The Game of Life
When I was younger, I loved to play the game Life. It was so cool to pick a car and load it up with kids while collecting money. I’d name my little pink and blue pegs and travel along. At the end of the game, you would count your money and retire. There was never any talk of death. It was one of my favorite games.
In Junior High, we used to pass around things called "slam books." They had page headers/categories in them like: what kind of car you want, who you’ll marry, what you want to be when you grow up, where you’ll live, what kind of house, etc. etc. You would fill them in and pass them to the next person. My responses usually went something like this:
Car: Porsche or Lamborghini
Marry: I don’t remember but I think I probably said the guy from Growing Pains, Rick Springfield, or Vanilla Ice (depending on the year).
Want to be: Rich
Where to live: Beach
Kind of house: Mansion
I was firmly rooted in reality, don’t you think? My responses were always so practical. Kidding aside, I honestly believed when I was younger, that if you wanted to be rich. . . you would be rich. If you wanted to live in a mansion. . . someone would just give you one. I grew up middle class, so I’m not sure where I came up with these ideas. I watched my parents work hard for what we had. I also thought that bad things, like car accidents and illnesses, happened to other people.
My Great-Grandfather was the first person I knew who died. I went to his viewing and funeral and remember having nightmares for a while afterwards. His death was like such a smack in the face to me. It made me realize that death could and would happen to people I knew. Later my instrument teacher passed away. He was elderly as well, so in my mind, death only happened to older people. It put the worry to rest for a while.
When my aunt died who was in her 40’s, I was devastated. She died after being sick on and off throughout her life. She was young though, compared to the other people I knew who passed before her and it really upset and scared me. Still the 40’s seemed so far away from where I was at the time. A chronic illness and death still seemed like something that happened to other people, older people.
Then I got a terrible phone call. It was last May 2005. I was pregnant and knew that our friend Sheree was due in June with her second baby as well. Sheree’s husband, Conrad, was my husband’s best friend from high school and our mutual friend in college. He was the best man in our wedding. The call was from Shelley, a high school friend of my husband and Conrad. Sheree had been complaining about not feeling able to breathe. She went to see her doctor. They told her it was just the baby pushing up on her lungs, and that the baby was fine. Later that week, she went to the ER when things didn’t get better. From there, they transferred her to a special Mom/Baby hospital. Her lung had collapsed. After a CAT scan and other tests, it was determined that something was very wrong. They delivered the baby a month early. (The baby would later endure open heart surgery for problems that he had.) They sent Sheree to yet another hospital. The diagnosis, after her doctors obtained a second opinion. . .cancer.
Synovial sarcoma is what they determined it to be. It’s a rare cancer with a poor prognosis. Usually, tumors appear in joints, knees, elbows, shoulders, etc. Hers appeared in the lining of her lung and was already stage IV. After chemo shrunk the tumors a bit, they removed her lung. We were all thinking she would get better. None of us knew what stage her cancer was. She endured radiation, more chemo, experimental treatments several states away. . . and nothing worked. The cancer continued to spread; she continued to get sicker and sicker. This past Friday, June 23rd, she passed away.
Their children are ages 6 and 1, practically the same ages as my girls. She was 29 years old. She died exactly five days before she would turn 30. Yesterday we buried her; today is her birthday. She won’t see her children grow up. She wasn’t even been able to be a mother to her 1-year old during this past year of barbaric cancer treatments. She had been too sick and too weak, her mother tells me, to do anything other than watch him grow and play, knowing she wouldn’t be able to for much longer.
I can not imagine having been in her shoes. I can not imagine being faced with not being able to watch my children grow up. Clearly, you can not choose how long your life will be or how it will end. What you can choose is how you can live your life while you’re here. Knowing what Sheree went through and what her family is going through now makes me so thankful for my healthy family; It makes me sick to think of what they have yet to endure. I only wish that the game of Life would have had a very different ending for Sheree and her family.
I am so sad about Sheree as many others are as well. She was a vibrant young mother who loved her children and husband so much. I have some great memories of being at weddings with her and her husband, and spending a week at the beach with them as well. She was always so focused on having "family time." My husband and I were talking about her the other night and about how it’s almost like she knew she wasn’t going to have all the time in the world with her family. She wanted every second to be time spent together. She was so focused on her family that a month before she died, she planned her daughter’s birthday party. Because she didn’t know if she’d be there or not, she made sure everything was taken care of. Her family had nothing to do other than show up. Her birthday party was Saturday, the day after she died and it went on as scheduled. She also made a list that she gave to her husband. It’s a list of things that she wants him to do with their children as they grow up. The first thing on the list was to buy their daughter a bike and teach her how to ride. He took their daughter to the store on Saturday morning and bought her that bike.
