I was honored, but at that moment, I was pretty sure I'd never be able to write a meaningful, memorable, honest speech to eulogize my dad. He was, like, the coolest being to walk the planet ya know. But this is what I came up with, and I read it great until the end; then I cried.
Here it is...
There are a lot of words I could use to describe Philip Hanson: funny, friendly, handsome, genuine, honest (to a fault); but I think the word that fits him best is FAITHFUL. I remember a time in college when I struggled with my religion; I had to learn how to defend Catholicism against other’s beliefs. I asked dad a lot of questions, and his reply was always the same, “I don’t know the answer Margie, I just have faith”. Then he’d say “if you believe, you don’t need proof” then, he’d say “I’ll pray extra for you because you need it.”
And dad didn’t just talk about being faithful, he lived it. When he’d pick us up for an orthodontic appointment, we’d pray a decade of the Rosary on the way; when we were scared in bed at night, he’d hold us for a minute, like all good daddy’s do, then he’d encouraged us to pray for protection. We always said prayers before meals and always said prayers before bed. I’m sure many of you know that my dad attended daily Mass, and he also locked the church at night. I often walked with him to lock the church, and lived some of my best memories right here in this building with him - my siblings could say the same.
When dad’s body started to give out, when the strokes he’d experienced finally took their toll on his independence, he refused to consider living anywhere that didn’t offer daily Mass. I fought that a little bit; I thought he was crazy. But dad understood who he was, he knew what he wanted, and he knew where he was headed when his life ended.
Watching the last few years of dad’s life was tough. Stroke after stroke made it hard for him to talk and eat and stand and walk and feed himself and dress himself, and so on. The whole family struggled with why such a faithful man had to endure such hardships. Near the end of my grandmother’s life, she told me that God gives everyone a cross to carry, and it’s HIS decision when that cross gets laid down, not ours. I can better appreciate her perspective after watching my dad’s journey. Philip Hanson carried a very heavy cross, and he carried it with grace and honor and faith. He was finally able to lay that cross down at 11:57 last Saturday night, and he is at Peace.
We had a celebratory drink with dad at his death and we’ll continue to celebrate his life every day. His energy is with us in traditions, in memories, in moments, and in Spirit. My faith is still growing, and I pray that someday it will match that of my father’s. We’re so blessed to know and love you daddy.
And that was it.
Dad had been ready to die for years. He felt his mission on earth was complete and he wanted to hang with God. It was a happy dad for dad, and for us too, when we were able to stop thinking about our loss and focus on his gain. The service was beautiful. We toasted dad in the limo, and cried all through his military burial service. It was a moment in time not easily forgotten.
Here it is...
There are a lot of words I could use to describe Philip Hanson: funny, friendly, handsome, genuine, honest (to a fault); but I think the word that fits him best is FAITHFUL. I remember a time in college when I struggled with my religion; I had to learn how to defend Catholicism against other’s beliefs. I asked dad a lot of questions, and his reply was always the same, “I don’t know the answer Margie, I just have faith”. Then he’d say “if you believe, you don’t need proof” then, he’d say “I’ll pray extra for you because you need it.”
And dad didn’t just talk about being faithful, he lived it. When he’d pick us up for an orthodontic appointment, we’d pray a decade of the Rosary on the way; when we were scared in bed at night, he’d hold us for a minute, like all good daddy’s do, then he’d encouraged us to pray for protection. We always said prayers before meals and always said prayers before bed. I’m sure many of you know that my dad attended daily Mass, and he also locked the church at night. I often walked with him to lock the church, and lived some of my best memories right here in this building with him - my siblings could say the same.
When dad’s body started to give out, when the strokes he’d experienced finally took their toll on his independence, he refused to consider living anywhere that didn’t offer daily Mass. I fought that a little bit; I thought he was crazy. But dad understood who he was, he knew what he wanted, and he knew where he was headed when his life ended.
