Christmas Joy

Do you remember your favorite Christmas ornament from your childhood?  That one piece that you could not wait for your mom to unwrap or pull out of the storage box?  Do you remember decorating the tree as a kid and all the stories that went with every ornament you carefully placed on the tree?  That one was from Aunt Joan. . . Mom got you that when she went to San Francisco. . . You made that one in first grade . . . That was from your first Christmas . . .

All these tacky pieces, dripping with globs of glue and glitter, handmade crafts and special mementos of trips near and far.  Bright vivid colors, pieces you loved to hold, memories you would cherish.

My favorite decoartion didn't go on the tree.  It was this centerpiece-thing that Mom would put on the coffee table.  It had three felt reindeer covered in gold glitter and it was tacky.  I'm talking Carol Brady-1970's-tacky.  But I loved this piece.  I played with it so much that those damn reindeer were bald by the time I hit middle school.  Dad would crank up a fire, Mom would attack the Christmas tree with a vengeance, and I would just sit at the coffee table and play with this silly centerpiece.  And not once, not a single time, would Mom ask me to leave it alone.  She would let me have my fun, sweep up the glitter remnants when I was done, and softly smile while humming some John Denver holiday tune.

I am the complete opposite.  I am the annal retentive holiday decorator.  No one, and I mean no one, gets near my tree.  All the decorations have a certain place and when it comes to holiday illumination, I am the queen.  Pete picks out the tree and leaves the rest to me.  The kids don't dare come within a four foot radius of the tree until every light is in its place.  They know this, and they stay back.  Until this year.

Thomas pulled out an ornament Mom had given him on her last Christmas with us and I just melted.  I stopped in my tracks and I remembered that damn gold reindeer centerpiece.  I stepped away from the tree and let the kids do the rest.  They had a blast - chatting about the ornaments, which ones they loved, how they remembered certain ones, hanging them all haphazard on the tree.  I sat on the couch, watched with a heavy but very happy heart, and wished Mom could see this.  Wished more than anything that I could play with that silly reindeer centerpiece.  Wished more than anything I had an ounce of Mom's patience during each and every day.

Cherish the small moments, relish the big ones, and celebrate everything in between.  Merry Christmas from me and Mimi!

Christmas Cookies

2/3 cup shortening
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg
3 Tbsp milk
1 tsp vanilla
2 cups flour

Icing:
5 Tbsp butter, softened
3 1/2 cups confectioner sugar
6 Tbsp milk
1 tsp vanilla
pinch of salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix shortening and sugar together.  Stir in egg, milk then vanilla.  Add flour a little at a time.  Wrap in wax paper and chill.  Roll out on floured surface and cut with cutters.  Bake on greased cookie sheet for 10 minutes until done but not brown.

Icing:
Mix all ingredients adding mile last (a little at a time).  Separate and color with food coloring.

Going Bananas!

Looking back, I realize what a gift it was to be with my mom while she was dying.  It was hard as hell to watch her slip away and, as I've said before, the last few hours of her life were brutal. However, I had all these really special moments, hanging out by her bedside, chatting about all things random.  I got to ask her a lot of questions, get her advice, calm her nerves about leaving my dad and the six of us.  But I forgot to ask her one question, a question that plagues me every single day - "how the hell did you raise six kids without ever raising your voice?"

It's true.  Mom was not a yeller.  Can you believe that?  I feel as if I spend 80% of my day yelling my head off at my kids.  As if, somehow, by raising the decibel level and pitch of my voice they are going to listen to me.  I'm a smart person, graduate degree and all, yet I still can't get through a day without losing my cool and yelling at my kids somehow expecting that, miraculously, this one time they will listen.  Isn't the definition of insanity repeating the same action and expecting a different outcome?  That proves it - I'm insane.

