Use your imagination.

Sometimes I hear cliche phrases, intending to console and comfort, and all I feel is a spike of rage. Just for an instant a little flame of fury flares up deep in my belly and is quelled a moment later by a deep breath. 

There are lists of these stupid phrases everywhere on the internet, the simple dos and don'ts when speaking to a grieving human. Despite these lists ever present on the interweb, I often hear people spout them off, not even to me and the emotion arises all the same. 

"Everything happens for a reason." 

"God has a plan." 

"You're so strong."

Bullshit upon bullshit upon ignorance. 

I usually let it slide when it's being spewed in my direction. Because ninety one percent of me believes it's coming from a good place. (And because hitting strangers is against the law.) I also firmly believe that when faced with this situation, saying something (however stupid) to the grieving party is leaps and bounds better than saying nothing at all. 

I read an essay a few years back, after Oliver died, where a man reflected on one of these cliche phrases. The phrase had been said to me many times that year but never given me much pause until I read this man articulate his feelings on the subject. (I can't find the piece or remember who wrote it, if I could I would paste the link here and keep my words to myself.) 

It hit me again today, the obnoxiousness of it all, as I read the internet grieve over a local boy who passed away today. Nine years old. Cancer. So totally and completely unfair. And people were reaching out, parents mostly, sending condolences to his parents and family. 

"I can't imagine." 

Innocuous enough, right? 

Seems true even. Because how could you imagine something that you never have gone through personally. 

Oh wait. We do it all the time. We call it literature. And television. And movies. 

What people really mean to say is, "I don't want to imagine." I don't want to imagine how terribly fucking awful it feels to lose a child. 

I'll tell you: it is the worst. I don't have to imagine. 

Why would anyone want to imagine the pain of such a thing? Well, let me tell you: if you think imagining it is bad, try living it. So the very least you could do for the person in the midst of tragedy is take the time to imagine how the person is feeling, or how you would feel if you were in the same situation. 

Just imagine it. Because then you might stop yourself from saying something stupid. 

happy birthday seester

The last time I hugged my sister was April 12, 2012. 

My baby had just died and I had to get into a car and drive home without him. I didn't know how I was going to do it. But Daniel went to get the car and Katie walked me to it and she hugged me before I got in. 

This is vitally important information because my sister and I don't hug. Like ever. I couldn't tell you the last time we hugged before that but it would be safe to say it was a decade prior or more. And it was probably because if there's anyone who hates hugs more than Katie it's me, so she likely did it just to bother me. 

It seems bizarre because typical close sister depictions show excessive affection, extreme closeness only evidenced by hugging and sharing romantic exploits over hour long phone calls and stealing each other's clothes. 

Well only that last thing is accurate for us. (Because in addition to our stance on hugs, we share a mutual disdain for actual phone calls. And detailing romantic exploits...ew, she's my sister.)

All stereotypes aside, we are close. Closer than I am to any adult human who didn't birth me or marry me. 

Siblings are an obvious choice for friendship, you've been in the trenches together and no one else appreciates the war stories like they do. But I would guess Katie and I would be friends even if we didn't share a familial connection. 

(Not that she doesn't have her faults, but that list is for another time or place. Like maybe a wedding toast or retirement party, a holiday dinner perhaps. But not here not now. Okay, all I'm saying is, don't try to share a room with her. She's the worst.) 

(Oh and don't try to play any sort of trivia based game with her. You'll lose.)

My sister is the most stubborn person I know. I mean that both as a compliment and a fact that has annoyed me more times than I can count. But what it means is: she is the most dedicated, furiously loyal, hard working person I know. 

She's one of those people that just gets shit done. She's smart and there's no doubt that when she says she will do something, it is getting done. Though she is a procrastinator extraordinaire, so it may be last minute but it'll be done and done well. And she pretty much holds the same high standards those around her. (One of the reasons I'm grateful I'm not a student in her class. The other reason is: I think history is boring. Sorry.) 

I guess one of the reasons I think my sister is cool is pretty narcissistic, because we have more in common than we do not. Politics, parenting philosophies, golden globe gowns...on all the important things our opinions are usually on the same page. I trust her recommendations on movies and books and tv shows because she can predict that I'll like it because she did, or she can detail exactly why I won't like it and should steer clear. When I screenshot something crazy an acquaintance has posted on Facebook and text it her, I don't even have to write a caption explaining anything. And she's the kind of person who doesn't look at me weird when I start a sentence, "it's like that one Full House episode...," she doesn't laugh, she knows the exact episode I'm talking about. 

And she's an exceptional mother. More patience than is possible for someone who has not slept through the night in over five years. She puts her kids first, not in a way that is overbearing or creepy. She just likes spending time with them and is fully aware of how awesome they are. I cannot count the amount of times I have questioned her about parenting quandaries. Her natural instincts and her penchant for thorough research make her an unbeatable resource. I may have let her register for my baby shower. Because that's how much I trust her judgement. 

