disclaimer

I keep a running list of writing ideas on my phone. One or two words to remind me of things I want to explore a bit more. If I don't write it down, I'll for sure forget. If I do write it down, the chances of remembering go up by about fifty percent. (I just took a moment to look over my list and there's at least one item on the list that I cannot understand at all. So perhaps my system needs some refining.) 

For the most part, the list has been helpful in spurring me to write more. But I hit a bump in the last few weeks. I could blame it on sick kids or working or whatever thing sounds most believable. But the truth is I noticed a pattern and I felt a bit self conscious. 

I noticed a lot of my ideas, most of them in fact, are about Oliver. And I thought back to most of my writing this year thus far and realized that nearly everything I've written has touched on Oliver in some way. 

And I feared, what if people are sick of reading about my dead kid? 

(I think there is a general sense of this in the baby loss community, because sometimes people (strangers, family members, whoever) suggest we need to "get over it" and "move on" which is such an ignorant asshole thing I can't even fully get into here.) 

A lot of thoughts came up after I posed that question to myself and after a moment it boiled down to two truths: 

Who gives a fuck. And, they can stop reading if they want. 

Because the truth is: my desire to write about and think about and talk about Oliver is sort of a miracle to me. 

Because when he died I was unsure how anyone can continue to be reminded of someone they only knew for nine months. I thought I would run out of things to say about him. 

I was so wrong. It's weird and maybe unbelievable but I have just as much to say about Oliver as I do with the two living kids I get to spend my days with. I am reminded of him every single day. Sometimes by the normal Oliver things, owls or OMG or pictures or clothes I wore when I was pregnant. But sometimes the memories even surprise me, when I'm see something I binged on during that pregnancy (I'm talkin' about you Cap'n Crunch). Or when I look at these obnoxious little postpartum hairs I have right now and I'm reminded of my hair lady telling me she was remembering Oliver because she saw them growing around my hairline months after he died. 

And there's no important person in my life that I could write about here without referencing how they were there for me when Oliver died. Everything in my life changed that stupid, awful, beautiful day and one of the best, for lack of a better term, silver linings that occurred will always be the presence of solid, loving, generous, honest family and friends. 

So I guess what I want to relay in this moment is this disclaimer, not because it's necessary (because remember, who gives a fuck) but because it will free me to write more: 

If you don't want to read about my dead kid every once in a while (or more), move right along. Nothing for you to see here. 

names are important

As a teacher I've always known that names are important. Important to remember them and important to use them. As a preschool teacher, where three year olds can get in the habit of silly name calling, I have a lot of practice in instructing children through the "my name is ______, you may call me _______" conversation. 

Because names are important and we should only be called what we want to be called. 

When we got pregnant, each and every time, choosing a name was difficult. Daniel and I never agreed. He would suggest a name and in an instant my mind would associate it with a former student or I would unintentionally create a story for the name. He liked names that in my mind were meant for arrogant, popped collar wearing teenage boys who were too cool for school. I liked a name and he told me we could never use it because it was a former classmate and he ate the paste. 

You see, names and their associations are powerful and lasting. You can't mess around with name choice. My grandma says it's truly the only choice we get to make for our kids, because once they're out they're in charge of their own lives (whether we want to admit it or not).

Oliver's name was really a gift from Daniel to me. Because I wanted it all along, felt it was right from the beginning. It was weird too because I always thought I'd want a name with meaning or connection to someone I loved. Oliver was just a name I liked, it always just felt like it was his. But Daniel never warmed to it really, so we came up with lists of other names. And when people asked us what his name was we said we were waiting to meet him. Unless they asked me when Daniel wasn't around. And then I told him that his name was Oliver. I knew, well hoped, eventually Daniel would see that I was right. After we found out the baby had died and we delivered him, Daniel looked at him and said, "he looks like an Oliver." In a hazy whirlwind of tragedy, naming Oliver always stands out as a moment of clear and present true love. 

