On Having it "Never Be Okay"

My mom, Eleanor, circa late 1990s.

I'm not really sad anymore on Mother's Day, which sure is a refreshing change from all those teary, Woe is me, let's have a glass of wine at 1 p.m. Mother's Days of years gone by. It's been fourteen years of not having a mom here and by this time, having my mother to fuss over and take out to brunch and buy peonies for just feels completely foreign and "other" to me. It just isn't my reality and hasn't been for a loooong time. 

I plug along. She is in my thoughts some days but I'm almost surprised to admit (and a little ashamed) that on many she is not. There was a time I don't think I could have ever imagined that I would honestly write that sentence. But there it is.

And then the other day I read this, by Cheryl Strayed:

"It will never be okay," a friend who lost her mom in her teens said to me a couple of years ago. "It will never be okay that our mothers are dead."

...Our moms had been dead for ages. We were both writers with kids of our own now. We had good relationships and fulfilling careers. And yet the unadorned truth of what she'd said--it will never be okay--entirely unzipped me.

It will never be okay, and yet, there we were, the two of us more than okay, both of us happier and luckier than anyone has a right to be. You could describe either one of us as "joy on wheels" though there isn't one good thing that has happened to either of us that we haven't experienced through the lens of our grief. I'm not talking about weeping and wailing every day (though sometimes we did that). I'm talking about what goes on inside, the words unspoken, the shaky quake at the body's core. There was no mother at our college graduations. There was no mother at our weddings. There was no mother when we sold our first books. There was no mother when our children were born. There was no mother, ever, at any turn for either one of us in our entire adult lives and there never will be.

And that's the truth. It will never be okay that Eleanor never got to meet Ellie. That she never got to eat scrambled eggs with Leo or push a ridiculously giant double stroller housing two (two!) wailing newborns down our treelined New Jersey street. 

 

And it will never be okay that my mom never go to meet Erin, but I will always be so glad that in a brave moment during one of our many afternoon phone calls (she in Oregon, me, away at graduate school in New York City) I decided to tell her about this new person that I'd only been dating for a handful of months. And because of that, for the rest of my life I’ll have a printed out email from my mom that says simply, "I'm glad you have Erin." Boy, was she right.

And the fact that it's not okay? Serves as a counterpoint to all the unbelievably wonderful and beautiful things in my life: Leo's hugs, and the way he throws his arms around my waist and holds onto me with his very soul, Ellie's witticisms and the way she will just look at me in the middle of dinner and say "Can we snuggle?" Harry's chocolate brown eyes and the way he leans in to give me a sloppy kiss and then declares, "That's a juicy one!" Lucy's blonde ringlets and watching her drink milk from a straw and eat peanut butter and strawberry jam with as much satisfaction as one would garner from drinking a glass of Pol Roger and eating Malpeque oysters. 

There is just so much beauty and joy and grace and hilarity in my life now, that the "not okayness," feels somehow easier and harder (if that makes any sense at all). Easier because I'm so busy with all these children! And my life is so full! And yet, she's missing all these children. And all this fullness. But. That is just the way it is.

 

There are so many things my mom and I never got to talk about. I was twenty seven when she died, and at that point, becoming a mother myself was the farthest thing in my mind. Who knows if I'm right, but to this day, I think one of her greatest worries for me was that I would never become a mother.

Of course now we all have a good laugh over that one. I hope my mom is laughing too.

"That's Just All the Life They Get"

Leo came home from camp with this yesterday, from his friend Deanna. Why did she give this to you, Leo? I asked. "You know," Leo replied, with that tone that tells me I am NOT the smartest person he knows. "Because! Ruby's dead."

***

For me, the grief comes in waves. Of course I think about her a lot at home. There are no more dog hair tumbleweeds and no more water bowls to hide from the twins. The mudroom doesn't have that familiar "eau-de-dog" aroma anymore, even though it's only been two weeks.

I drive by the vet, Ruby's vet, every morning, to take Ellie to camp. It's where I rushed to say goodbye to her, when I got the call from Erin. And my eyes well up with tears.

Of course, I'm not doing myself any favors when I peruse our photo archives and find pictures like this:

Leo, age three. Ruby, age four.

I've been thinking about why this is so hard. And why it is I have cried every single day since Ruby died. I cry on the bus on the way to work. I cry in the car. I cried yesterday as I sat on the floor of the mudroom, scrubbing the wall next to where Ruby slept. For a few moments I wondered, as I scrubbed, if I shouldn't clean it. And keep it, as what? A shrine to our dirty dog? Before I could think about it too much the little brown line, evidence of years and years of restful naps was gone. Just like that.