I have so many regrets. Sheree and I had been friends and we lost touch over the past few years. We always sent Christmas cards and wrote each other a letter each year, but her email address changed after our beach vacation and our communication went downhill from there. Sheree and I were a lot alike when it comes to our children and families which is what has made this hit particularly close to home for me. I sent her flowers when she was in the hospital. I sent her cards telling her I was praying for her. I sent her a letter telling her I was thinking about her and telling her some information that had been passed along to me about energy healing. I sent her a hair wrap when chemo robbed her of her beautiful long hair. I sent her daughter a jewelry making kit so that she could make her Mommy a bracelet; I sent her baby an outfit. But all I can think about is that I wish I would have called her. I called and spoke to her Mom; we spoke to her husband. I should have asked to speak to her. Honestly, I was so afraid to call her in the beginning. I didn’t know what to say to her. She had just been diagnosed with a rare cancer. Her baby was sick as well. I didn’t want her to think I was only calling because she was sick. I was feeling guilty that I made it through my pregnancy with only gestational diabetes, and that we had a healthy baby. So, I didn’t call. When I said my final goodbye to her yesterday, I closed my eyes and said that I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend, but that I was going to make it up to her by watching over her husband and children, and trying to help them get through this however I can.
I’m going to pray that Sheree now has peace. I’m going to pray that her family gets through this. On the night she died, her husband said that all of the things he once thought were important, aren’t really important, that the small things do matter. He is so right about that.
I hope that wherever Sheree is, she knows how much she was loved, how much she’ll be missed, and how very sorry I am.
Bug off
The day after Big I’s third birthday, we discovered something horrible. Apparently, Big I had taken home a souvenir from our little walk through nature on the previous day. She woke up in the morning looking sickly and pale. She was complaining that her shoulder hurt. I lifted up her pajama top and gasped. There was a tick embedded in her shoulder. I picked her up and ran her up the stairs to my husband, grabbing the phone on the way so I could call my Mom who happens to be a nurse.
After talking with my Mom and with the nurse from the pediatrician’s office, my husband had a go with the tweezers at her poor little shoulder. She screamed in pain and that tick held onto her so tightly. It made me sick. I wished it would be me instead. There was nothing I could do except hold her and tell her it would be over soon. If only I had known how long the ordeal was going to be.
My husband finally pulled the tick out of her, but its head remained behind. The pediatrician told me to cover it with neosporin and a band aid. They said the head would work its way out as Big I’s body rejected it and pushed it out.
They were wrong.
Three days later, the shoulder was not looking any better and I could still see the tick’s head, firmly embedded in her shoulder. I took her to the doctor. I saw a new pediatrician at the office who said it was no big deal. She said I should keep doing what I was doing. So I did, for another two days.
Two days later, Big I woke up with redness and swelling in her arm. I took her back to the pediatrician. This time, we saw a different doctor, who said that Big I had a staph infection in her arm and that he was going to try to get the head out. He had to lance and drain the wound. She screamed; I held her and felt like screaming myself. He didn’t get the head out. They gave me a prescription for some strong antibiotics. After all of that trauma, he handed me a sheet for blood work. Blood WORK on a 3 year old! I really wanted to scream.
We took her for the blood work and she was so brave. She was fine until the needle punctured the skin, and then she screamed. The blood work came back normal. About two weeks later, she was scratching her arm and the tick head came out. Nasty. She still has a scar.
Until this week, Big I has been terrified of every bug. Ants on the sidewalk? Let’s play inside instead. Bee buzzing around some flowers? Scream and head for cover! Fly got in the house? Must kill fly now or else child will have a nervous breakdown. It has gotten to the point that my husband and I have been worried about the possibility of a bug-related obsessive compulsive disorder. Or, maybe she’s suffering from PTTD (post-traumatic tick disorder)?
And then Aunt E came out of the blue with a bug catcher. Over the weekend, my sister decided that Big I must get over her fear of bugs. So, they spent the afternoon searching for bugs in the yard. Together, they caught two worms, a salamander, and a spider. She proudly carried around her little bug cage and showed everyone her latest catches. After about an hour or so, she’d tell everyone to "Say goodbye to the ‘lizard’" and we would. She would then release her new friends back to the wild.