When we got pregnant with our second son, we were no better at agreeing on the names than the first go 'round. But around the middle of pregnancy I started becoming attached to the name Sam. In my mind Sam was comfortable and warm, like a favorite cozy sweater you've been wearing for years. (For the record, my loving husband thought my description and reasoning was crazy.) 

And it happened to be the name of one of my favorite humans on the planet. My cousin Sam. 

When it became more certain, I knew I needed to check with Sam (who will henceforth be known as Girl Sam, because that's what my kid calls her) to make sure she didn't mind sharing her name. It was a split second conversation because she is awesome and generous and, really, who wouldn't want a kid named after them? 

In the months that followed, I became even more enamored with the name. (Though we pretended not to have decided, because what if he came out and didn't look like a Sam? People who have names that don't match their personality or body freak me out.) 

Anyone who knows Girl Sam can understand why having her as your namesake can only bring you good things. Girl Sam is smart. Naturally smart and brilliant and quick minded. But in a quiet, calm way that isn't in your face about it. Even more important, she's super dedicated. She puts herself full force into whatever she chooses. Her classes, her extra curriculars, her friendships, her family. She is the go-to family babysitter because, in addition to the smarts and dedication, she's more responsible than her age ever required. And, not for nothin', the kids totally love her. You should see the kids when she walks into the room. 

I couldn't wait for my kid to inherit all the greatness that came with the name. To balance out the responsibility and level headedness rooted in Sam, we used my brother's name as Boy Sam's middle. And to this day he is equal parts Sam and Patrick. Wicked smart and uncontrollable (I mean that in a good way, mostly). Sweet and totally hilarious. Loving and so, so stubborn. 

By the third kid, we still couldn't agree. Because now in addition to having completely different taste in names, with three boys in a row we were just running out of options. 

Eli's name was truly not decided until he came out of my body, because all the names we had planned were for brunette babies (yeah names are hair color specific in my mind, deal with it) and they all got thrown by the wayside when he came out Billy idol blonde. 

But his middle name had been set for months. We loved the idea of using family names for middle names but this third time we couldn't seem to find one that felt right. We had honored Daniel's maternal grandfather with Oliver's middle name Martin. And of course Sam had Patrick. This time we kept tossing around family names but none of them really stuck. Until I realized family isn't just limited to blood relations. And I thought of people who meant something to us, and who had traits I wanted my kid to possess. And then it was obvious. 

Ciara is about as close to family as you can get without blood. In fact, it's hard to describe who Ciara (and her family) is in our life because there's no one word that describes it. Friend seems insufficient. Ciara is the granddaughter of longtime family friends, she is the daughter of two of the best teachers I've ever had the privilege of learning under, and I started babysitting Ciara when she was six. But truthfully she could take care of herself better than I ever could. In reality, she would make me dinner when I was supposed to be watching her. And now fourteen years later, I continue to add to our list of who Ciara is to me. I can add: former housemate, bridesmaid, babysitter of my children, concert-movie-tv-binge-watching partner. And namesake for my third kid. Elliot Ciaran Gensler. 

(And yes it brings my feminist heart great joy that my boys are named after two strong kickass young women.) 

Ciaran would have been his first name too, because it could totally be a blonde name, and fit the all important six letter rule. But I believe in nickname potential, and unfortunately Ciaran doesn't really have any. Nicknames are important too. Because I like the idea that my kid has a choice. Sam calls himself Sammy. And who knows what Eli will prefer. Maybe he's a more formal fellow and will choose Elliot in the future. 

I can't wait to see. Because names are such an important part of who we are. To ourselves and everyone around us.  

wherever I am, you'll always be

Some years ago I wrote a piece about 

my grandpa. It was meant to be about the luck of being Irish but as I wrote it became an homage to one of my favorite humans in the world, one of the luckiest Irish fellows around.

After I wrote it, it circulated around my family and ultimately found itself printed out and in front of my grandparents' eyes. Like all grandparents seeing their grandchildren's work, they loved it. They praised it. And as a sign of respect only an Irishman can give, they joked about it being read at my grandfather's funeral, whenever that fateful day should arise. 