Watching the last few years of dad’s life was tough. Stroke after stroke made it hard for him to talk and eat and stand and walk and feed himself and dress himself, and so on. The whole family struggled with why such a faithful man had to endure such hardships. Near the end of my grandmother’s life, she told me that God gives everyone a cross to carry, and it’s HIS decision when that cross gets laid down, not ours. I can better appreciate her perspective after watching my dad’s journey. Philip Hanson carried a very heavy cross, and he carried it with grace and honor and faith. He was finally able to lay that cross down at 11:57 last Saturday night, and he is at Peace.
We had a celebratory drink with dad at his death and we’ll continue to celebrate his life every day. His energy is with us in traditions, in memories, in moments, and in Spirit. My faith is still growing, and I pray that someday it will match that of my father’s. We’re so blessed to know and love you daddy.
And that was it.
Dad had been ready to die for years. He felt his mission on earth was complete and he wanted to hang with God. It was a happy dad for dad, and for us too, when we were able to stop thinking about our loss and focus on his gain. The service was beautiful. We toasted dad in the limo, and cried all through his military burial service. It was a moment in time not easily forgotten.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
The Meaning of Life...
I know I’ve already told you about the summer I spent selling books door-to-door in Cincinnati Ohio – one of the best and worst summers ever. But, what I didn’t tell you is that THAT summer was the first summer that I thought about the meaning of life; MY meaning of life. One morning I found myself walking on this remote, long, hilly, paved road lined with full, towering, dark green, almost-mystical looking trees. My mind raced between ‘spectacularly beautiful’ and ‘someone could kill me out here and no one would know’. I fell in love with that road and started walking it every morning; because no one wanted a book salesman to knock on their door at 8:00, right? Eventually, the pavement ended and I landed at a small baseball field a few miles out of town. I hung-out on the empty bleachers, almost daily, for hours. Sometimes I’d stretch out and sleep, often I’d write letters or pray the Rosary or talk out loud about what I thought was important. I named my first child on those bleachers…long before I met her daddy. I spent time with myself and questioned who I was and what I stood for; since I should have been knocking on doors instead of squandering my time on far away, empty baseball bleachers. I broke a lot of rules that summer, told some lies too, and began my journey to find out who I was meant to become.
I still think about that summer. I don’t remember much about the books I sold, or the area of town I worked in. I didn’t get to go to the zoo, or the stadium, or even a museum. I did sneak off to explore the waterfront and downtown one day, but other than that, I don’t remember very much about my time in Cincinnati; but I do remember almost ALL of the people I met. At that point in my life, I liked everyone and judged no one. I was comfortable in my skin, had nothing to prove, and believed everyone was good and trustworthy. I got pictures with businessmen, a street gang, a hot-dog vendor named Sam. I hopped on a boat with a bunch of strangers without a care in the world. I met an elderly couple who honestly changed my life, and I spent lots of time chatting with stay-at-home moms. I babysat neighbor’s kids, organized a few backyard kick-ball games, and built some awesome memories. And, I discovered that I liked talking and walking and thinking more than I liked selling books. That summer, I was where I needed to be, I just didn’t realize it then, but I know it now.
I’ve spent the better part of my 40s searching for my “passion”, feeling like there is more to life than what I’m experiencing. I’ve yearned for something to fulfill me, challenge me, and make me better. I’ve read books, measured myself against other’s ethics, tried to re-create myself so I could be happy and settled and satisfied. But, I am already created perfectly in the eyes of my God, and my work fills a need in the world, therefore, I am doing what I should be doing. It’s not about what I do anyway; MY meaning of life is about the people I meet; to embrace and nurture the relationships that occur while I’m doing what I do, because THAT is what I’ll remember anyway. I didn’t realize it before, but I know it now.
Margaret
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Sweet Motherhood
Being a mother is BIG! I mean, it just doesn’t get any more amazing than birthing a baby! One minute you’re just you – a wife maybe, a daughter, a lover, a friend…and the next second, BAM! you’re a mother. Seriously, you go from agony to awe in a nanosecond. You learn an entirely new kind of love the moment you hold the tiny life that developed and grew and lived inside of you. You never again think or plan or do anything without first considering its effect on your baby. It’s like your life takes a back seat to the life that you’ve created. And that's okay.
