Quarantine Life

Social distancing is a set of nonpharmaceutical infection control actions intended to stop or slow down the spread of a contagious disease.

Hard to believe when this year began, I had no idea what those two words put together meant.

I also thought I would never wait in line at the grocery store for more than five minutes without either huffing and puffing because my time was so valuable.

I never thought I would be googling "tips and tricks to help first graders learn remotely."

I never thought leggings would be my "uniform" each day.

I never thought my kid would live solely in pajamas.

I never thought I could go more than a few days without seeing my family, friends, or coworkers.

I never thought I would see playing outside as a gift.

I never thought I would have to cancel my daughter's birthday party.

I never thought about a lot of things.

It's been barely a week since we have been self-isolating, and my perception of the world has undoubtedly changed.

It's super hard to keep a kid entertained and work remotely and keep everyone calm at the same time. Which is why I am thrilled that Gary and I are in this together. Do not think for one moment that does not mean that he is happy with this situation. He gets the brunt of my anxiety. He just rolls with it, though. We have managed to find a routine that works for us, although if this lasts much longer (which come on, we all think it will), we may need to tweak it. I do breakfast. He does lunch. I do dinner. He runs bathtime. I do the housework. He braves the outside world for food. I do arts and crafts. He does the lessons. I do the bike rides. We all take outdoor walks.

Good news, folks! I like my family. Like really enjoy them. What a relief.

And what a disaster this would be if I did not.

I work for a domestic violence agency, and this is a TERRIBLE time for some of our clients, as you can imagine. We are doing the best we can to make sure help is still available for them.

This time in our lives is like no other. I hope we look back on it and think about what we learned and how much it shaped us.

All I know is that I have a little girl who may not get much of a birthday this year.  However, if that means she will have a hundred other birthdays, then we will do what we have to do.

I am sad and scared and find myself sinking deep into a dark place. I have had to turn off the news, put my phone down, and walk away from it all. Naps help. 

I am also cautiously optimistic that this will just be a blip in the story of my life.

All of our plans have gotten canceled or postponed. I am someone who thrives on plans and things to look forward to, so that is hard for me. But I am also someone who loves a lot of people who are older than me or are immunocompromised, and I will do what I have to do to make sure they are safe.

It's been a little over a week.

I will check in again when it's been longer to see if I have changed my tune. It's possible I will be singing a totally different song.

I thought it was important to get some of my thoughts down since I hope to never experience a time like this again.

It's ironic - as a mom who has buried a child, you think that THAT is the worst thing that can ever happen. Turns out, no one gets a pass in life. The bad things keep coming. It's how you cope with them that shows your true grit.

Family time

Make Your Own Scrunchies

Remote Learning

Outdoor Play

Paint Your Own Rocks

Us

Daily Bike Ride

Most patient cat ever!

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, Find Out What It Means To Me

re·spect

/rəˈspekt/

Learn to pronounce

noun

1. 1.

   a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements.

How do you explain respect to an almost-seven-year-old? 

My darling daughter. The sunshine and joy in my heart. The rainbow at the end of a storm. The most stubborn person I know!!

I am not sure respect is something that can be taught. Which is why I am having a heck of a time explaining to Miranda that she needs to respect Gary and me, no matter what.

Why she asks? Then she pouts. Often she yells. Then the inevitable foot-stomping ensues.

I am ok with having a spoiled child. She will want for nothing in this life, as long as I have a say in the matter. But I won't have a spoiled rotten kid. And there's a difference.

After a month of sass out the wazoo, I decided my punishments needed to be more extreme. When I take away the iPad, she plays video games. When I take away the Nintendo Switch, she watches a movie on Netflix. She has so much that taking away material things is of no consequence.

So, yesterday, I canceled a weekend away that we were planning, just us girls. Today I canceled a movie date that we had with new friends in the neighborhood. With each punishment, I am also being penalized, but it does not matter if she gets it.

SHE IS NOT GETTING IT.

Is it that she can't understand what it means to be respectful because I let earlier behavior slide? I refuse to believe that a month away from seven years old, she can't learn. She is excelling in her math and spelling tests. She brings home amazing projects that she works on in school. She respects her teachers. She respects her aunt and uncles. She respects my co-workers. So isn't it logical that she respect her parents??