So, you can understand my amazement with what happened yesterday. Big I declared that there was a scary black spider approaching her toys. I was busy feeding Lil C and told her it would have to wait a minute or two. Instead of waiting and whining, which would have been the norm pre-bug catcher, she grabbed a tissue, one tissue, (not 14 like I would have,) and approached the black spider with confidence. She knelt down, opened that tissue and squished it good. She then brought it to me to show me her conquest. I have to say, I was pretty impressed.
I think we’re over the bug fear.
I do remember
The other night I was at my parent’s house; and we got on the subject of when I was growing up. I told my dad how I remembered this one night when he and I were watching TV together. He said, "You want some popcorn?" I was shocked that he asked me and was offering to get us both a snack. I said, "Sure! Sounds good." At this point in my relaying the story, my Mom interrupted and said, "See, you remember all these good things about your dad; but you and your sister probably don’t remember anything good about me." I told her that she didn’t let me finish the story. My dad responded to my affirmative answer with a, "Then get off your butt and go make some for us." (My dad is sometimes annoying like that.)
I then started thinking of all the good things about my Mom and was telling her a few of my best memories of growing up. . .
- Every Valentine’s Day, whether my sister and I had a boyfriend or not (usually not), my Mom would prepare a candlelight dinner for the whole family. She’d also make a cake with pink icing and give us each a present. Even if I had to endure an entire school day filled with girls squealing with excitement at the flowers or chocolates their boyfriend gave them, I knew I had a special dinner and gift coming when I got home from school.
- I remember when my high school boyfriend and I had a major fight. She spent what must have been hours just listening to me cry and giving me hugs while my dad stood in the doorway, shaking his head and probably imagining a baseball bat meets boyfriend scenario. My Mom knew the perfect things to say to me; my dad was always better at the violent imagery.
- In the summers, she would get up early and spend the morning cleaning and doing laundry and getting done whatever she needed to get done so that she could take us to the pool for the afternoon, even when she didn’t feel like going.
- She took me to buy a new outfit for each and every school dance from 7th grade on, so that I would feel special, even if all the boys were dancing with other girls.
- One time, my dad insisted I eat ALL my food from dinner and said that I wasn’t allowed to leave the table until I was done. I ended up falling asleep at the table. My Mom woke me up and I went up to bed. She came up to my room a few minutes later with cookies and milk.
And I also thought of a couple of great memories of her from more recent months and years. . .
- When I gave birth to Big I, my Mom was there holding one leg and breathing along with me. She had a natural labor and I wanted the same; so her just being there served as such an inspiration.
- When Lil C was going through this projectile vomiting stage, my Mom jumped in the car and arrived at my house after one of the incidents so that she could help me clean up and calm down since my husband was traveling.
Though every Mother and daughter inevitably have at least one I-hate-your-boyfriend-so-get-rid-of-that-lousy-good-for-nothing. . . rough patch during the teenage years, I can now say that I consider my mom one of my very best friends. She always sends me these Mother’s Day cards about how proud she is of me, and what a joy it’s been to watch me become such a great Mom. I think it’s been pretty amazing watching her become an incredible grandmother. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom (if you can figure out how to get on the internet and find your way to my blog).
It’s in the genes
From the very moment we found out each of our baby daughter’s were on their way, we started thinking about who she would look like, what she would be like, and most importantly, whose nose she would have. There was no question that our girls would be born with blue eyes, but both of our daughters definitely got my eye color(darker blue) and shape. Personality begins to show itself after a few months. We always thought Big I was a fairly low maintenance baby until we had Lil C who is the most laid back child on the face of the Earth. Big I required miles worth of bouncing while walking to get her to sleep. Lil C, when tired, requires only the "twi" from the song "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and she’s out like a light.
Other traits are more likely learned. Big I’s fear of bugs probably comes from the fact that every time there is a bug in the house, Daddy is called to deal with it. Mommy wants no part of that whole scenario. Eye rolling seems to be a learned behavior too; and unfortunately I am also responsible for that lovely trait. Over the last few months though, it has become very clear that Big I has inherited something else wonderful from her mother.
Apparently, being a clutz is in the genes. Let me start by saying that I am one of those people who can rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time. Yes, I can. And, when I was a teenager in jazz dance class I learned this thing where one arm goes up and down while the other arm goes up, out and then down and I mastered it, faster than anyone else I know. Obviously I do not suffer from a complete and utter lack of coordination. It seems to be more related to the inability to pay attention when it matters.
