44

Reggie Jackson's number on the Yankees.

Five years into the "forever 39" phase of my life.

The age my mom was when I got engaged and the age I am now.

In two years, I'll be the same age my father was when a massive heart attack cut short his life and the same age my grandmother was when I was born.

I'm thinking about those people who are gone.

I'm thinking about what birthdays even mean.

This is not a significant number, but on the other hand, birthdays seem to gain significance as I get older.

I'm thinking about Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally", crying about turning forty and Billy Crystal is incredulous because she won't be forty for eight years.  I am the Meg Ryan in this scenario.

I am thinking about ice cream trucks; the miracle I thought they were when I was seven and the smelly, speeding, overpriced nuisance I think they are now.

I am thinking about how long the summer seemed when I was a kid, even as a teenager who slept away beautiful, fragrant days and how short it seems, now.

I am missing the days of homemade cards written in just-learned letters by chubby boy hands.

I am hearing that line from a Billy Joel song; a line he probably wrote on a birthday of his own:  "The good old days weren't always good; tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems".

It's comforting, in a way.

Forty four.

It's not so bad.

Sentimental Me

Maybe it's foolish.  I've been called worse things.  

It's easy to become sentimental as you get older, but I was born that way.  From as far back as I can remember, I saved little things.  I had a terrible time parting with anything someone I loved gave me, whether it was a plastic ring from a gumball machine or a stuffed animal or a birthday card.  

When my Mom, or grandma, or grandpa would kiss my cheek, I would be careful not to rub it and could feel it, lingering there, for a long time afterwards.  

The one and only year I went to camp, the girls in my cabin were mean and clique-y.  Though I felt a bit lonely, the fact that they weren't nice to me didn't bother me as much as the fact that they wrecked the bed that my mom so nicely made for me before she left.  All those thoughtful, tight tucks, undone in a fit of eleven year old menace.  

If you look in my purse, I know you will find at least one old shopping list written by my Mom and a note about my worn out tires from my Dad.  In the kitchen drawer, notes from my Dear Husband about slippery roads, hot coffee and cats.  On the top shelf of the closet, nearly every drawing, project and card ever made by my children and birthday cards from relatives dating back to the 70's.

My father's mother passed away last April, but her voice is still on my answering machine.  I'd still have my other grandmother's voice as well, but her last message to me got erased.  Believe me when I say it really bothers me that it's gone.  I also had my youngest son's voice on there, from the day he first rode his bike (alone!) to a friend's house.  He called as soon as he got there.  "Hi Mom.  Well, I just wanted to call and say that I made it and I'm fine.  Well, see you later.".  You see, I have it memorized, even though it too got erased when we had to get a new phone.  

Books and clothes and televisions and cars and other things, I have no problem giving away.  I don't get attached to big things; not really.  I'd rather someone else have them, if they can be useful to them.  Over the years, I've managed to pare down the sky high pile of letters and cards to a more manageable amount, as well.  Now, instead of every birthday card my great grandmother ever sent me, I only have one; but I won't part with it.  

I still have my favorite childhood stuffed animals and every silly letter my husband wrote to me when we were apart for four months the year we got engaged.

I worry that I haven't taken enough pictures, spent enough time, taught my children all the things they need to know from their mom.  I worry that they'll grow up and leave and I worry that they won't.

I want to take all these things; the papers, the pictures, the voices and the worries and lock them away in a time capsule.  I want to cement them into the cornerstone of my life; knowing that these things are only a small representation of what really matters.

Here and now, what I have shared, what I remember, who I have loved, who knows that I love them; those are the real things worth keeping.

De-cluttering My Soul

I've been thinking about what it means to be me.  I'm wondering if I met me, what my first impression would be.  Fat?  Chip on her shoulder?  Nice teeth?  Well spoken, but salty?  Funny?  I wonder if hypothetical me would get past fat and chip on her shoulder to see the truth.  The truth is, that I have a hard exterior made up of guilt, sadness, fear, anger and confusion covered in a thin veneer of sarcasm.  With a little pressure, that shell yields to a gooey center of love, hope and dreams.  I'm basically a Cadbury Cream Egg.  No wonder my husband likes me.  I need that shell to protect what is really worth protecting.  You can have my anger and my sarcasm, but my dreams?  Not without a fight.  

The truth is, that up until just a few days ago, fat was all I was seeing. You'd think since having my last baby 13 years ago, I would be used to being fat, but I'm not.  There's fat and there's FAT.  Right now, I am at FAT and I'd like to get down to fat before spring comes and I can start training for some kind of crazy physical feat; like a triathlon or another marathon (read my condensed marathon story here ).