She's better with Gary than me. He is firmer and doesn't take her nonsense.

Well, game on, my dear. I will keep canceling things until you get it.

It's my job to give her the tools to be the best person she can be. If that means she dislikes me for a little bit, so be it.

I swore I thought I had a few more years for this crap!

On the other hand, when she is good, she is so very good. She makes my heart soar and makes me so proud with the way she handles so many situations. We have one more session left in the art therapy that we have been attending, and then we all agree that Miranda is in a good place right now. She has the tools she needs to deal with her emotions regarding Allie, and I feel like we can "check the box" so to speak of doing all we can at this time for her.

Miranda also loves religious school. When asked if there was anyone from her class that she wanted to invite to her birthday party next month, she said her teacher! And she meant it. There is not an adult in the synagogue that does not get a hug every Sunday morning. When I peek in on her singing the prayers, often her eyes are closed, and her head is swaying to the music. Can you even?

So it's not all catastrophe! I just am frustrated that I have somehow let her down by not properly giving her the lessons that I am supposed to provide her with as a foundation in life. Luckily, no one is too old to learn. Even me!

I love my toothless wonder. I love the life we have. I love who Miranda is and who she is going to be...even if it takes us some canceled plans and exasperated times ahead!

Bigger kids, bigger problems, right?

So help me during her teenage years!

The Decade Challenge

I can't remember being so moved by a particular decade before.

Perhaps I had not lived long enough yet.

The year was 2009. I was 35 years old. The tides were changing in my life, and I am not even sure if I knew it yet.

I sold my condo in early Spring of that year and moved into Gary's apartment. We began to house hunt. I imagined a thousand different scenarios in which he would propose to me. I knew that was where we were headed.

I was right. We settled on our townhome in the Summer, and by September, he proposed. I was giddy with anticipation of what the world held in store for us. I could not wait for our next chapter to begin.

We never really talked about having children. Many of my friends were married by then and started growing their families. I loved their kids so much and began to think that I might want to be a parent. As a child of divorce, I swore that I would never bring a child into this world. That all changed when I met Gary.

Gary was harder to convince. He had been married before and knew how hard marriage could be. 

The more time we spent with our friends' kids, the more we realized we wanted to share the love we had with each other with a little boy or girl. A baby that looked like (we hoped!) the best of both of us that we could shower with love and affection and comic book stories and shopping trips. A child that we made together out of the love that we had, for we were lucky to have so very much of it.

That was the beginning of the decade that would change my life more than any other. 

In 2010, we got married. No matter what else happens in my life, that was one of the best days of it. Hands down. The sun was shining, it was not too hot or too cold, we were surrounded by our friends and families, and we laughed and giggled and smiled and danced and made memories that would one day sustain us in our darker days.

We got pregnant the second month we tried. The stick turned pink, and we were literally breathless. Our little family was going to be growing. Was anyone luckier than us??

And then the world stopped spinning. For no reason whatsoever, our baby girl died. I carried her just under my heart for 37 weeks and 1 day. I loved being pregnant and had visions as to what kind of mom I would be. Never once was I the kind of mom that had to deliver a baby to the quietest delivery room ever and hold a very still baby in my aching arms.

The trauma of Allie's death has become a core part of who Gary and I are as people, not to mention as parents. A loss like that becomes a part of your cellular make-up, and there's nothing you can do to change that. When you bury a child, you lose the hope that comes with pregnancies and the naivete that comes with usual everyday things. You worry more. You are more anxious. Sometimes just breathing is difficult.

The years following Allie's death were dark. I do not remember so much of that time that was cloaked in grief. We tried to get pregnant again and build our family, but all that luck that we had before, simply vanished.

Until we decided to adopt. A family can be created in different ways, and we had to get creative with ours. From the day we made the decision to adopt, our luck changed.

Miranda was put into our arms less than five months after we decided to adopt. Her birth mother was already pregnant with her when we will still deciding what to do. In Judaism, we call that "beshert." Translated, it means "destiny."

