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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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