One Down . . .

So the first year has come, and gone.  Twelve months without Mom.  One year of "firsts" without Mom.  No more, "this is the first birthday without Mom".  No more, "once the first year is over . . ."   That's it.  It's done.  And you know what?  I made it.

A year ago, I really didn't know what was going on.  I, unfortunately, had the surreal experience of watching my mom die.  Watching the woman who brought six children into this world, cared for her dying mother and sister, managed friendships and relationships with ease - watching this woman fight for every last breath when her body was nothing but a shell.  I don't talk about those last hours all that much and I'm very thankful that I could be there, but I'm also very pissed off.  I just can't, and never have been able to, get my head around the fact that a woman who did so much for others was made to leave this world in such a cruel way.  And a year later, that hasn't changed.  I have made it through the first year without Mom, but it made me realize that there may be at least 20, maybe 30, more years of my life without my mom.  And that just pisses me off.

I began the anniversary of Mom's death rushing out of the house to catch a flight to my 20th college reunion.  And I ended the anniversary of Mom's death, laughing and crying with my dearest girlfriends - we were gathered in this old dive bar we used to frequent in college and the song "Dancing Queen" by ABBA came on.  I lost it.  Could have been the handful of vodka tonics I had but I'd like to think it was pure sentimentality at the playing of that song (one that Mom and her gang loved and we all played at our weddings).  The first notes came blaring out of the speakers in this bar and my best friend pulled me to her shoulder while another grabbed my hand, and I completely lost it.  Sobbed like a little baby while "Dancing Queen" played and all these drunken alums danced around us. Someone handed me a napkin to wipe away my tears and very little words were exchanged.

There, in that very moment, Mom was present.  She was present because she was the type of person who would have handed me the napkin, pulled me to her shoulder and grabbed my hand.  She was the type of person who would not have to say anything to make those around her feel better - she just did.  And in all of my anger and self-pity and sorrow and mourning, somehow I have managed to keep those friends in my life.  Mom has made sure that they have not left me, just when I needed them most.

I've been a pretty crummy friend, and a pretty lousy wife, and not such a great mom myself this past year.  I've taken these twelve months and I've suppressed my anger and sorrow, and that's made me not such a great person to be around.  However, sitting there in this crappy bar crying huge tears of sadness, I realized that the first year is over.  And I made it.

To all of you who have put up with me this past year, thank you very much.  Mom thanks you too.

Blueberry Muffins
(I have no relevance here other than the kids and Pete deserve something a little special for breakfast tomorrow)
1/2 C margarine or butter
2 C flour
1 C sugar
2 eggs
1/2 C milk
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla
2 1/2 C blueberries
2 tsp sugar for top

Preheat oven to 375.

Cream butter and sugar together.  Add eggs one at a time, mixing well.  Combine flour, baking powder and salt.  Add alternately to creamed mixture with milk and vanilla.  Mash 1/2 C blueberries with a fork and add to batter, mixing well.  Fold in the rest of the blueberries.  Pour into greased muffin tins.  Sprinkle with sugar and bake for 30 minutes. Let cool for 15 minutes before removing from pan.

A Mother's Pride

Mimi's Kitchen is back - and so is mine, finally!  I unpacked all the boxes and put Mimi's Kitchen back in its rightful spot, in the place where I keep the few cookbooks I actually use and a perch which allows Mom to take in all the splendor of my new kitchen.  Mimi would have loved this kitchen and it would have been the first kitchen I've had that Mimi remotely liked.  Pete and I have lived in some really cool spots, but they were always older, had a ton of charm and needed some work.  Somehow, Mom tended to focus on all the work we needed to do and made no bones about expressing her opinion.  She was very good at that.

Mimi had a hard time entering any one's home and not rearranging their furniture or advising them on the window treatments they needed to complete a room.  I, on the other hand, have always gone for more of a minimalist style and would much rather wait and put up the custom window treatments I really want than slap up some store bought drapes.  Same thing with art - drove Mom crazy that we had empty walls.  But I didn't want to run out and buy some crap just to fill the space and we've managed to purchase some very cool, very meaningful pieces over the years.  It used to really hurt me when Mom made all these comments because it wasn't like Pete and I were living in some cheap lean-to.  We just happened to select expensive areas in which to live, filled with old homes which need a ton of work, and we took our time making the changes we wanted.