More about those plans later.

So, up until a few days ago, I was hyper-focused on what was going on with my exterior, to the point that it was exhausting.  I still had obligations to family, friends and the various committees I am involved with, but doing even the most basic thing felt monumentally hard.  I blame it on being heavier than ever before and being just a tiny bit depressed about it.  You know that things are not going well when brushing your teeth seems like a real chore; like something you need to cross off a list.  Forget the actual lists I have.  That shit is on the back burner.  

Now, the list has only one item:  Be the person I was meant to be.

That's it.  Of course, there are sub-headers and lines a through z.  There's a lot that goes into being that person.  But, the way to get there is simple:  Do the things that move me towards a goal and don't do things that move me away.  For example:  I want to complete a big, physically demanding goal by the end of next year.  In order for me to do that, I have to be physically and emotionally ready.  It will take many weeks, many smaller goals and many setbacks to achieve it, so I need to give it a good long time to be accomplished.   

I am not very patient and that has been a big part of what has kept me FAT.  It took too long to see results and I got mad and punished myself by gaining more weight.  It's a long and complicated journey, this one with food.  Everything I think about myself plays into how I treat my temple (it's a god damned temple, you hear me?!?  It just needs some slight retrofitting and remodeling and it will be a thing of beauty for years to come).  

This journey is not about being hot again.  That ship has sailed.  And you know what?  I think that for the first time ever, I don't care.  I was talking to my sister the other day about this.  I said something to the effect of being invisible; that I have gotten to the point where I could grocery shop wearing a clown wig and no one would notice because I am a chunky, middle aged mom. 

Somehow, I've gotten to the point where no one outside my circle of family and friends really sees me.  Sometimes, I wonder if they even see me; me how I really am.  I think my husband usually sees the girl who met him at the end of the aisle eighteen years ago.  I can't keep up with that girl in a race today, but I sure am more thoughtful and more compassionate than she was.  I wonder what my kids see.  Do they judge my weight?  It makes me think of my maternal grandmother, whom I loved so much, and who passed away this summer.  She was heavy most of the years I knew her and I loved her.  My grandfather loved her.  They were happy and laughed and had fun, even though she was bothered by the weight and was always trying some kind of weird diet.  I hope that at some point she stopped measuring her worth in pounds and more in love; that which she gave and that which she received.  I wonder what she would tell me now about wasting time on things that don't ultimately matter.

Speaking of my grandmother:  I am also realizing that I have not fully processed the losses of this past summer.  I lost three significant family members, including both of my grandmothers and Oliver; a boy I never met in person, but learned to love just the same.  I've tried to channel my feelings into advocacy and writing and doing things that make my existence on this planet mean something, but at some point, I just need to sit with my grief.  I've been catching myself from falling into that vast, unwelcome valley, but maybe it is time to explore it a little.  We all have to walk through this valley time and time again as we age.  It should be like going home, but instead, it feels like an endless mire of tears and silence.  It's murky and dark and I am afraid.

I don't need to fill that valley with food, or approval, or laughs.  I only need to sit there and see that I can survive on my own.  All I need is a hanky and a hug when I emerge.

And to the people (they seem to be coming out of the woodwork) who want me to find Jesus/go into business with them/join their cult I want to say thank you for making me see that I am the only one who can fix me.  I think I am on the right track and I will burn your business card keep you in mind, but I need to step away right now.  I have enough crazy up in here, thanks.

So, the to do list:  Be the person I was meant to be 

     a) lose the weight

          1) make a list of achievable goals to meet the ultimate one

     b) sit with my grief

     c) start today

Eulogy Part Two or 2013 is a Bad Year for Grandmas

When I think of my maternal grandmother, a virtual storm of images, sounds, tastes and smells hits my brain.  

I see tan arms and legs, dark sunglasses and zinc oxide.

I see a blue and white beach umbrella.

I see and smell a wet dock, salt air and sand.

I taste the moistest and most delicious and gluten filled crumb cake that there ever has been.  And noodle salad that no one has been able to come close to making; though my mom is getting there.

If you asked what the secret ingredient was in virtually all of her recipes, the answer would most likely be "sugar" and lots of it.  This probably explains my addiction to all things sweet and plays a role in why I am (only just slightly) above my target weight.

My grandmother was a strong alto in the church choir; she never possessed the most melodious voice in the bunch (that job is for the sopranos), but it was always full of depth and belief that made the hymns come to life. I loved to hear her sing.  

I also loved to hear her yell "BUUUTCH!!!" to my grandfather when he was out tinkering in the garage or in the basement.  I never asked her why she called him that, as his name was Charles Howard and he had plenty of other nicknames.  I think she was the only one who called him that.