Take my first date with my husband for example. We were walking on a lovely tree-lined street on our way to a movie theater. We were sharing little niceties and getting to know each other, when a tree branch rudely smacked me in the forehead Wizard of Oz style. It practically gave me whiplash. It was a great laugh for my husband and remains so to this day. At the time, it wasn’t so funny for me. My forehead was a little red and the worst part was my bruised ego. It was a first date after all, and I REALLY liked the guy. Obviously, things worked out considering he’s been my husband for going on eight years, but still I could have done without the little smack back to reality.
Consider also, what happened to me a few months ago. I had just left a doctor’s office building after an appointment and was descending a set of about six steps down to the parking lot. A cold swift wind blew my hair in front of my face and I missed a step. I came down hard on my straight right leg, which sent me catapulting forward. I stomped my left foot out in an attempt to save myself the fall, but the momentum that the top part of my body had was a bit too much. It seemed to happen in slow motion, but when all was said and done, I was a good 6 feet away from the steps, having skidded across the parking lot on the palms of my hands, and knees before I finally came to an abrupt but welcome stop on my back. My first reaction was to look around and see if anyone had noticed. No one was around, so I took my time getting up, shook off the gravel, took inventory of the injuries and then began to collect my belongings that had been strewn about in the parking lot at two foot intervals representing the path of the fall.
My little missteps provide great fun for others, but for me, they’re pretty embarrassing. Now, it appears that Big I has the same problem. She has always been an injury prone kid. She is constantly bruised on the shins and occasionally on her back. She likes to "dance" in the living room and by dance I mean combine dance moves with karate and gymnastics that usually end up shaking the living room floor if not the whole house. She inevitably ends up throwing herself on the floor somehow resulting in these mysterious bruises. Her most famous saying as of late occurs after one of these dance falls where she stands straight up after a body twisting fall to declare, "I’m o.k." Mary Catherine Gallagher style.
Last week we were all taking a walk. Big I was doing her dance moves in the street which involve jumping, twisting, and spinning with karate knife hands. Next thing you know, she has a knee full of gravel and a nice hole in her capri pants. Not even a week later, the child runs out the front door, trips and goes crashing into the pavement, attaining yet another boo-boo to add to the knee collection. Last year, she wiped out so badly while playing at a playground that my husband and I were both thanking Sam’s Club and that great first aid kit we had picked up just days before. Otherwise, I really don’t know what we would have done. Big I went to ballet class the next day looking like a warrior: scraped chin, lip, knees, hands, etc. etc. etc.
I know she’s accident prone, but until today I didn’t realize how much so. For Easter, we bought the girls those make your own stone kits. We took advantage of Lil C’s long nap and started mixing it up outside. We mixed the concrete-like material and poured it into the mold. I had just finished getting all the air bubbles out, and leveling the material. I just wanted to clean up the bucket and then we were going to start decorating. I set the mold on the one step, out of the way, and told Big I to be careful she didn’t get anywhere near it. No sooner than I turn around and pick up the hose nozzle, do I hear a feeble, "Mommy?"
I turn around to see Big I standing with the heel of one of her brand new $48 sandals firmly planted inside the mold. Concrete is spilling onto our sidewalk and the bottom of Big I’s shoe is coated in it as well. "OH MY GOD!" I screamed. It had been only SECONDS since I had turned my back and given instructions to be careful. I helped her remove her foot, cleaned off the sandal and went to work on the mold once again. It all worked out, although our sidewalk has a little extra to it now.
People are always looking at us like we’re overprotective lunatics when Big I is playing outside or with other kids because we are constantly reminding her to "be careful" and "watch where you’re going". It’s for good reason though! She has often been so involved in telling us something that she neglects to watch where she’s going and has ended up walking into doors, walls, etc. It is obvious that she has inherited yet another lovely trait from her mother. (I won’t even bother to go into detail about my encounter with a screen door a few years back.)
Because of this, my husband and I have been questioning whether giving our baby the middle name "Grace" was really a good idea. Only time will tell.
Egg Hunt Etiquette
My memories of Easter egg hunts are pretty tame. The most common place for an egg hunt for me was at my grandmother’s big back yard. The competition was my little sister, so it goes without saying that I was always a pretty happy camper post egg hunt.
I also have some memories of an egg hunt that my parents used to take us to at a local park. I honestly don’t know why they even call them egg hunts because really, who has to hunt for them when they’re right out in front of you? They really should call them "egg free-for-alls" because isn’t that what they usually end up being anyway? You show me an egg hunt, and I’ll show you at least a hand full of kids who leave with hurt feelings and some pent up frustration. The egg hunt etiquette that I followed at the local park egg hunt went something like this:
- When someone starts the knee bend descent towards an egg, that egg is off limits. Once someone has "engaged" the egg in this manner, it’s time to move along.
