"What have you been doing this summer?"

            Remnants of the night’s adventures in the kitchen are strewn across the counter and in the sink.  The smell of tilapia and blended margarita’s linger in the air.  The house, well, it is messy.  There are clothes folded on the chair and the other kitchen counter.  Thank you cards, wedding plans and books are piled on one side of the table as room had to be made for dinner.  The merging of two apartments into one has inevitably created a more cluttered, yet perfect, appearance to the place. Looking around, one should pick up, but instead a movie on the couch is far more appealing.

            Tomorrow I will clean.  Tomorrow I will tackle the million items on my list of “summer accomplishments.”  Tomorrow I will make room in our overflowing closet.  Tomorrow I will continue to plan for next year in fourth grade.  Tomorrow I will, well, we shall have to see. 

            As the question, “What have you been doing this summer?” has been asked countless times my answer to anyone has yet to be clear.  Besides my obvious two adventures to Nashville and Philadelphia I cannot concretely say what I have done to fill my days.  I have been busy, but busy in a way unfamiliar to me.  All anyone has to do is look at our house to understand.

Life moves fast, really fast.  A tragedy occurs, we pause, and then we move.  Some of us move even quicker than before as a means to survive, fearful that if we stop, we might not be able to move again.  Then as you are moving, grieving, surviving, something magical happens and you are brought to the polar opposite of your emotional compass to the joy, excitement and love of being engaged.  Before you know it you are moving even faster than before, balancing pain and grief with overwhelming happiness and love.  Your emotional compass spinning day in and day out as you grapple to make sense of your ever-changing world. 

As summer approaches the plans for action take over.  Prepare for the wedding, prepare for fourth grade, help mom paint and clean out the basement, catch-up on pleasure reading, catch-up with friends, work-out, cook healthy and abundant meals, keep the house spotless, help clean grandpa’s yard, be a summer blogger.  Typically, this plan for action is my guide and I savor the gift of time to conquer my tasks.  I take comfort in knowing that I am accomplishing things.  I am realizing I also like having an immediate answer to the question, “What have you been doing this summer?”

Of course, I have worked on lots of those previously mentioned plans for action.  I have guiltily savored reading all three of the Fifty books and the deep discussions that have followed with friends.  I have spent time at my parent’s house, helping to paint the railings and work in the backyard.  I have spent time studying the fourth grade curriculum. Brian and I have accomplished a great deal of wedding plans.  I have traveled twice.  Yet, I am realizing that this summer is about something else.  This summer is not about something that can be seen or touched or crossed off on a to-do list.  This summer is learning the power of allowing myself to forget the lists sometimes, forget the world sometimes and find solace in myself.

Waking up early, drinking coffee and listening to music.  Waking up early, looking at the clock and going back to sleep.  Crying while: watching Home Improvement, watching The Amazing Spiderman, watching father’s day commercials.  Finding a handwritten note from my dad (I did attempt to clean out the closet) and being thankful that I do not always throw everything away.  Then stopping everything to sit and look at the note the rest of the night.  Drinking too much at my cousins beautiful wedding, missing my flight the next morning, then arriving to friends open arms and choosing to embrace the hiccup (after the epic meltdown on I-70 at 5:00am, poor Brian).  Being surrounded by my family and closest friends at my bridal shower and bachelorette party.  Feeling so spoiled, so loved, so excited.  Sobbing in the back of a taxi-cab after a wonderful evening on my mom’s back porch sampling wine for the wedding; Brian wiping away my tears and Lindsey by my side.  Staying up until three am with my visiting college roommates looking at pictures, reminiscing.  Going to Philadelphia with Caitlyn and having the most delicious, adventurous meal of my life.  Talking to my mom a hundred times a day.

This is what I have been doing. These are the things that I needed. I have been busy, just different busy.  Even when I am just sitting alone, at home, I am busy.  My mind and body and heart have needed this time, this time to unwind, to feel, to breathe.  I am grateful that my career has allowed me this time that not everyone has the privilege to have.  My emotional compass is still off balance and I predict it will be for a while, but this summer it has had time to stop racing.  I am not sure what I will do tomorrow and I am getting more comfortable with this uncertainty.  The routine, the moving, it will be happening again soon enough. 

"Have I told her?"