A few years later you’ve birthed all your babies and fallen completely in love with each of them in that magical, unimaginable, crazy-to-understand kind of way. You know how they each think, how they feel, how they react, what they like, what they’ll do…. You know them completely. You talk to them and teach them and cook for them and do their laundry and drive them around and meet their friends and go to their events and tuck them into bed and answer their questions and kiss them always. You talk about boys and beer and bras; moods and manners and money; parties and picnics and play practice. You teach them to shave. They need you. You need them.
You worry – even if you’re not a worrier, you worry about your kids. You worry they’ll hang with the wrong crowd, make poor decisions, eat the wrong foods or hurt someone’s feelings. You worry they won’t make a team; or that they will. You worry about illness, injury, nutrition, and germs. You worry they’ll get hurt, get angry, or get bullied. And all this time you’re thinking and worrying and caring for your kids, you’re not doing things for yourself.
You put off getting new glasses so you can use that money on MAYB tournament fees. You put off your mammogram (just for a few months) because you just can’t find time in your schedule to go. You put off your much needed vacation or the pricy theater tickets or dinner out. You buy new clothes, but not for yourself. You add days to your work schedule...
And, if you had it to do all over again, you wouldn’t change anything, except that you’d cherish it more and enjoy it more and value it more. You’d feel a little pang when you remember how upset you were when your fresh baby cried and cried at night when all you wanted was a little bit of sleep. You’d feel a bit of guilt as you recall throwing back the covers and stomping to the nursery to find the most adorable baby wanting you. You’d happily redo those moments and revere the warmth of your baby’s breath on your neck or the smell of their freshly bathed skin. You’d sit up later watching movies with your tween or playing videogames into the wee hours of the night, just to take part in what your child loves. Heck, you might even go paintballing.
Yes, if I had it to do all over again, I’d do it all over again, with a little more gusto.
Margaret
A few years later you’ve birthed all your babies and fallen completely in love with each of them in that magical, unimaginable, crazy-to-understand kind of way. You know how they each think, how they feel, how they react, what they like, what they’ll do…. You know them completely. You talk to them and teach them and cook for them and do their laundry and drive them around and meet their friends and go to their events and tuck them into bed and answer their questions and kiss them always. You talk about boys and beer and bras; moods and manners and money; parties and picnics and play practice. You teach them to shave. They need you. You need them.
You worry – even if you’re not a worrier, you worry about your kids. You worry they’ll hang with the wrong crowd, make poor decisions, eat the wrong foods or hurt someone’s feelings. You worry they won’t make a team; or that they will. You worry about illness, injury, nutrition, and germs. You worry they’ll get hurt, get angry, or get bullied. And all this time you’re thinking and worrying and caring for your kids, you’re not doing things for yourself.
You put off getting new glasses so you can use that money on MAYB tournament fees. You put off your mammogram (just for a few months) because you just can’t find time in your schedule to go. You put off your much needed vacation or the pricy theater tickets or dinner out. You buy new clothes, but not for yourself. You add days to your work schedule...
And, if you had it to do all over again, you wouldn’t change anything, except that you’d cherish it more and enjoy it more and value it more. You’d feel a little pang when you remember how upset you were when your fresh baby cried and cried at night when all you wanted was a little bit of sleep. You’d feel a bit of guilt as you recall throwing back the covers and stomping to the nursery to find the most adorable baby wanting you. You’d happily redo those moments and revere the warmth of your baby’s breath on your neck or the smell of their freshly bathed skin. You’d sit up later watching movies with your tween or playing videogames into the wee hours of the night, just to take part in what your child loves. Heck, you might even go paintballing.
Yes, if I had it to do all over again, I’d do it all over again, with a little more gusto.
Margaret
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Defining Moment
I remember a few defining moments in my life: my first ‘real’ kiss, an extraordinary conversation with my grandmother, a diagnosis, a car accident, my wedding day, my children’s birthdays…and a matter-of-factly stated comment from a colleague at a recent after-work get together…
“You’re so negative; always complaining about something”; complete with a tiny hand shrug and eye-roll.