I donated her food, (an almost full, thirty pound bag of the best gourmet, all-natural organic dog food money can buy) to a friend who fosters dogs. She gently refused my offer of Ruby's quite new dog bed. "Keep it for your next dog," she texted me. At first I brushed that off as ridiculous (not that there won't ever be a next dog, just that right now, that feels a long way off, and the thought of housing an extra dog bed in our already crap-packed house feels both impractical and impossible).

And yet. I kept the dog bed after all.

At night before bed I feel like I'm forgetting something. There is no one to let outside one last time. I go to close the mud room door (Ruby could be prone to accidents so she stayed in the mudroom over night and when we were out) and now, there is no need. I still expect to stumble over her and swear that I see her shuffling around the house, out of the corner of my eye.

And I've only been able to come up with this, not so profound explanation: This is hard because Ruby signals a definitive end to this chapter of our life. Yes she was the start to our little family, but she was also here when Leo and Ellie were really little kids. And when the babies were truly babies. And every day, everyone just gets a little older and every day, everything changes just a little bit (older isn't bad! I know! And neither is change!) but I still sometimes just want to freeze time and make it so that everyone always wants to snuggle and sit on my lap and put their warm, soft little hand in mine when we cross the Costco parking lot.

***

After dinner last night, Leo came bounding into the kitchen, eager to show me that he'd put on his pajamas without being asked to do so (It's a nightly discussion).

"Tell Ruby!" He exclaimed.

It took me a minute to figure out what Leo meant. Recently he's started asking us to tell certain people (those he holds in especially high regard, grandparents top the list these days) about instances when he does something good without being asked (clears the table, washes his hands, helps bring groceries inside).

"Is Ruby proud of me?" Leo asked, as he opened the freezer door in search of vanilla ice cream.

Oh! Yes! I said. Very proud! Sooo proud.

"Mommy? Is Ruby all better now? Almost?"


These questions. Oh my goodness.

Oh yes, Bub. I said.

I don't even bother to hide my tears anymore. And the kids don't even seem to notice.

Yes, I said. She's all better. She's not in any pain and she's very, very happy.

***

"It's been four years since I lost my dog and I'm just now thinking of getting another dog," an old college friend wrote to me, in response to that picture of three year old Leo and four year old Ruby. "The grief over losing an animal is so pure. You can't be angry or blame anyone, that's just all the life they get. And it was a good one, for sure."

I hope so.

Saying Goodbye to the One Who "Started Our Family"

This weekend, we said goodbye to this sweet girl, our Ruby.

She had just turned eleven years old. I complained plenty about her the last few years. Four kids and a dog: It's a lot. But the simple fact is, she was a wonderful, wonderful dog. She was a sweet soul with more patience than any creature I have ever known, as you can see here.



And here.



And here.



And of course, here.



She was happiest when she was just with us.



She loved to have her belly rubbed with your foot. She'd stick her leg up and lay back as if to say, "Don't Stop! I love it!"



She always had to be right there, doing what we were doing, a part of our little gang.

Yes, she was often frustratingly underfoot (especially when someone was eating). And don't get me started on her unabashed food thievery. She must have ingested the equivalent of a thousand purloined cheese quesadillas and pizza slices, usually in one gulp. I often marveled at how she didn't even seem to have to chew her stolen food--poof! It was just gone. She never left a crumb on the floor either, and enjoyed the bounty of dropped food that comes with four children.

And so thanks to Ruby, I didn't sweep my kitchen floor for eleven years.




I still remember the hot, sticky night that we drove out to the hinterlands of Long Island to pick her up. She was floppy and soft and slept in my lap all the way home like an infant (which, at eight weeks old, she was!). She cried all night long that first night home with us-- Erin had to sleep with her hand in the little box where we'd set up her bed. And when she woke us up to go outside at 5 a.m. the next morning, I wondered if I was grown up enough to handle this whole dog business.