Being a mom to Miranda is who I was meant to be. I do not know why Allie had to die for me to parent Miranda. It seems like a cruel joke. We would not have adopted if Allie had lived, or if we had, it would not have been in that time frame. The idea of someone else raising Miranda that is not Gary and me is preposterous. She is our child through and through.

And so the rest of the decade was spent learning how to do right by both our girls. The desire to keep the memory alive of one daughter while giving what was left of our hearts to the other is no small task! Turns out staying home and raising Miranda for a time was what was right. So much of the decade was a mess of diapers and bottles and feedings and naps (for all 3 of us!) and joy. So much more joy than we ever thought we deserved.

And now we are embarking on a new year and a new decade. Our "baby" will be seven in the Spring. I need to learn how to parent her and also take better care of myself. She is old enough now that I can take some time back for me. And I will.

And that man that I bought a house with a decade ago and decided that I wanted to take his crazy long name? Well, he is still here, by my side, though it all.

We came out of this decade with scars that run deep, but also with love and affection and hope.

Not bad for ten years.

Happy New Year!!

Fall 2009

Fall 2009

Fall 2019

Fall 2019

What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

In my head, I have written this blog at least four different times. 

It's one thing to mentally think it through and entirely another to let the words escape my body and put them out there for the world to see.

It's been quite a month.

Miranda has become somewhat obsessed with the concept of Allie. She talks about her all the time. She had her first Girl Scout (well, Daisy Scout) troop meeting last month, and all the kids got together to create pottery. They were able to design their very own plate! It was pretty cool. From what I could see, most of the girls designed a plate with their name or with a single word like "love." Miranda wrote "Allie" on her plate. I asked her why and almost begged her to reconsider. She stood firm and said sometimes she forgets Allie, and if she had a plate with her name on it, she was less likely to forget her. How could I say no to that in a room full of strangers on a cold fall afternoon?

On Halloween, about ten days after the pottery lesson and about an hour after I got to my office after being "homeroom mom" for the morning with Miranda at her school, the guidance counselor called my cell. She said Miranda started crying at lunch and saying that she missed "Allie the butterfly," so her teacher brought her to the nurse. The nurse then called the counselor, and the counselor called me. 

I had not told anyone in Miranda's first-grade class about Allie for a few reasons. The main one was that how Miranda chooses to deal with her grief is entirely up to her, and it's not my business to tell people facts about her life. We have not yet had a parent-teacher conference, and there was no real way to bring it up anyway. Conferences are around Thanksgiving, and that would have been the first opportunity I had. Certainly not as I was helping change twenty-one excited six-year-olds into their Halloween costumes!

When the counselor called me, I felt like I had been punched in the gut. She reassured me that Miranda was ok now, and she was resting in the nurse's office. She was just about to go back to class. Over the phone, while choking back the tears, I explained that Allie was my first daughter, she was stillborn at 37 weeks, she would be two years older than Miranda and that when we see butterflies, they remind us of her.

The counselor was compassionate and warm, and all the things you need to be to have that job. She said she was so so sorry for our loss and that she could not imagine how hard that must have been for us. She commended us for sharing Allie's story with Miranda and said it was a positive thing that she will always grow up knowing about the daughter that came before her. She told me that if Miranda or even I ever needed to talk again, she would be there.

I hung the phone up and sat at my desk and just started to sob. I have never cried before at a job that I like!! I was so blindsided! My kid needed me, and here I was miles away. And my kid needed me because I had been open and honest to her about our family's history.

It took me a good twenty minutes of walking around my office parking lot until I could call Gary and fill him in. Always my rock, he calmed me down, and we decided we would talk to Miranda in-between trick or treating and all the other festivities of the day.

When we did have the chance to talk, Miranda asked if she could have lunch with her counselor. She said some kids do that and they really like it. It sounded good to us! I reached out to the counselor, and she was totally on board. Miranda and she would have lunch together and chat, and that way, Miranda could have a safe person at school to talk to if she ever felt sad again, and we would still be her safe people at home. 

Lunch went great! It was on Tuesday of this week, and Miranda told me the counselor read a book to her about a little boy who was expecting his parents to come home from this hospital with a new baby, except they did not. They talked about how that situation was like Miranda's, and I think they also did some crafts. She loved it.