I was caught off-guard, I mean, I had a right to be negative – I’d just gotten screwed out of a…(maybe I shouldn’t mention that here)! Even so, I was affected. I thought about that comment all evening…and the next…and the next. I recalled my previous conversations and discussions and interactions, I remembered my attitudes and auras. I had been focused on some specific actions at work and at home that I was upset about. I do drop the f-bomb a lot, am short tempered more often, and I let my house go (not too much) - a very telling sign that I’m out of sync. But, am I THAT negative? Do I complain THAT much? Apparently the answer is “yes”.
So, what do I do about it now? How do I get out of that funk? Do I just stop being honest about my feelings and interpretations? Stop fighting for what I believe in? Stop asking tough questions? Do I lower my expectations? Accept mediocrity? How can I go back to positive and fun?
If you’ve read my other blogs, you know I believe that perspective is reality; you believe what you perceive. I also believe that negativity breeds negativity and I have apparently gotten caught up in that action. So, I need to change my reality. Life is a mixed blessing and I will look past the negative in my life (schedule, finances, job), and revel in the good things happening around me.
Your brain believes what your mouth tells it; and I will tell mine great things!
Peace,
Margaret
“You’re so negative; always complaining about something”; complete with a tiny hand shrug and eye-roll.
I was caught off-guard, I mean, I had a right to be negative – I’d just gotten screwed out of a…(maybe I shouldn’t mention that here)! Even so, I was affected. I thought about that comment all evening…and the next…and the next. I recalled my previous conversations and discussions and interactions, I remembered my attitudes and auras. I had been focused on some specific actions at work and at home that I was upset about. I do drop the f-bomb a lot, am short tempered more often, and I let my house go (not too much) - a very telling sign that I’m out of sync. But, am I THAT negative? Do I complain THAT much? Apparently the answer is “yes”.
So, what do I do about it now? How do I get out of that funk? Do I just stop being honest about my feelings and interpretations? Stop fighting for what I believe in? Stop asking tough questions? Do I lower my expectations? Accept mediocrity? How can I go back to positive and fun?
If you’ve read my other blogs, you know I believe that perspective is reality; you believe what you perceive. I also believe that negativity breeds negativity and I have apparently gotten caught up in that action. So, I need to change my reality. Life is a mixed blessing and I will look past the negative in my life (schedule, finances, job), and revel in the good things happening around me.
Your brain believes what your mouth tells it; and I will tell mine great things!
Peace,
Margaret
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Change Your Focus
As the New Year approaches, I find myself thinking about where I am and where I’m headed and where I want to eventually land in my life. I do this every year – I make inspirations to improve; to prioritize my actions and control my thoughts to become a better person. In the past I’ve inspired to do everything from cussing less to exercising more to having better sex. I’ve vowed to only say positive things and to find the good in all. But this year my focus has changed. This year, I find myself thinking more about me and less about everyone else. And I think, as a 40-something woman who wears VERY many ‘hats’, that thinking about what I want and what I need is both difficult and necessary on my journey to a healthy, happy, fulfilling life.
When I was younger, I was confident and goofy and loud and daring and spontaneous and fun. I was definitely my own person. I knew what I wanted and I was fine going for it! I continued that way through most of college then hit a snag in early adulthood. I’m not exactly sure when I realized that everyone didn’t think what I thought; didn’t see what I saw; didn’t care about what I cared about. At some point, I began to understand that I wasn’t as important as I thought I was, and no matter how much I tried to make the world work the way I knew it should, it simply didn’t matter. That realization broke me a little bit. I became less comfortable and less confident and more frustrated and angry and stressed. And I didn’t know how to be happy again. I lost my focus. And I think that happens to all of us at some point.
I think we get caught up doing all the things we have to do to take care of our families, our neighbors, our churches, our pets and our friends, that we sometimes forget to take care of ourselves. It’s not that we regret doing things for others; it’s just that we neglect to do what we love; and that affects us greatly! I started to resent my awesome life because I wasn't doing anything I loved. I wasn’t doing any of the things that made me ME before I got married. So, I changed my focus.