Don't get me wrong.  It's not like we don't have wonderful, calm, "Rockwellian" moments in this household. But there are so many times when I just completely lose my cool and yell, and yell, and yell . .. and get ignored by the three Lilliputians who are clearly running this insane asylum.  So how did Mom do it?  How did she manage to get all six of us out the door, fed, cleaned, clothed, homeworked without raising her voice.  I mean we had family dinners every single night, home cooked meal on the table, all six of us sitting there (invariably talking over each other so it wasn't a quiet meal) and mom didn't have to yell to get us to the table.  Yell to turn off the TV.  Yell to clean up the toys in the basement.  Yell to get us out the door.

I would like one morning in my household where my boys actually get their socks, shoes and jackets on without me raising my voice.  One football practice carpool where we aren't rushing out the door, football pads trailing behind us, helmet bouncing on the ground, me yelling "Get IN the car!"  One afternoon where homework just gets done, no nagging required.

In one of my recent running chats with Mom, I asked her advice (note: see above comment about my insanity).  How did she manage to keep the level of chaos in our house manageable?  How did she do it without yelling?  Well, it's pretty clear.  Just stop yelling.  Take it one step at a time.  Start getting the kids ready 10 minutes earlier and give yourself some wiggle room.  Touch them on the shoulder so you command their attention instead of yelling from two rooms over.  All these things I know, I just have a hard time putting them into practice.  Let's face it, it is far easier to sit on my duff in the kitchen typing this blog and screaming for the kids to come for dinner, then to get up, walk into the family room and ask them in a civilized tone.  

As Pete continues to tell me, don't make everything an issue.  He truly is the voice of reason in this household, although he is the voice that gets to shower every morning, go off to a cool job on Wall Street, travel and eat at really nice restaurants; so while I respect his opinion, I'm not always sure if we share the same reality.  That said he is right: stop making every little thing an issue.  But, when this is all I do all day long, everything seems like an issue to me.

So, I'm going to try and take it down a notch.  Apply all the things I learn in yoga and relax.  Who cares if they are a few minutes late for school?  Why do they have to do homework right when I tell them?  Let the kids have some control over how the day is structured, and maybe they will do a better job listening next time.  And, stop yelling.

Since I have come to the conclusion that I am going bananas, today I made banana cake for the kids and they loved it.  Thomas helped me mash the bananas, Regan and Jack fought over who would lick the beaters, and I didn't yell at anyone.  Not making everything an issue, just like Pete.  One day at a time, just like Mimi.

Banana Cake

1/2 cup butter
2 eggs
1 cup sugar
2 bananas (ripe)
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 cup powdered sugar
1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional)
milk as needed

Preheat oven to 350.

Cream butter, sugar, eggs and bananas.  Combine flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda.  Mix into creamed mixture.  Spread batter into a 9x13 baking pan.  Bake for 45 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

Mix powdered sugar, chopped walnuts and enough milk to make an icing.  Spread over warm cake and serve at room temperature.

Meatloaf and Mashed Potatoes

Birthdays were a huge deal for Mom.  She always did her best to make our day special and she did that for everyone she knew - family, friends, neighbors.  Mom had a stack of cards on deck and her birthday calendar was overflowing with names; there was hardly a day went by when she wasn't passing birthday wishes along to someone.  She had a penchant for picking out raunchy cards, especially for her close buds.  This used to embarrass the crap out of me when I was in high school, but now I find myself searching the aisle at CVS for that perfect card with the dirty joke.

Going off to college, Mom would call me every year as close to 6:30 am as possible (aided slightly by the fact that I was a whole time zone behind) so she could remind me of the time I came into this world.  I'm fairly certain the roommates did not appreciate this call, but I sure did.  It was just one little thing I came to expect each year, and now as my second birthday passes without Mom I realize how much I miss that call. Half the time I was barely awake, or slightly hungover from the night before, but Mom's call always made my day.  We'd chat for a few minutes, share my plans for my big day, thank her for the gift she sent and the day would begin.

I've had some awesome birthday celebrations throughout my short 42 years - the Big Wheel my roommates got me junior year in college and the ensuing keg party that almost got us kicked off campus, sleeping out for ND tickets on the eve of my 21st birthday, taking friends to Great Adventure in my teen years, my 40th surprise dinner party with the mac-daddy limo into the city, hanging at the Willie Nelson concert in Big Sky with the family.  Good times, really good times.