Bottom line, I never felt I measured up to Mom's expectations.  And I have done a lot, and I mean A LOT, of reflecting on this aspect of my relationship with Mom over the past few years.  Pete was really helpful during this time as he always had a great, neutral outlook and he pushed me to come to terms with my relationship with Mom before she died.  Honestly, if it wasn't for Pete, Mom may have left this world not knowing how I really felt because I had a very hard time verbalizing my feelings.  But I did, and I came to terms with the fact that she was a mother looking out for the best interest of her eldest daughter and wanting nothing but the best for me and my family.  And I had some amazing conversations with Mom in the days before she died.  And I found peace, as did she.

So as I celebrate the first Mother's Day with my mom in heaven, I am going to have a cookout and make her potato salad.  One of my favorites growing up - always reminds me of summer at the shore.  The kids tell me that I make the best potatoes because I'm Irish.  Mimi would be proud.  And I now know that she always was.  Love you Mom!

Potato Salad

5-6 medium, cooked potatoes, cubed (I use red potatoes)
1 cup mayonnaise
2-3 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
2-3 Tbsp sugar
1 1/2 tsp celery salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1 cup thinly sliced celery
1/2 cup chopped onion
2 hard boiled eggs, sliced (optional)

In large bowl, combine the mayo, vinegar, celery salt, sugar, pepper.  Taste to make sure it's right.  Add vinegar and sugar to taste (you want a little zing to the dressing).  Add potatoes, celery and onion.  Mix well.  Top with egg and refrigerate.

Sentimental Seagull

I was tucking Regan in the other night when I noticed this picture she has on her nightstand.  It's a photo of me finishing my first big race, the Atlanta Half Marathon in 2000 - one of those perfunctory shots the photographer takes as you cross the finish line. Regan has had this picture in her room for at least five years now and it struck me that I never had any pictures of Mom when I was growing up.  Actually, I don't think Mom ever existed in any photos, except for the ones where she was carefully userhing in a brightly lit birthday cake to the happily awaiting child sitting at the dining room table.  Mom was usually in the kitchen or behind the camera, so she didn't show up in all that many candid shots.

Although I don't have a picture of Mom finishing a big race (for those of you who know my mom, how funny would that be), I do have a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull - a novel by Richard Bach which my dad gave to Mom for Valentine's Day a long, long time ago.  It used to sit on Mom's nightstand and I must have been about 9 or 10 when I picked it up and was captivated by the photos in the book.  I used to love nosing about Mom's bedroom in the late afternoons when she was busy with all the hub-bub created by my younger siblings.  I would sit on her bed, file my nails with her old metal file, munch on some Pepto Bismol chews that she had stashed in her nightstand drawer, and look at the pictures in Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  I really cherished the quiet moments of feeling like I was the grown up in the house . . .

I don't think I really captured the meaning of the story of Jonathan Livingston until I was well into high school, but I would pick up this book every now and then, peruse its pages and find some sort of peace.  I never asked permission to borrow the book - I just took it. And it has been on my nightstand ever since.  It has traveled with me to college, my first apartment in Chicago, and every home I've ever had since.  It bears the sloppy yet beautiful inscription my father wrote to my mother on that Valentine's Day so many years ago, and right now, it is mine.  It's my little piece of Mom, and Dad, sitting with me every day and ready to comfort me when I need it.  It's my little piece of the childhood I loved, sitting with me every day and ready to comfort me.  It's my little piece of Mom, and her beautiful way of living, sitting with me every day and ready to comfort me.

I wonder how long Regan will keep my photo on her nightstand.  I wonder if she'll dig through my nightstand, and sit on my bed, and file her nails with my emery board.  I wonder what impact I will have on my kids, what memories I will leave with them.  I wonder.

The Last Word

Right now, I can't even find Mimi's Kitchen.  It's packed in some random box, shoved into a corner of the living room and gathering all sorts of sawdust as we renovate our kitchen. Oddly enough, there's a sort of weird symbolism in this.  Mom and I did not agree all that much and I know she would have numerous opinions about my choices for counter tops, paint colors, light fixtures, etc.  Instead of arguing with her, I packed her away in a box (sort of).