Erin had wanted a dog for a long time but I was hesitant. It seemed like a lot of responsibility (by the way, Sweetie? Getting Ruby? One of the best ideas you ever had). Because the simple truth was, I needed Ruby. It was the fall of 2002 and New York City continued under a layer of grief following September 11. At that time, Erin worked many nights and weekends. My mother was still dead and I felt very much alone. Ruby was my constant companion and together, she and I explored the streets of Park Slope, Brooklyn. We chose restaurants based on who had outdoor seating (and allowed dogs). Prospect Park was our backyard and to this day, the sight of Ruby's little blonde legs bounding after a tennis ball through the dewy grass, ranks as one of the happiest sights of my life. Her ebullient joy was infectious-you couldn't watch her in her tennis ball chasing element and not feel happy.

I regaled my friends and family with pictures of her, our undeniable "First Baby" via email. There was Ruby, frolicking in the snow outside our Brooklyn stoop. There was Ruby jumping in the crunchy orange and yellow leaves. My canine photo gallery email recipients tolerated me. When we announced I was pregnant, my stepmom said, "You'll see, a baby is even more fun than a dog!"



She moved cross country twice and without complaint, traveling via airplane and Subaru Outback.

When an old friend from graduate school heard about Ruby's death, she wrote this:

"I remember a joyful picture of you and Erin with Ruby as a puppy...you two were beaming. At the time, I thought, that was the start of your family."

She was right.

And then the kids came along. Leo, in particular, was in love with her.



And Ruby loved the kids. And tennis balls.



We often joked that if  you could harness the energy and focus Ruby spent on catching a tennis ball, you could probably generate power for a small town.



I'm pretty sure Leo had a tennis ball hidden in the snow somewhere. He loved hiding them from her. And she in turn adored the hunt.



I have some guilt, that she went from being "Our Baby" (sleeping in our bed, enjoying full days devoted to her with long walks, morning, noon and night)  to basically the fifth fiddle. She may not have always gotten the "right" kind of attention, but you can't say Ruby was ever lonely.





She was a silly dog with a boundless amount of energy and a puppy spirit until almost the end.

She was Leo's first best friend and Ellie's first word.

And I realized the twins likely won't remember her, which seems unreal, since she was such an intrinsic part of our family. But I couldn't even find any pictures of them with her.

People are asking us if we'll get another dog. Probably? Someday? I think once you've had a dog it's hard to not have a dog.

But there will never be another Ruby.

Grateful and Raw and Snow Days Too

I’ve been feeling raw since last week. Raw.

It’s just the only word that describes it.

I’m torn between feeling overcome by the beauty and preciousness of life and terrified of having the other shoe drop, for something awful to happen. It’s no way to live.


I find myself hovering over the kids as they eat, calling over and over to sit down, stay in their chairs, to take tiny bites. I’ve started cutting oranges up into small pieces rather than simply peeling them and laying out plump slices like I used to. Remember, my kids are five and two. Am I nuts?

It’s just impossible for me to not feel so grateful. Grateful for snow days and two little bodies who sit like bookends, enthralled by "Super Why" (Leo’s latest obsession and I swear it’s way more educational than Sesame Street—it’s really quite an amazing show, check it out). I feel almost no TV guilt when the kids watch it and bonus: even Ellie likes it).

I feel grateful for these warm little bodies that beg for macaroni and cheese and more grapes and smoothies. I feel grateful for these little people who cheer because they get to go to Trader Joe’s or even better, the "slide place."

There’s that lingering, shadowing little tug. Why do terrible things happen sometimes? And why do they happen to one family and not another? And why shouldn’t they happen to us?

Like I said, it's no way to live.

And I don’t just worry about the children when they’re eating. Leo’s always been a wanderer. I’ve always had to watch his every move. He listens to me about fifty percent of the time. But he certainly cannot be trusted. The fence we had installed in the backyard two summers ago was the best money ever spent, but I still worry. The boy is clever. He’s been known to push a chair up against a fence and at least attempt an escape route.

Last week while playing with the kids in the backyard on one of our two snow days I looked away from Leo for thirty seconds while I helped Ellie clear snow from the slide. I turned around and Leo was simply, gone. The backyard was filled with an eerie silence. Believe me, Leo makes his presence known, always. He was no where to be found and instantly, that sick fluid of dread rushed through my veins as I began screaming Leo’s name, maniacally. I can only imagine what the neighbors must have thought.

And not even thirty seconds later I found Leo inside, sitting on the the kitchen floor, a tangle of limbs, stripping himself of his snow suit, shaking off his boots and gesturing toward the cupboard. Apparently, it was snack time. Outside play was over for him.

Thanks for the heart attack Leo.

I blame all of this for the fact that I knew I would be attending the funeral of a three-year old boy later in the week.