- If I am in the knee bend descent and another person should swoop in and try to take the egg that I have engaged, all bets are off, as in, do what needs to be done. You may: tell on kid, yell at kid, kick kid, etc.
- If all else fails when dealing with a knee bend descent swipe attempt, quickly stomp on egg so that it really is pointless for anyone involved. Follow the "if I can’t have this egg, no one can have this egg" mentality as a last resort.
- If someone does successfully swipe an egg once I have engaged the egg, then I am free to hate that person for all of eternity, and/or possibly "accidentally" tip their basket while they’re in the process of swiping someone else’s egg.
I believe it is a parent’s responsibility to teach their children these unwritten rules of childhood. I certainly don’t want or condone either of my children being bullies. However, I want them to know that it’s o.k. to stand up for themselves too. Which brings me to today’s events. . . Big I has never been to a regular egg hunt. Her experience is much like most of mine were. The egg hunt takes place at Mom-Mom’s house and she has had no competition and probably won’t from Lil C until at least next year. This year, I decided that it would be fun to go to a different egg hunt to let her be around other kids. After all, children must be indoctrinated into the egg hunt free-for-all at some point.
I wanted to give Big I some "tips" before the actual hunt, but she spent the two previous nights at Mom-Mom’s house, so I didn’t have the time to really pass on my knowledge. Seeing as the egg hunt actually took place at a church, I was unsure if my egg rules would really be appropriate. O.k. I know they’re not appropriate, but even kids at church can get competitive, right?
So, the egg hunt started with an Easter party that involved story time and crafts. The kids traced their hands and then pasted cotton balls onto the hand print to make it look like a little lamb. I’m not a particularly crafty person so I was pretty lost. I think Big I was too, judging from the way her lamb turned out. I mean, it’s cute and all, but it looks more like a hand with cotton balls on it than anything else.
Then, there was the little boy sitting across the table from her who kept "smelling something" (that I’m sure he dealt himself), and accusing someone in the vicinity of letting loose with their nether-regions. My husband and I recently taught Big I another unwritten rule of childhood, to use the phrase, "he who smelt it dealt it," but instead she just glared and kept on gluing. I’m telling you, teaching your children the childhood rules are just not easy these days, and getting them to follow through with them is even harder!
So, finally it was time for the egg hunt. The kids were grouped according to age and Big I was one of the youngest in the group, having just turned 5. We made our way to the starting line and the eggs were all lying out in the grass for everyone to see. There were eggs and candy and I thought for sure that Big I would feel like she hit the lottery and come back with only candy. The kids started and everyone else started running, doing the practically walking on all fours thing, to get to the eggs and candy faster. Then there was Big I.
Big I tentatively walked into the field and contemplated each egg. She would notice one, take some time to observe it, maybe bend a bit towards it, and then slowly pick it up and put it in her basket, if the mood moved her. Then she would walk a few steps, ever so slowly, and start the observation/contemplation process all over again. I couldn’t help but say to my Mom, who was along for the fun, "What is she doing?" My competitive nature made me yell out, "Come on! Pick up the eggs!" Still her process continued at the same pace.
When everything was finally picked up, Big I made her way back to me and had five eggs in her basket, which was WAY more than I thought she’d have considering how she practically gave each one a job interview before picking it up. In her basket there was not a piece of candy to be found. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had it in her head that since I had been talking about taking her to an egg hunt, perhaps she thought eggs were the only thing she was allowed to pick up. "Maybe since we’re at a church egg hunt, she thinks the candy was put there by the devil to tempt her," I said to my Mom. One little girl standing nearby heard us remark that Big I was without a single piece of candy. She offered some of hers to Big I. I mean, obviously this was not your average egg hunt; and it’s probably good that my rules were kept to myself.
Before heading back in, I asked Big I to give me one last smile with her basket of eggs (o.k. actually a first smile because there were no smiles during the course of this hunt.)
Man, she was thrilled. Can’t you tell?
Inside, when she realized we were leaving she finally gave up the pearly whites. Apparently, competitive natures are not passed down in the genes; and I need to seriously start making some peace with that NOW.
Copyright
© Copyright 2006-2019 blackbeltmama dot com ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Follow Me
Blog Designed By
My Creations
Things You Could Care Less About