Allie is my sister who died when she was born.
 We love her anyway.

The next day, she was crying on the playground again. Then I found this note in her room.

I emailed the counselor asking for advice.

She offered to see her again but also suggested an outside therapist. One who deals with grief.

One that Gary and I saw back in 2011 when Allie died.

So here we are. Back in 2011, but this time with a live baby that needs our help. 

We will do anything to protect her. It's our job. I just wish it did not hurt us so much to see her struggling.

I feel badly writing this all down because this is no longer just my story to tell. However, for me to be the best mom I can be, I can't hold onto it anymore.

We got in touch with our grief counselor on Friday. She would love the chance to sit down with Gary and me and make a plan (if we even need one!) for Miranda. So that's what we shall do.

Earlier today at a pool party, Miranda lost an earring. Without thinking, I gave her one of mine.

Why can't all our problems be fixed that easily??

To be continued...

Listen to Your Heart

Life has gotten to be one big series of going here and going there, and before I know it, I always run out of time to write. I miss it, but I have found other ways to be creative and express my feelings. Often through the eyes of my daughter.

At the end of every day, we try to ask Miranda to tell us her favorite part. That usually leads to a story or two. From there, other stories take form. We do the same thing before bed some nights. We set out a series of cards and have them aid in telling us a story. The imagination of a six-year-old is quite expansive, and she has a lot to say if you know how to listen.

I say "know how to listen" because while I always hear her voice, I sometimes do not listen to the context. There are only so many "mom, mom, mom, mom" prompts that I hear before I just nod and agree before I realize Miranda is putting something on the belt at the grocery store or trying to convince me to buy her a boa that she simply must own. I hear her, but I do not always HEAR her.

Miranda started first-grade last week, and we had such a fun time doing a photoshoot in the driveway before the bus came. We are so proud of her. Her milestones and accomplishments feel like "wins" to us, too. I know they are hers and she has earned them, but we burst with pride nonetheless.

I can't help but wonder what our lives would be like if we had a third-grader in the house, too. So much of Miranda is like me, even though there is no shared biology. Would Allie, who had my blood running through her veins and my curls upon her head, also be like me? Would she be more reserved like Gary? Or would she be like her sister, because so much of who you are is who you are raised to be?

Alas, we will never know. And that pain never goes away.

We were at the beach this past weekend with some family for a last hurrah of the summer. My sister-in-law overheard Miranda tell a complete stranger that her sister had died. I have to assume the stranger saw Miranda and her cousin in matching bathing suits and asked if they were sisters. It breaks my heart that at her young age, she knows so much about death. My sister-in-law said Miranda was very matter-of-fact about it and did not at all seem bothered. So that's a plus.

At the end of the day, we are who we are. And we are who we were meant to be. If we are not, we make plans to change it. In the meantime, I have to hope that the foundation we are giving our girl is solid enough that she can determine who and what she wants to be when the time is right. I also hope that I can take a small amount of credit and a large amount of pride in whatever path she chooses. I just have to make sure to listen to it all. Her hopes, her fears, her dreams, and hopefully, just a few tears.

"Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?" - Hamilton

"Let me tell you what I wish I'd known
When I was young and dreamed of glory
You have no control
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?"

We finally saw the musical Hamilton earlier this year, and I was every bit as moved by the performance as I knew I would be. There were so many scenes and characters and lyrics that made me shake my head yes and nod vigorously and clap loudly, and in the end, jump out of my seat to give a rousing standing ovation.

In the time since we got back from New York, I have been thinking over and over about the almost three-hour show.  It wasn't just the sets and the costumes and the crash course in American (and a little bit of French) history that I received that day. I was given a gift of words written by someone else that somehow, some way, deeply resonated with me.

I am scared of not being remembered. I worry that I am not doing enough in this world. I want to be sure that I am not forgotten.

Who lives, who dies, who tells MY story?

My family, that's who.

Who lives, who dies, who tells my first daughter's story? I am more scared of Allie being erased from history than I am of me. That is my biggest fear. I have no control. 