And an irony in all of this is that there was a time in the not so distant past when Down syndrome loomed as the huge, terrible, awful thing that had happened to us. There were so many days of why us? Why him? And now, Down syndrome just is. It might complicate things sometimes for sure, but it is no tragedy. It's amazing to me to think about how it once was.
***
So yes, there have been snow days and futile feeling “work from home” days where entirely too much TV was watched by the short people in the house (by necessity). No, really.

And snow days meant a lot of “Hayrides.” My expectations for a neat house plummet on a daily basis:

But in light of everything, I can honestly say I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Snow days have meant I have cooked real dinners: chicken Parmesan and cheese enchiladas.

There have been harried days back at work.

Valentine’s Day came and went and I felt like a complete schmuck when I realized I totally forgot to do anything about it for the kids this year. Yes, those cheapo drugstore Valentines are annoying and get thrown almost directly in the garbage (I mean recycling bin) when they arrive home, but aren’t they a right of passage?

Yesterday I found, crammed in Leo’s backpack a gigantic handmade, heart shaped envelope, a “holder” for Leo’s Valentines.

He had four. FOUR valentines. Three of them were from his teacher and the two class aides.

I know I am totally over thinking this. For goodness sake Leo only has five kids in his class, including him! But still. I want him to be the popular kid. I want him to have cards from dozens of children. I want him to have friends. What about all the kids from music and PE and art (Leo attends all those subjects with his “typical” peers). Where are the cards from them? Am I just deluding myself to think that any of them would deign to be friends with Leo?

Or maybe it’s just the general rawness of late. I’ll weep for anything.

Even gratitude.

When There Just Isn't A Reason

To borrow the words of Cate, the very worst thing has happened to a family at Ellie’s school. One of her classmates, a sweet just-turned-three-year-old boy with saucer shaped brown eyes and jet black hair, choked on some food at his home last week. He remained unconscious and was in the ICU for five days. He died on Saturday.

I haven’t been able to get this little boy or his family out of my mind since I heard the news. It’s just so shocking, so sudden and so completely tragic. There’s no way to justify it (as though death can ever really be justified). What happened to little R. could have happened to anyone. To think that one day he was just doing his three-year old thing, playing with his friends at pre-K, finger painting, dancing to “Baby Beluga” and the next day his loved ones and teachers from school were gathered around his bed in a hospital, hoping for the best but preparing for the unspeakable.

The accident and his hospitalization had been announced with a note home to all the parents (though I learned of it when I ran into one of the head teachers and asked her if she was OK. She’d looked pale and exhausted and immediately told me what happened). That was a week ago today.

R’s death a few days later was announced with a simple, small post card sized photo on the bulletin board at school. The picture showed him working on Play Doh at that familiar table where Ellie eats breakfast every morning. “In memory of our Purple Penguin, R.” [the Purple Penguins is what Ellie’s class is called].

When I saw it, my heart sank, my limbs filled with a heavy, cold dread..

Later that day, when I arrived to pick the children up after work, a large photo montage of R. had been erected in the school’s entryway. There was R. last summer on the playground with Ellie and four other adorable, cheesy-grinned preschoolers. There was R. on Halloween, dressed as a Power Ranger. There was R. in his school “portrait,” holding a paint brush, poised for a masterpiece.

“Oh! R.!” Ellie squealed, when she saw the montage. “Where R.?”

My mouth was frozen. What to say? How to even begin? I keep meaning to ask the administrators how they plan on explaining what happened, to the children. I can see the older ones (four and five year olds) at least sort of “getting” it, but Ellie’s class? The one R. was in? How much can they comprehend? And how do explain death to a two and a half- year old without completely terrifying her?

Talk about a “lesson” that has come way too early.

I think the school director put it best. We were talking about whether the school had enough parent volunteers to watch the children so the teachers could attend the funeral (the school had put a request out for this). He said they had plenty, that not all the teachers even wanted to attend. They’d visited R. in the hospital and gone to the wake. Those things had been enough, and had taken so much out of them. It had all just been too much.

Finally, the director said, simply,“It just doesn’t make sense.”

I couldn’t agree more. With all my heart I want to believe that everything happens for a reason. I’m not a religious person (I prefer the term spiritual or hopeful). But sometimes, the whole, trying find the reason for something…it’s impossible. Life is wonderful and lucky and fortuitous at the same time, sometimes cruel and heartbreakingly brief.

And sometimes, life just doesn’t make sense.