When I was a kid, I'd ask Mom's advice about everything, then promptly dismiss her opinion and do the complete opposite.  Clothing choices, hair styles, details of our wedding - I always asked, then promptly dismissed.  As I was taking a run the other day and chatting with Mom, I realized that most of my dismissive approaches to her sage wisdom were done purely out of control.  I wanted to have the last word, even if I secretly thought her way was the right way.  It made me feel better to have the last word, as if I had control.  There were many times, looking back, that I went against Mom's advice purely to argue with her and take a stand.  How silly is that?  Why couldn't I just accept my mother's advice and let her feel good about the fact that her opinions were valued? Kind of bums me out now.

As I struggle with some of the mundane decisions that come with renovating a kitchen, I realize that the choices I am making are exactly what Mom would have advised.  How different would my kitchen look if she were still here?  Would I do exactly the opposite just to make a stand, pick a different color just because she liked something else (most likely not, since Pete has a big role in all of this and he's usually right!)  So, basically, all these years, Mom was right.  I was wrong.  I was stubborn.  But, I always got the last word.  Would love to give that back right now.

Running on Faith

When I go running, I completely lose myself.  It's an amazing experience where I get a chance to shut out the real world, channel the music on my iPod and let my mind run free.  I haven't been running that much lately but I just found out I got a spot in the New York City marathon this year, so I have begun to step it up a bit and many of these runs have found me talking to my mom.  She loved the fact that I was a runner.  My Pop Pop, Mimi's dad, was a runner and I actually have a medal he won while running track in college - a very special piece that has been with me since I was in high school.

Recently, my runs have been hard.  I'm out of shape and need to get back on track rather quickly, particularly if I'm going to complete this marathon.  I've started telling people about my intent to run the marathon, largely because I feel the more people who know what I'm up to the more likely I am to run the damn race.  A lot of people have asked if I am running for a charity, which I suppose comes out of the fact that my two sisters rocked it in the 3 Day Walk last year.  Oddly, I find running to be a very selfish thing for me - it's my race, my run and I really don't want to be giving anything away.  I know this is very self-centered, but it's who I am and how I feel right now.  I just like to run, enough said.  And I am very selfish, just ask my husband!

As I was running today, I had this great conversation with Mom (great because I was the one carrying her side of the discussion, which worked to my favor!!).  I was telling Mom how I began to feel bad that I wasn't running for a charity.  We had this great dialogue around my reasons for running and how it was perfectly fine to run my race, and run it for me.  Then it dawned on me, or maybe it dawned on Mimi.  I should run my race and encourage others to do what they want for their favorite charity.  So I am going to take off on November 6th and run 26.2 miles through all five boroughs of New York City.  I am not going to raise any money.  I am not going to pledge any dollars, or any goods, or any time.  I am going to run, and I am going to run with Mimi.  I have decided to have her name printed on my bib that day so when I run through all those miles of the city, the crowds will see her name on my chest.  Maybe a few of them will shout "Come on Mimi, you can do it!" or "Go Mimi, go!"  They will cheer me on and shout her name, and she will be with me every step of the painful 26.2 mile way.  How cool is that?

As Mom and I run the New York City marathon, I encourage all of you to do something for your favorite charity, if you are so inclined.  Give where you want to give, volunteer where you feel your time is valued, and offer up just a bit of yourself to others.  Mom was really good at that.  I am not.  So I am going to run, talk to my mom, and feel some inner peace hoping that others will give where I could not.

I don't have a recipe for today but I'll find a good one to help me carb load the night before the marathon.

Irish Pride

A week from today is St. Patrick's Day and I am really dreading this holiday, probably more so than the big ones.  Mom was fiercely proud of her Irish heritage and she would go all out on St. Patrick's Day.  Corned beef and cabbage, Irish soda bread, the Clancy Brothers playing in the house.  She would don her green and wear it proudly.  It was a day Mimi cherished and she would run around talking in a brogue all day wishing the luck of the Irish to everyone she met.  So next week is going to be a tough one.

Mom made no bones about the fact that she would have liked an Irish son-in-law, and she made sure Pete knew in no uncertain terms that an Italian surname was not going to cut it in her book.  I wouldn't say they got off to a rocky start, but Mom's inability to pronounce Pete's last name and the fact that he doesn't have a lick of Irish in his lineage didn't really help.  Mom was actually baking Irish soda bread the first time she met Pete and I am convinced this was some sort of subliminal attempt to get him to change his surname to something Gaelic.  Subtlety was not one of Mom's strong suits.  But, hard as she tried, there was no changing the fact that she ended up with one Italian, one English and two Polish sons-in-law -- there has got to be a good joke in there somewhere . . .