When I told my grandmother that I was going to name my unborn middle son, Charles after her Butch, she was happy.  When we found out later on that he would be born with Down syndrome, part of me was a little worried that she wouldn't want him to have his great-grandfather's name.  ( I can't imagine thinking this now, fourteen years later ).  When I told her of Charles' in utero diagnosis, she responded with a story of her good family friend (Uncle Jerry) whom I loved and thought the world of and his brother who had had Down syndrome.  She got emotional talking about him and said how loved he had been and how when he hugged you "you knew you were hugged".  I didn't have any doubts after that.

A few months after Charles was born, my grandmother and Aunt Marilyn came out to Chicago to meet him and celebrate my oldest son's third birthday.  For five days we ate ice cream cake, played cards and laughed our butts off.  One of my fondest memories is hearing my grandmother and aunt laughing at the sad air mattress in our "guest" room.  It took up almost the whole floor and they had to climb across it to get in or out.  Sometimes, a grandmother shows her love by getting on a plane and flying for two hours even though it terrifies her and by sleeping on a horrible air mattress just so she can visit you.

When I was about seven or eight, I went with her and my grandfather to visit some friends of theirs in Lake Hopatcong.  The grownups were having a good time and I was getting a little bored, so I decided to take a walk to the beach.  Though it was not far, I got turned around (I am famous for my lack of an internal compass)  and lost.  I'm not sure how long it was that I was gone, but it had been daylight when I left and it was dark when I was finally found.  When I was reunited with my grandmother, I was afraid she would be angry.  The look of relief on her face was enough to let me know that I was not in trouble, that she had just been very, very worried.  I didn't know it at the time, but my grandfather's little brother, Francis, drowned in the Ramapo River at the age of five.  I'm sure they were reminded of that day when they were out calling my name.  Sometimes, a grandmother shows her love by hugging you instead of spanking your butt.

It's hard to think of my grandmother without thinking of my grandfather.  He has been gone for twenty one years and I am sure that a day did not go by that he was not her first thought when she woke up and the last thought before she fell asleep.  

He was the light of every gathering.  He was the fun and the laughter.  He was all hugs and love.  When he died, a light went out for all of us.  

The last time I saw my grandfather, we were sitting on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune in Lanoka Harbor.  I was getting ready to drive back to California after spending the summer in New Jersey.  I knew it would be the last time, because his cancer was back and they were not treating it.  He still got under my old Volvo and rigged up the rattly muffler before I left.  Pop showed love through hugs and jokes and sometimes through repairs.  

When I returned less than a month later for his funeral, my grandmother stood outside her front door, keys in hand with her other hand outstretched behind her, waiting...

She looked at me after a second and said "I was waiting for Pop to take my hand".  

I still cry imagining her heartbreak at that moment and every moment that she remembered, again, that he was gone.

I talked with my Gram a lot in the days after my Pops death.  I remember saying "Don't take this wrong, but, Pop was my favorite".  She responded with:  "He was everyone's favorite".  Yes, I was a jerk when I was 22.  She wasn't insulted, I don't think, not really, anyway.  She knew exactly what I meant.  

I realize now, that he had it easier than her.  She was the disciplinarian and the one who made sure everyone was fed and clean and on time. Being in that position in my house has given me new respect and more love for the "tough one" in the household.  It's not easy to be overshadowed by "the fun one", but it is often necessary.  We can't all be the fun one; nothing would ever get done!

The last time I saw my grandmother, just a few days ago, she was not the person I am remembering, here.  She was forgetful, asking the same question three or four times.  Her voice was weak and quiet, where it had always been loud and strong.  I talked to her and sat with her a little bit.  She said her arm was itchy, so I rubbed some cream on it for her.  I could not get over how thin her once plump arm was.  I jokingly said "Man, Gram, your arms are so skinny!" and she smiled and kind of laughed.  Years ago, she would have been thrilled for skinny arms.  We both understood this.  

The last thing I said to her was "Bye, Gram.  I love you!" and I blew her a kiss out the door.  She responded with a wave and a quiet "I love you".

I will miss her terribly.  She was the bedrock that so much of my life was built on.  So strong and seemingly, permanent.  How is it that in the end, she really wasn't?  That she too would eventually die?  What does family even mean without her?  As a family, we will go on, but with her passing goes another generation.  Some call it the "Greatest Generation".  I called them Grams and Gramps and Gram and Pop and the greatest grandparents a child could hope for.

I can only smile and laugh at the memories and be happy that my Pop won't keep her waiting with her hand outstretched ever again.  

The glasses, Gram, Pop and Me.