This past November when my grandpa went into the hospital, I drove to see him, and he joked, “I don't know why you drove all this way, I'm not dying.” (To be accurate he actually tried to whisper this to my mom as I was sitting a mere five feet from him, asking why I made the trip from Sacramento, and when I told him he was worth the drive he said, “Sh, big ears, I wasn't talking to you.”) Like the dutiful and morbidly Irish granddaughter I went home and pulled up the writing on my computer to prepare it for his inevitable death. It captured the spirit of my grandfather very well, if I do say so myself, but the tenses would be all wrong now. And as I sat with it this week, after my mother informed me I would be reading it today, the task of transitioning my grandpa's jokes and actions and Irish-isms from present to past tense made me sad in a way I had not predicted. 

Because it's harder to laugh at the numerous times my grandpa stated, after the requisite grandchildren surrounding him photo, “And that was their last picture with grandpa” because now I'm left wondering which photo was, in fact, the last. It's harder to laugh about someone who's standard response to, “See you soon Grandpa!” was “God willing,” knowing I'll never get to walk in their door at Rossmoor (or as Grandpa called it, God's waiting room) again and see him at the table, poring over the newspaper, probably making sure he didn't find his name in the obituaries. 

I should still find it all humorous though, because it's exactly what my Irish grandfather would want. This was a man who answered the phone, “Kelley's morgue, you kill 'em, we chill 'em.” We Kelleys laugh in the face of death. For as long as I can remember we've been planning my grandpa's funeral, debating who would perform the father daughter vaudeville routine, who would demonstrate how a dairy farmer shakes hands, who would talk about “green pig” or “one two three lookie lookie”. We'd laugh about it with grandpa who would say he wished he could make it but he would most certainly be in Eureka that day. We'd roll our eyes and continue planning. There were songs to choose and so, so many memories to sift through. So many running jokes, so many grandpa-isms, so much to remember. 

I suppose that's what I want to convey today, the mere realization that my memories of Richard Kelley can't be contained on paper or in a simple speech. Because I'm the luckiest kind of grandkid around: I can't fit all of my memories and affection for this man in my allotted time. And I'm not even going to try. Instead of attempting to fit it all into these few moments, I'll spend the rest of my life repeating his jokes. I'll spend the rest of my life tell my kids about my grandpa, how he was the kind of guy who would send his granddaughter a case of 12 bottles of ketchup when she moved into her first apartment, just because he knew it would make me laugh. I'll tell Sam how he used to visit my Grandpa at Rossmoor, how he would run down to Gpa's room and see the bird and about the time (like many children who came before) he ate the dog biscuit my grandpa thought was so funny to feed him. I'll tell Eli how lucky he was to get to meet my grandpa, even though he was tiny, because when I brought him in Grandpa smiled, the big kind of smile that crinkled his eyes. I will spend the rest of my life doing my very best to keep his memory hilariously alive. 

I remember, or I suppose someone else could have told me (in our family it's not unusual to absorb someone else's stories and memories as your own), at one holiday function or another my grandparents sitting together and looking around at all of us and marveling in the family they created, how none of this would have happened if the two of them hadn't gotten married. Now for a man far more sarcastic then sentimental, it sticks out in my mind as an important memory of my grandfather and an important truth. None of us, in this church or in this family, would be here today without my grandpa. And for that, and for him, I will always be grateful.

Make the time

When I say I don't have time for something, I'm totally lying. It's a terrible excuse. Because in reality, I have time for everything I want to do. So if I'm not doing something, it's not time's fault, it's mine. 

This excuse comes up often when I think about my writing.

The thing is love to write. I always have. In almost any form (sorry poetry). I take my time writing emails, thank you notes, lists. I dabbled in some (cringeworthy) fiction in high school. Writing papers in college was almost always fun, albeit usually last minute. Nowadays creative nonfiction is my game. 

But with a marriage to live, kids to chase around and sustain, a job I love and sleep so elusive...writing seems hard to fit into the mix. So when people ask about my writing, I say things like, "who's got the time?" And they laugh and they believe me because, well, it's a believable lie. 