The main difference between the two of us would be how we express feelings. I take a vomit-my-feelings-all-over-the-place approach, while she is slightly more reserved. She plays her cards close to the vest as they say. And I would wager that she is more likely to correct my grammar in this piece than compliment it. That is not to say she doesn't let the people around her know she cares, she just has her own way of showing it. When you lose your mind because your cat peed on the brand new futon, she sends you a waterproof cover and researches what gets the smell out. When you're in your high school play and she's studying abroad she'll send you a funny card and wish you luck and other nice things (even though it might make her gag to write those kind of things down). And she can recount the people that were mean to me in junior high because, yeah, she's still mad at them. Mistreat her family and, as a wise man once stated: you mess with the bull, you get the horns. 

Above all else my sister is the one you want when shit gets really real. When Oliver died, she slept in the hospital bed with me the night after I delivered him. She called my friends and told them what happened so I didn't have to (think about her hatred of the phone and understand the weight of that task). She took the car seat out of the car so we didn't have to drive home with it empty. She did things I would never had thought of: she closed my Facebook page so people couldn't post in case anyone asked about the baby, she researched how to make the milk stop from coming in and how to relieve the pain when it did, she bought me outfits to wear for the funeral. 

Like any younger sister, I grew up watching her and wanting to copy her and hang out with her friends and maybe I still have some clothes that I stole from her. But now we're adults roughly in the same place of life we are in near constant contact (texting, obviously), complaining about one thing or another and detailing the mundane aspects of our every day. And I'm realizing my gratitude for our ever evolving but not stereotypical sister relationship. I've always been grateful for our similarities but now I'm growing to appreciate our differences, too. In the highest compliment I can bestow on a human, I must say that while I love my sister, I actually really like her too. 

Just don't tell her I said so. It'll totally freak her out. 

beginning of the end

I told Daniel last night that this was the beginning of the end. 

He looked at me lovingly and laughed. I know it sounds dramatic but bear with me, because I'm certain my feelings (however tainted by hormones and nostalgia) are right. 

Sam started school today. He's two and a half and until today has spent every day in my care, or my husband's, or my parents. I'm sure there are a few exceptions but you get the point. 

(Momentary but monumental shoutout of gratitude for my ever lovin' crazy dedicated three job workin' while school attendin' husband who made my super flexible work schedule possible. Thank. You.) 

And we're the luckiest because we get to send him to my school. With the most generous, kind, patient, loving, hilarious, honest, beautiful teachers on the planet. That's a fact I have witnessed and would attest to in a court of law. There are literally no better teachers on the planet. There just aren't. And I know writers are prone to exaggeration but just trust me on this one. 

And a lot of the time, I'm gonna be in the building next door. Trying to restrain myself from peering through the windows at every turn. 

So my sadness and anxiety today isn't based in worry for his care or safety. 

(Although maybe a little just because he's my kid and evolution demands that I fear for his safety and well being, so okay.) 

But my feelings today are most rooted in jealousy. I am jealous that other people get to spend the day with him. I really like that kid. 

Obviously, he's two and I'm well aware of his faults. He's definitely a whole lotta kid so it's not always sunshine and rainbows with him. But for the most part, he is so fun to be around. He's smart and hilarious. He loves books and counting and play doh and singing and dancing. And being loud. And playing full force. And smooching. And watching shows. And playing with goo. And helping his dada cook. And brushing his brother's hair out of his eyes. 

And from now on, from this day forward, every single day he will be spending the majority of his weekday hours with other people. With people that aren't me. 

He is creating his own life, separate from me. And that is awesome and great. But, selfishly, so hard. 

The beginning of the end. 

It's daunting to think about. 

So today I'm gonna wallow a bit. And celebrate the ability to fold laundry without him jumping in the piles. And maybe cry a little. And watch whatever I want on tv. 

Then I'm gonna race to get him at the earliest possible moment that because I can't wait to see his face. And we're gonna eat fro yo and celebrate the fact that we both made it through this day, the beginning and the end. 

bittersweet.

I don't often dwell on all the things my living kids get to do that my dead kid doesn't. If I did, it would be an unending dwelling game and I'd never get anything done. Besides that, what would be the point anyway. 

But a few particular things hit me in the gut. 

And Sam starting school at my work is one of them. 

I think your kid starting school is emotional under the most normal of circumstances. Bittersweet watching them all growed up, leaving them to spend their days with someone that is not you. I'm lucky though because I get to leave my kid in the hands of people who are my family, who I have firsthand knowledge of how generous and loving and kind they can be with other people's children.  

That's why I really, really wanted Oliver to go to McKinley Montessori. 

I was huge and pregnant when I dropped by the school to put him on the waiting list. I wrote sarcastic answers on the questionnaire when it asked if I had any knowledge of Montessori education. I laughed and joked about how I hoped he'd get in, if he would make the cut in the competitive preschool world. 

I was crossing my fingers that my bosses would give me the onesie with the school emblem on it, the one they give to families at school when they have a baby. Of course they did. And I pictured Oliver wearing it the first time he visited the school. 

None of that stuff got to happen for Oliver. And it is quite literally the worst. 

These days it hits me the hardest because Oliver should be going to the school now. He should be in Josie's class. I see the jobs he would be doing and the kids I'd want him to be friends with. Every once in a while a kid tells me they're almost four and I realize it all over again.  

Sam starts next week. He is going to love it. We visited today and he fit right in. And I am so happy for him. 

And sad all for Oliver. 

Bitter. Sweet.