Who lives, who dies, who tells HER story?

Our family, that's who. And since she never got the chance to make her own legacy, we do our best to make one for her. We try to honor her by giving to others in her name and remembering her when we are all still here so that she will be remembered when we are not.  The doctors and nurses that took care of me, they might tell her story. The children who receive a backpack and school supplies each Fall, maybe they will tell her story. The bereavement center that gave us the skills to live without her in our arms, they may tell her story. 

Her sister. She will undoubtedly tell her story.

The Aunt of one of my closest friends passed away yesterday. So close that I called her Aunt, too. She saw me perform in our high school musicals. I had Christmas dinner at her house more than once. She was at my friend's bridal shower, and if my memory is correct, she helped throw my friend's baby shower. She was always such a positive force to my friend and her family, and I was lucky enough to know her and be a small part of her life.

As she got weaker and waited for death to come, her husband took charge of her social media account to let people know what was happening. Just a few hours before she died, he wrote that he was able to save every post she ever made. He has all her pictures and eleven years and one month of her thoughts and feelings. What a gift!

He will live to tell her story. 

"Have I done enough, will they tell your story?"

Yes, you did. They will. We will. 

I do not have to wonder what Allie was doing at 4:15pm yesterday. I know for sure that she was making a new friend. And together, they will tell many stories.

Musings of a Middle-Aged Woman

It's been a hectic few days here in my little corner of the world. I watched my friends bury their father, watched my niece take her first communion, and watched a young mother as she shared with me the agony she just experienced of burying her daughter who was born still.

For all the highs, there are the lows.

For all the lows, there are the highs.

What is in-between is the "stuff" that makes us who we are.

I was a pallbearer on Friday. I have never done that before. I was honored (and scared) to help carry the casket of a man I knew for most of my life to his final resting place. I grew up with his twin daughters and his son, and it was a freeing feeling to be able to do something for him as a way to almost repay for the years of memories his family gave me. A safe place to play. A father figure I could admire. A family unit that remained intact until the end.

On Saturday, I watched my niece participate in one of the biggest blessings of the Catholic church. She was bursting with pride at her accomplishment, and it was a joy to see her happiness. I am a firm believer that religion is essential to children as it gives them something to believe in, aside from their family. The traditions and prayers of the Catholic church were soothing and comforting and apart from Miranda in a LOUD whisper asking me why there was a guy on a cross hanging on the wall, it was a lovely day.  There are so similarities in Catholicism and Judaism, and I think Miranda and her cousins will grow up very well rounded having experienced both. We support them, and they support us. It's really amazing.

Yesterday was a shiva call, and it was so cathartic to sit around and tell stories and share anecdotes about the deceased. It does not help that he passed before anyone was ready. It does not help that my friends will never again hear their dad's voice, but the sense of community and the prayers sung in unison do give comfort that is unlike any other.

And then just when I thought the weekend was about to come to a close, I met a grieving mom and my heart burst wide open again. We went outside, amongst the kids playing frisbee in the yard and the clouds rolling in, and talking about what it is like to lose a child. What it is like to hold a baby in your arms that never cried. What it is like to want to shout to the world that you have two children, even if there is only one in the stroller. The agony and despair and love that was seeping out of this mother who had a due date of May 15th (and mine was May 11th). You never forget those dates as that is all you have. There are no dates of first teeth and first steps and first days of school. Just dates that were created before you knew that your world could shatter.

I stood before this mom as proof, though, that life goes on. I do not know how, but it does. She will smile again. She will laugh again. She will heal and take the memory of her baby with her as she grows into a different person than she ever thought she could be.

In spite of all the loss and tears of the weekend, I felt good when the sun peeked through my blinds and woke me up this morning. In reality, it was the sun as well as a perfectly timed pounce by one of my cats that woke me.

Time marches on. We all move on. Death is something I see far too much of in my opinion, so I try to see the joy in the life that is all around me. The giggle of my daughter which can make my heart soar. The pride of watching my family and friends succeed and do great things. The beauty in a sunset. The excitement of new connections and new friends. 

The way I look at it, I have lived half of my life, and I have about half left to live. I do not want to waste a moment!