But a lie it is. It's not that I don't have the time. It's that I'm choosing to spend it doing other things. Sometimes of value and sometimes notsomuch (yeah, I keep up with those Kardashians). 

A favorite professor brought up this point in a class many moons ago, balking at the "I don't have time to write" excuse. Because he knew the truth: if we want to do something enough, we make the time. He was a smart guy, and referred to Springsteen as "the great philosopher" so I knew he was the real deal, and I think about his point often when I'm lying about having no time for this or that. 

The fact of the matter is this: we've all got twenty four hours in or day. It's up to us how to use them. 

So I'm being conscious with my time. Purposeful in how I choose to use it. Or trying to be. Does it mean I'm writing as much as I want to be? Not yet. Because sometimes I choose other things. And that's cool. Like today I was waiting for Sam to fall asleep at nap, my newly designated writing time, and I looked at him and thought: he's so cute and his bed is so warm and my sleep so nonexistent. It took me only a moment to choose, because in that moment a nap with him was/is more important than an hour of writing. 

I don't regret it. But I'm making up for it now. Because I've got the time. 

Too much work

I did a silly thing today. 

I left the house. Which was silly in itself because it's perfect couch weather 'round these parts. But sillier still because the impetus for leaving the house was this: I fell into the trap of caring what other people think/say and I started to feel a bit bad about my kid not leaving the house in a while (I know he stepped outdoors this week, I just can't remember specifics). So I told him we were going to the park. And I invited some friends so I would be forced to follow through. 

And forty seven minutes later the three of us were bundled up and ready to go, ish. As I was buckling the children in I realized the wheels of our stroller that I had mistakenly recalled as "a little low on air" were in fact what one would label as, what's the word, ah yes, "flat." 

So I was stuck in a lose lose situation. Either I unload the tiny ones, scrap the park trip and deal with the certain meltdown. Or I push the stroller in its current state, which seemed possible but not enjoyable. (Putting air in the tires was not on the list as I am 86% certain we don't own a pump.) 

I chose the latter. And pushed the flat tired stroller to the park blocks away. One might think I have the upper arm strength of, let's go with, Michelle Obama (because she is the first good armed human that came to mind, and googling "Michelle Obama arms" proves me correct) as I do lift a 17 pound baby and a 27 pound toddler on heavy rotation, sometimes at the same time, every single day. But pushing this stroller proves that all that lifting is for naught. 

I took frequent breaks on the short walk, utilizing that downtime to text everyone I know in a one mile radius begging them to deliver me a bike pump, and stewed in the stupidity of leaving the house. 

My kid was satisfied with a mellow, warm morning indoors. He just got a haul of new toys to play with and is lucky enough to be born to a mother who believes a movie a day is nothing to be ashamed of. He was cozy and happy and riding a Toy Story high, about to build some magnatile homes for his aminals. And I had to go and ruin all of it by thinking none of that was enough. 

Cementing my point, we arrived at the park and my kid immediately states, "I want to go to my home." 

And he was a miserable, boogery nosed wreck for almost the entire trip. Because it's 43 degrees out and my kid is a Californian through and through. We stayed for a bit, thankful for the company of friends who braved the elements with us. 

And then we went home. (With much ease and gratitude after roadside tire assistance from one generous mama in my tribe.) 

We sat in our heated house. On our couch. Exactly where we were supposed to be. And I watched my kid return to his normal self, enjoying a cinnamon roll, laughing, singing and watching a show before his nap. 

And I thought, this is the last time I'm giving a fuck what a different better mother would do for my kid.

(Okay first I thought, as I labored to lift a glass of water to my mouth, I must start working out, stat.) 

In reality, it probably won't be the last time. (And chances are slim on the work out front, too.) I'll try to knock it off though, because my kids are awesome. And I'm a great mom. And giving a fuck is just too much work (about as much work as pushing a double stroller with flat tires and two cold, crabby, kids, I'd say). 

One thing is for sure though:

I will be buying a pump for those tires.