“Did I tell you?  Did I tell you all that I meant to tell you, all that I felt was important.   Did I tell you or was it lost in the shuffle of our everyday lives.  The busy full days when we taught and didn’t know it.  What did we teach?  Was it strong?  Was it good?  Will it root you in something real that will allow you to grow with a firm and sound foundation?  Did I tell you…” 

–excerpt from Did I tell you? By Elizabeth Knapp

I was fourteen years old when my mom gave me this treasured gift on Christmas.  From college, back home, to various apartments, the book has always been unpacked and gently placed on my bookshelf.  I love reading the last page because the author says if I did tell you “I am humbly grateful” and I always think to myself, ‘I do love this book, but I didn’t need the book to tell me, my mom told me every word of every page each and everyday.’  I am grateful to call her mom.

Tomorrow is my phenomenal mother’s birthday, her first birthday without my dad.  Usually my mom is an easy person to shop for as clothes, jewelry, and household items seem to shout her name as you walk by.  Not this year.  This year the gift has to be perfect.   It has to somehow help ease the hollow void that is inevitable without my dad arriving home with beautiful flowers, a kiss, and an “I love you.”  Deep down I know that no “thing” will do this, yet I have remained determined to find it.  Tonight, I sit here without a tangible gift for tomorrow, yet I feel relieved that I know what to give her.   The past, almost eight months, I have wondered, “Have I told her?”

“Have I told her,” that her and dad’s love was the kind of love that fairytales were made of.  That their love created a home full of laughter and happiness for anyone who visited, but most importantly for us kids.   That they exemplified what it means to be married and head-over heels in love.

“Have I told her,” that she is the mother of all mother’s.  That I wish that all children could have her to call  'mom.'    How much I admire her decision to stay home and raise Kristin and Brian and I and any other cousin or friend that needed a place to be.  That I know she took on the hardest role in the world-that of a stay at home mom.  That I have always wanted to be just like her; the woman capable of doing it all with ease and grace

“Have I told her,” that she is my best friend?  The person I always need by my side.  Whose advice holds more weight than any other person in the world and whose insight is so profound.  That she is my strength and my light in this life.

“Have I told her,” that she is the strongest person I know?  That she suffered the most unimaginable loss, my dad, and yet it has been her that has comforted everyone else.  That no one would fault her for falling apart at the seams?  That her ability to take each day as it is, to grieve openly and honestly, to cry and to laugh, to tell stories… it is inspirational.  That she is the reason that we are all as ‘okay’ as we can be.  That if I can be half the woman that she is, I will have succeeded in this life.

 

 “Have I told her,” that it is my turn?  My turn to be the strong one.  My turn to make sure that everything is okay.  My turn to listen and be her shoulder?. My turn to say “you need to surrender and sleep.”

"Have I told her," that I am sorry?  That I am sorry that her life got turned upside down in an instant.  That I am sorry that such a fundamental part of her identity has been taken away.  That I am sorry that she is alone at night.  That I can't begin to imagine how she is finding the strength to look forward when the pain is so deep.  I am sorry.

“Have I told her,” that I know our lives will never be the same, but that it is because of her that I know we will find our way.

“Have I told her,” everything that a daughter should tell their mother, especially a mother as remarkable as mine?  “Have I told her????”

Writing Challenge Recap

When I started out on this month long writing challenge I was uncertain what I was getting myself into.  Could I do it?  What would I write about everyday?  How would I find time? Would people be interested in what I had to say?  There were so many questions, but I listened to my inner voice and committed.  This journey has been a remarkable one.   I was inspired and encouraged by my sister and best friend who after following my blog for a few days started their own.  I will be forever grateful to my amazing colleagues for their dedication, encouragement and feedback.  Each of your blogs touched me and inspired me daily.

Of the original challenge crew, there is only one of us that met the challenge head on and wrote EVERYDAY.  Her blog was deeply personal and helped me to realize that I am not alone in my journey through grief.  Reading the memories she shared of her mother and her own honesty about where she is in her journey through grief helped me in more ways than I can begin to express.  While nobody grieves the same, it was often her comments on my blogs that helped me feel not as crazy, not as out of touch of reality as I sometimes feel.  I am so grateful that through our writing we were able to connect in a way that our daily schedule at school would never allow.  Thank you for sharing Jamie... you are a gifted writer and incredible woman.

Although I missed a few days (three while I was away at a funeral) I am proud of myself for rising to the occasion.  For taking the time to think and to write and to share.  I had a hunch that my writing would be mostly about my dad... I was right.  My blogs are not perfect, each time I go back and re-read them (which I do frequently) I find millions of errors that could be corrected.  Yet, my blogs were what I needed.  They were an honest release.  They were the stories and the feelings that I had been rummaging over for months inside my head.  To put them on paper... it was and is therapy.