As a family, we focus a bit more on our Irish heritage than we do on the Italian.  It's not that we aren't proud to be Italian, we are and the kids know it.  It's just that the Irish have way cooler music, tend to be a bit more of a partying crowd, and have their own holiday. The kids all adore their Notre Dame apparel and Pete has one of the largest collections of Irish music this side of Dublin.  We even toyed with having Regan take up Irish dancing but she got so mired down in sports that she couldn't find the time, and I'm convinced that Thomas is part leprechaun.  I think even Pete would admit, with no disrespect to his Italian ancestors, that having some Irish in your background is pretty cool.

So, as we head into the Irish holiday, I do so with a very heavy heart.  I miss my mom immensely and I miss her zest for life.  I miss the cards she would send the kids for St. Patrick's Day and the "top of the mornin'" greeting she would have for me on the phone.  I miss her smile and her wit, and I really miss the banter she and Pete would throw around whenever they were together - those two made quite a pair. I can, however, say that I will not miss her Irish soda bread.  Bordering on blasphemy, I admit I cannot stand the stuff. That said, I don't want to rob my kids of this great tradition so I'm going to start tonight and attempt to make it, hoping I can turn out at least one decent batch by March 17th and make Mom proud.

Slainte!

Irish Soda Bread

4 C flour
1 C sugar
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
2 sticks butter, softened
1 C raisins
1 1/3 C buttermilk
1 egg yolk (to brush top)

Preheat oven to 350.  Mix all dry ingredients.  Cut butter into dry mixture.  Add raisins. Mix in buttermilk a little at a time.

Knead dough on a floured surface.  Shape into 2-3 round loaves.  Cut cross in top of loaf and brush with egg yolk.  Bake for 1 hour.

Carolina Blue

One of the things I loved about Mom was the fact that she was a big sports fan.  She adored her NY Giants and would route for Notre Dame to no avail, but nothing could come between Mom and her beloved Tar Heels.  Having graduated from UNC-Greensboro, Mom considered herself a true Tar Heel and that woman idolized the UNC basketball team, particularly during the Dean Smith era.  Back in the day, her allegiance to Carolina would rarely come between Mom and Dad, as Notre Dame used to be a football school and UNC-Chapel Hill has always been a basketball school.  Nowadays, those waters have gotten a little murky and the tide seems to have shifted.  Wonder what Mom would think this year as the Irish are ranked higher than UNC in basketball, both men's and women's!

As it turns out, Regan is a huge college basketball fan, not to mention a pretty good player herself .  When she's not shooting hoops in the driveway, she can be found watching ESPN coverage of whatever game is on, men's or women's.  Mom would have loved this.  One of the coaches Rey has worked with graduated from Notre Dame and helped lead them to the women's NCAA championship ten years ago, so Rey tends to follow the Irish a little more closely this season.

But tonight, Regan and I are going to sit down and watch one of the more storied rivalries in college basketball - UNC vs. Duke - and we'll be thinking of Mom the whole time.  The Tar Heels have to travel down the long road from Chapel Hill to Raleigh, the asphalt marked on one end with Carolina blue tar heels and the other with the Duke blue devil logo.  Tough challenge.  But I know they can rise to the occasion and Mom will be with them the whole way.  If Mom were still around, we'd chat tonight pre-game and talk about the odds.  Then we'd call each other if the game was heading in UNC's favor, and we'd definitely replay the highlights over the phone in the morning, second-guessing coaching decisions and any miscues from the refs.  Most importantly, we'd comment about the cute boys from UNC and how the Duke fans were rude, and of course opine about some of the unsightly tattoos these young guys have.  I miss these mundane conversations more than I admit.

In honor of Mom's alma mater, I'm going to make some beer bread tonight.  Knowing what I know about Mom, I figure she must have had a draught or two while at North Carolina (ya' think??) and this comfort food will lessen the sting of Mom's absence.  I will call Dad to talk about the game, but I'll spare him the "cute UNC boy" conversation.  And, I'll make sure that Regan understands how important it is to maintain allegiance to the Carolina boys.  Let's just put it this way, scholarships aside, none of my kids will be going to Duke.

Beer Bread

1/2 c sugar
3 c self-rising flour
12 oz. bottle of beer
1/2 stick of butter

Preheat oven to 350.  Mix sugar, flour and beer and pour into greased loaf pan.  Melt butter and pour over mixture.  Bake for 1 hour.