I am blessed and I am lucky, but I still feel a little sad.  Whether Mom was here to celebrate with me, or just a phone call and card away, I knew how much she relished my special day and I miss that.  As a mother, I completely understand how special it is to celebrate the birth of your children.  It's not just a time to plan a party or make that special dinner.  It's an amazing miracle that these children have graced our lives and their birthdays are special beyond words.  Regan, Jack and Thomas won't understand that until they have families of their own, but they love to hear the story of their arrivals in this crazy world and I love to tell them all about it.

I'm trying hard not to forget my special story but with Mom gone, those details are starting to get fuzzy.  I do know I was born at 6:30 am and I do know that my birthday dinner always consisted of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  So, I share with you Mimi's meatloaf recipe.  Not exactly the fare you would expect on Labor Day weekend, but give it a try sometime and make sure to remember your friends' birthdays (preferably with a raunchy card!).

Happy Birthday to me. . .

Meatloaf
Meatloaf mix (or 1 lb ground beef, 1/2 lb ground veal, 1/2 lb ground pork)
1 cup bread crumbs
2 eggs
2-3 dashes worcestershire
1 small onion diced and sauteed until soft
1/2 cup sour cream
1/4 cup mustard
1/3 cup ketchup
parsley flakes
Italian seasoning
garlic salt
salt and pepper

Sauce:
1/2 cup ketchup
1/2 cup maple syrup

Preheat oven to 375.  Mix all ingredients and put in loaf pan.  Bake for 1 hour.  Top with sauce and bake for another 15-20 minutes.

Looking Back

I am completely perplexed by this new trend of placing a magnet on the back of your car for every little thing your family does.  I now can tell by your tailgate where your kids go school, what sports they play, where you summer, where you ski in the winter, where you like to eat your burritos, what political party you belong to, what kind of dog you have, and whether you are a Yankee or Red Sox fan.  Funny, right?

When we were growing up, Mom drove a navy blue Olds Delta 88 station wagon.  She longed for nothing more than to plaster her rear window with those transparent college stickers.  She envisioned all six of us going off to schools far and wide, her rear window filled with numerous college names.  Unfortunately, that didn't happen.  The girls all went to Saint Mary's, Jed graduated from Fairfield and by the time it got around to Kevin, Mom had empty-nested and abandoned the battle-wagon for a cute convertible. (Note: there were no stickers on the back of her new ride).

I often wonder what Mom's car would look like if she lived in the world of oval magnets that adorn our SUVs and minivans.  Would she have a Jersey Girl magnet?  A shamrock?  A Carolina blue tarheel?  I Love Neil Diamond?  I got to thinking about this and I realized she would not have put any of these silly magnets on the back of her car.  She was proud of who she was, proud of her children, proud of her heritage.  But, she never felt it necessary to wear that as a badge or publicize it.  She just enjoyed who we were, what we accomplished and where we were in life.

Sometimes that bothered me.  There were times when I would have liked my mom to brag about what I had done, talked about it a little and let me know that she was proud.  It's not that she wasn't, it was just hard for her to be proud of one of us at a time.  She never wanted anyone to feel left out or less accomplished.

As a kid, this was tough.  As a mother, I get it.  You don't want any of your kids to feel that they are less important, or less accomplished, or less successful.  However, (and this is where Pete does a great job of keeping it all in check), as a parent you have to celebrate every success and teach your kids to celebrate along with you.  We always let our kids know what we think of their accomplishments, even when they falter.  And we are working very hard to teach our kids to be proud of each other and I hope that pays off in the end.  I have since taken all the magnets off the back of my SUV.  I have found other ways to let my kids know how proud we are of them and all that they do in this world.  I know Mom was proud, but I wish I had known that sooner.  If there was one white oval magnet Mom would have on the back of blue station wagon it would be "Proud Mom".

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.