Last October, I bought a season ticket to the theater despite the hefty price tag (I’ve always wanted to go). I spend most Sunday’s in Kansas City because that’s where I need to be. I’m saving for a trip to New York City - the one place I really want to visit.
In 2013 I'm going to: stick to my budget, pray more genuinely, join a book club, have more movie nights, and wear matching pajamas.
I challenge you to rediscover yourself this New Year. Choose a few things you love and make them happen!
Margaret
When I was younger, I was confident and goofy and loud and daring and spontaneous and fun. I was definitely my own person. I knew what I wanted and I was fine going for it! I continued that way through most of college then hit a snag in early adulthood. I’m not exactly sure when I realized that everyone didn’t think what I thought; didn’t see what I saw; didn’t care about what I cared about. At some point, I began to understand that I wasn’t as important as I thought I was, and no matter how much I tried to make the world work the way I knew it should, it simply didn’t matter. That realization broke me a little bit. I became less comfortable and less confident and more frustrated and angry and stressed. And I didn’t know how to be happy again. I lost my focus. And I think that happens to all of us at some point.
I think we get caught up doing all the things we have to do to take care of our families, our neighbors, our churches, our pets and our friends, that we sometimes forget to take care of ourselves. It’s not that we regret doing things for others; it’s just that we neglect to do what we love; and that affects us greatly! I started to resent my awesome life because I wasn't doing anything I loved. I wasn’t doing any of the things that made me ME before I got married. So, I changed my focus.
Last October, I bought a season ticket to the theater despite the hefty price tag (I’ve always wanted to go). I spend most Sunday’s in Kansas City because that’s where I need to be. I’m saving for a trip to New York City - the one place I really want to visit.
In 2013 I'm going to: stick to my budget, pray more genuinely, join a book club, have more movie nights, and wear matching pajamas.
I challenge you to rediscover yourself this New Year. Choose a few things you love and make them happen!
Margaret
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Forever Friendships
I’ve been cleaning out and organizing the past few weeks and I came across all my old Christmas letters and pictures. After the holidays, I can’t bring myself to throw away those treasures, so I stash them in gallon size zip-lock bags to eventually put in scrapbooks. Needless-to-say, I can no longer deny that times have changed and I have aged! It was such a wonderful afternoon.
I have so many great moments that connect me with so many great people; even though we don't see each other much (if ever) now, we are forever friends. I remember shopping, gossiping, cooking out, long phone conversations, road trips, and progressive dinner parties. I remember crying over break-ups together, sneaking out of our houses together, and getting into trouble together. I remember card games, mud fights, Pictionary, pizza, and long study sessions. I remember dancing and laughing and doing stupid things in the middle of the night. I remember walks, work outs, and sipping wine on the front porch. We were in each other’s weddings, we decorated each other’s homes; picked out curtains and clocks and comforters. We cleaned and organized each other’s cabinets. We celebrated milestones, comforted each other’s crying babies, diagnosed rashes, shared recipes and delivered perfectly timed batches of homemade cookies. We discussed politics, religion, finances and vacation spots. We shared babysitters, photographers, and favorite books. We attended graduations, ballgames, fund-raisers, and surprise birthday parties. We mourned lost loved ones. We were there for each other, always, while it lasted. We moved, got new jobs, bought new homes, and got too busy. We may or may not have had hurt feelings, misunderstandings, or disagreements over trivial details, but the memories are still there and still fresh and clear and fun and important and special. I’ve told some of you things that I may never tell anyone else again.
It’s neat to think that for those short weeks, months, or years we were in similar places in our lives that allowed us to share time and build great memories and strong friendships. Currently, our friendships may be more in my mind then in our lives, but still, I remember and I enjoy and I cherish those moments we shared. Even though I don’t see you, I’m connected to you forever, and for that, I am grateful.