The writing challenge is over, well technically speaking.  My journey of blogging, of sharing my thoughts in writing has only just begun.  I am creating a new challenge for myself in April.  I will now commit to my bike, to my body, to my physical health.  I know now that if I put my mind to it, I can commit to anything for a month.  There were nights when I was so tired, had so many other things to do, but even if for just a moment, I made myself sit down and write.  In April I will make myself take a walk or go for a bike ride.  If I am too tired for those, even a few push-ups or sit-ups in the living room will do.  I can and will do this.  I also know that writing has now become a habit and my blogging will continue.  Probably not everyday, but when I want to, when times are hard and there is a memory or story to tell, I will write.

Thank you to those who have followed my blog and supported me along the way.  This has truly been an experience I will never forget.

Nothing

Tonight I have nothing.  I have nothing insightful or profound.  There is nothing that I have been planning in my head throughout the day to write.  Tonight I do not want to write.  Tomorrow I will go with my mom and sister to the second funeral I have attended since my dad's.  I would not miss it.  Jon has been a rock for our family and I can only imagine how difficult it will be for him to know that my dad will not be there to give him a hug and offer his support.  Deep down I am anxious and scared to go.  My great aunt's funeral was so soon after my dad's that I was still living a very deep haze.  Tomorrow, I do not know what to expect... how my body and mind will react to another father being laid to rest.  All I know is that no matter how hard it might be for me, it will be harder for Jon and his family.  So, I will muster up all the courage I have and go to honor another incredible man.

Happy Hour

I am grateful that each of us has niche, a place where we fit.  Today I went with my nearest and dearest friend Caity and her middle school literacy class to see the Hunger Games.  I enjoyed ever minute with these thirteen year old people.  Their comparison of the movie to the book were deep and thoughtful.  It was evident that they had indeed studied the text carefully with Caity and had since drawn their own conclusions about about the characters and the movie's characterization.  At the end of the day, I am glad that I don't teach middle school.  I dearly enjoyed their company, but this morning I am glad that I was not the teacher in-charge.


After the movie I met Wyatt, Liz and Sarah for happy hours.  We enjoyed the beauty of a windy Colorado afternoon on spring break.  The perk of teaching, a Monday afternoon at happy hour on the patio, while our significant others worked away.  I am blessed to work with the people that I do.  I could not imagine a more perfect first day of spring break.  The Hunger Games and Happy Hour.  Life is pretty good if you ask me!

Back in the Saddle

Bike tuned-check.

Tires pumped-check.

Shoes-check.

Gloves-check.

Sunglasses-check.

Water-check.

ID/cash-check.

Inhaler-check.

Phone-check.

Helmet-check.

Greg (my dad’s colleague, friend and riding partner) just spent the past hour helping me get my bike ready to ride.  After seven months dormant in the basement it needed some tender loving care.  Now my bike is ready, all the excuses are gone, but I am still not sure.  I watch as Greg gets on his gear and feel my heart start to beat a little faster.  I have my jersey on; the one dad bought me two days before he died at the Pro Cycling Challenge Finish.  It is my first official riding jersey. That day I finally felt enough like a rider to let him buy me one.  I stand there realizing that I never wore the jersey on a ride with my dad.  My heart beats even faster.  “Here we go,” Greg says as he clips into his pedals.  I put my right leg over my bike and hear the click.  Carefully, I push off hoping the whole time that I can get my left foot clicked in without falling and ruining any chance I have of biking again.  I am glad Greg is here.  I had thought I wanted to do this alone, my first real time back in the saddle, but Greg knew better and I am relieved that I am taking off with him. 

We make our way through the neighborhood as we head out to our pre-determined destination.  The first hill arrives and I brace myself.  By the end of last summer I was cruising downhill. I will just take it easy today.  Greg stays close; he looks back and checks in.  Images of my dad race through my mind; the last time I rode this way, it was him in front of me checking in.  I focus on the road and the light ahead.  It is refreshing to feel the bike underneath me.  We ride and we chat.  We take it easy. Easy is what I need and Greg allows it.  I play around with my gears; re-familiarize myself with the workings of the bike underneath me.  We make it to the Bear Creek bike path.  Greg reminisces about the hundreds of rides he rode with my dad on this trail.  I listen, understanding that this is just as tough for Greg as it is for me.  He has continued to ride, but riding with me to where we are headed, it is a different kind of ride.