Margaret
I have so many great moments that connect me with so many great people; even though we don't see each other much (if ever) now, we are forever friends. I remember shopping, gossiping, cooking out, long phone conversations, road trips, and progressive dinner parties. I remember crying over break-ups together, sneaking out of our houses together, and getting into trouble together. I remember card games, mud fights, Pictionary, pizza, and long study sessions. I remember dancing and laughing and doing stupid things in the middle of the night. I remember walks, work outs, and sipping wine on the front porch. We were in each other’s weddings, we decorated each other’s homes; picked out curtains and clocks and comforters. We cleaned and organized each other’s cabinets. We celebrated milestones, comforted each other’s crying babies, diagnosed rashes, shared recipes and delivered perfectly timed batches of homemade cookies. We discussed politics, religion, finances and vacation spots. We shared babysitters, photographers, and favorite books. We attended graduations, ballgames, fund-raisers, and surprise birthday parties. We mourned lost loved ones. We were there for each other, always, while it lasted. We moved, got new jobs, bought new homes, and got too busy. We may or may not have had hurt feelings, misunderstandings, or disagreements over trivial details, but the memories are still there and still fresh and clear and fun and important and special. I’ve told some of you things that I may never tell anyone else again.
It’s neat to think that for those short weeks, months, or years we were in similar places in our lives that allowed us to share time and build great memories and strong friendships. Currently, our friendships may be more in my mind then in our lives, but still, I remember and I enjoy and I cherish those moments we shared. Even though I don’t see you, I’m connected to you forever, and for that, I am grateful.
Margaret
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
College Drop-Off
Last Sunday I dropped my child off at college. I felt pretty prepared for the transition. We’d been making lists, stockpiling necessities, planning colors and decorations and storage and snacks for weeks. We’d washed bedding and towels, bought new tires, purchased books, signed loans, and budgeted savings. It was fun. I was proud and nervous and excited for my daughter to fly; and she was ready.
I saw a lot of other mothers dropping off their children at college that day. They were dressed in work clothes, hair pulled up, sweating it on the stairs with boxes and bags and microwaves. I was right there with them! I witnessed many hugs doled out in doorways and hallways and parking lots. I could feel the anticipation mounting. As the day went on, I felt less prepared to leave my precious child in her tiny new home decorated with crates and shelves and a futon. I watched as she found crevices for her backpack, her make-up, her jewelry and her extra sweatshirts. She brought too many tee-shirts, but shoved them all into the drawer anyway. She was making it work, embracing everything.
I took a moment to soak it all in. I noticed how long her hair had gotten, and how it bounced when she walked. I was pleased with her straight smile that cost a small fortune. I listened to her laugh while she organized her books on a shelf. She was happy. I remembered a younger Jessica, determined to become a dancer, teacher, scientist, songwriter…
“Mom, I have to go.” I wasn’t quite ready. Quick hugs for everyone, “I love you” and she was off. I watched her walk away from me. I felt unfinished, incomplete, awkward almost. I thought our goodbye would be longer, full of meaningful words of wisdom. It happened so fast. She disappeared around the corner and that was it. I made it out of the dorm, but then I just stood there, tears streaming. I felt like I didn’t hold her long enough; like I didn't hold her tight enough. It was a feeling I'll never forget, and I'm not even sure what it was. It wasn't sadness, or anger, or depression. I think it was love. I think it was the feeling that encompasses the phrase "love sucks", because at that moment, it did.
Margaret
I saw a lot of other mothers dropping off their children at college that day. They were dressed in work clothes, hair pulled up, sweating it on the stairs with boxes and bags and microwaves. I was right there with them! I witnessed many hugs doled out in doorways and hallways and parking lots. I could feel the anticipation mounting. As the day went on, I felt less prepared to leave my precious child in her tiny new home decorated with crates and shelves and a futon. I watched as she found crevices for her backpack, her make-up, her jewelry and her extra sweatshirts. She brought too many tee-shirts, but shoved them all into the drawer anyway. She was making it work, embracing everything.
I took a moment to soak it all in. I noticed how long her hair had gotten, and how it bounced when she walked. I was pleased with her straight smile that cost a small fortune. I listened to her laugh while she organized her books on a shelf. She was happy. I remembered a younger Jessica, determined to become a dancer, teacher, scientist, songwriter…
“Mom, I have to go.” I wasn’t quite ready. Quick hugs for everyone, “I love you” and she was off. I watched her walk away from me. I felt unfinished, incomplete, awkward almost. I thought our goodbye would be longer, full of meaningful words of wisdom. It happened so fast. She disappeared around the corner and that was it. I made it out of the dorm, but then I just stood there, tears streaming. I felt like I didn’t hold her long enough; like I didn't hold her tight enough. It was a feeling I'll never forget, and I'm not even sure what it was. It wasn't sadness, or anger, or depression. I think it was love. I think it was the feeling that encompasses the phrase "love sucks", because at that moment, it did.
Margaret
Saturday, July 28, 2012
My Two Cents...
Most of you know I wrote a book called “Everybody Has Something”…it’s a celebration of individualism and its purpose is to introduce children to diversity, to nurture self-esteem, and to promote acceptance of all people. I’m beginning to think I should write a similar book for adults.
What is it about the word “gay” that brings out the crazy in people? Gay people are people, just like you and I are people. Yes, their sex life is slightly different, but come on; does anyone really care what anyone else is doing behind closed doors? It seems they only care if the people behind those doors are same sex partners. Gay love is love, just like you and I experience love. If it were to be legalized, gay marriage would be marriage, just as binding and sacred as heterosexual marriage. I know that my views on this may not be the same as your views, and that’s OK. We each should be free to feel and think the way we feel and think.
But, the thing is, some people really want other people to feel and think like they feel and think, and they try to push their personal beliefs onto others. That’s why we’re still talking about gay marriage…and breast feeding, and parenting, and co-sleeping, and abortion, and…etc. It’s really difficult for some people to accept that there is more than one “right” way. The world is not black and white, but rather a hundred shades of gray (ummm…no, not quite like the book!)
It used to be wrong for people of different races to marry, it isn’t anymore. It used to be wrong for people of different religions to marry, it isn’t anymore. It used to be wrong for people of different socio-economic status’s to marry, it isn’t anymore. And I believe the same will be true for same-sex marriage in the near future.
Until then, let’s just let people be themselves. Let’s celebrate that we each are different and unique and beautiful and perfect. Let’s build people up, instead of tear anyone down, and let’s accept each other for who we are; without judgment or conditions.
If you want to ignore the controversy and avoid confrontation, then feel free to do so; if you want to stand up for something you believe is right, then stand up! If you want to eat Chik-fil-A, eat it; if you want to boycott, boycott; if you want to order water to make a point, then make the point. And be accepting of what others do, or don’t do, too.
Margaret
What is it about the word “gay” that brings out the crazy in people? Gay people are people, just like you and I are people. Yes, their sex life is slightly different, but come on; does anyone really care what anyone else is doing behind closed doors? It seems they only care if the people behind those doors are same sex partners. Gay love is love, just like you and I experience love. If it were to be legalized, gay marriage would be marriage, just as binding and sacred as heterosexual marriage. I know that my views on this may not be the same as your views, and that’s OK. We each should be free to feel and think the way we feel and think.
But, the thing is, some people really want other people to feel and think like they feel and think, and they try to push their personal beliefs onto others. That’s why we’re still talking about gay marriage…and breast feeding, and parenting, and co-sleeping, and abortion, and…etc. It’s really difficult for some people to accept that there is more than one “right” way. The world is not black and white, but rather a hundred shades of gray (ummm…no, not quite like the book!)
It used to be wrong for people of different races to marry, it isn’t anymore. It used to be wrong for people of different religions to marry, it isn’t anymore. It used to be wrong for people of different socio-economic status’s to marry, it isn’t anymore. And I believe the same will be true for same-sex marriage in the near future.
Until then, let’s just let people be themselves. Let’s celebrate that we each are different and unique and beautiful and perfect. Let’s build people up, instead of tear anyone down, and let’s accept each other for who we are; without judgment or conditions.
If you want to ignore the controversy and avoid confrontation, then feel free to do so; if you want to stand up for something you believe is right, then stand up! If you want to eat Chik-fil-A, eat it; if you want to boycott, boycott; if you want to order water to make a point, then make the point. And be accepting of what others do, or don’t do, too.
Margaret
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