There it is, we are heading under Sheridan, just a moment longer.  We slow our strokes and without words stop when we see it.  We know where it is, because there is a break in the fence on the other side of the path where pedestrians can enter the trail.  I look down and see the ribbon I tied in the tree a few days after he died. I put it there so others that wanted to come and spend a moment could find the exact spot.  The ribbon had the words, ‘son and brother’ but they are now hard to read. We rest our bikes against the green fence.  Carefully, we make our way down the side of the hill to the wooded part of the creek bed.  Greg goes over to the Livestrong bracelet that David had nailed into the tree.  You can still read his words, “Ride on Danno-We love you,” but the wind or a squirrel has ripped part of it.  I mention to Greg that of all the places dad could have fallen he picked one ugly part of the bike trail.  Directly behind the King Soopers, nestled between the exit ramp from Hampden onto Sheridan, littered with dumpster trash.  Greg laughed that my dad loved all parts of this trail, even the ugly ones.  We pick up the litter and head to the dumpster.

       “Let’s go to King Soopers and get some flowers,” says Greg and I nod in agreement.  He hands me a twenty and I go in and pick out some gorgeous sunflowers.  As we lay the flowers over the place where my dad was found I feel a surge of emotions.  Greg says how happy my dad would have been on his bike on a beautiful day like today.  I notice the bushes all around are blooming with these beautiful white flowers and agree.  Even though I tell myself that he is there, in this moment with us, my heart aches because he is not standing there too.  I confess to Greg that my worst fear was that my dad was found face down. The police report confirms in fact he was.  I now understand that it is actually a beautiful thing that he was found that way, it means when he fell he was already gone.  I try not to picture it, but my brain does not listen.  We talk about the three people who called 911.  The blessing it was that he was not in his truck on 6^th Avenue or sitting at the kitchen table.  He was happy, on his way home from work, favorite tunes playing in one ear, doing the thing he loved most. 

When we sense it is time we head home.  Getting closer to home means my out of shape legs will need to get me back up the Garrison hill.  As we work our way up, I remember the first time I did it with dad.  He told me to save that smallest chain ring just in case I needed it at the very end.  Today, I made sure I did the same.  I can hear his voice cheering me on, “Come on Jenny Wacker, you got this.”  "Slow and steady" he said, "one stroke at a time."  Today I conquered my fear.  I got back on my bike the way my dad would have wanted me to.  I may not be chasing his ‘booty’ this summer, but he will be there.  I will see him on the road and hear him in my head cheering me on. 

Stuck

I remember the first time I said it, "Hey honey, I am going to stop by my mom's before I come home."  Wait, what did I just call it?  I called it 'my mom's'.  I can't believe I just said that.  It is my parents home.  It is the home they created together.  It was my home (and always will be).  It is still my brother and sister's home.  It is my parents home, not just my mom's home.  How could I have just called it that?


This is predicament I have been struggling with.  I say it both ways and with such irregularity.  I am uncertain why I say 'parents house' a handful of times and 'mom's house' a handful of others.  Honestly, it feels uncomfortable to say it both ways.  I know that it is my parent's home, but for some reason with my dad gone, it just feels strange to say 'parents house'.  To me it suggests that he is still there, he's not.  Yet, to just say' mom's house,' feels like I am forgetting him.  That does not feel right either.


The house has a hole.  The house feels different now.  It is missing someone.  Someone who was such a huge part of the houses identity.  My memories of the house are with my dad there, at my 'parent's house.'  Yet, we are finally creating new memories at the house, without dad.  While it will always be my 'parent's house,' it is now where I go to see my mom.  It is where I find her.  It is where I find my sister and brother and Chardae.  My dad is there too, in every picture, the coffee pot, the chair in the living room, his coffee drinking spot on the couch in the living room, the yard, the grill, their bedroom... he is everywhere.  It will always be my 'parent's house' in my heart.  It will always be theirs, but I am not sure that is what I will always call it.  That makes me sad.  It breaks my heart in pieces.  I know it is just a name and it is the inside of the home that makes the difference, but it is something I having a hard time with.  I am stuck. 

March 23, 2012-Missing Blog

I missed a day.... I can't believe I actually missed a day of blogging.  Not that all my blogs have been deep and interesting. I mean I have even gone as far as posting a picture of bowling scores as my blog, but I have posted everyday, until last night.  


Yesterday afternoon signaled freedom.  Hello spring break 2012.  I enjoyed happy hour with colleagues even though a  headache had been lingering most of the afternoon.  Neither Brian or I wanted to cook so I tried to forget my headache and we walked to dinner.  Well, half way through dinner I announced that we had to be done, my head hurt too bad.  So instead of blogging I went to bed.  Sleep has been avoiding me lately, so I just curled up and let myself find sleep.  Knowing that it was spring break helped, no alarm clock, no commitments.


So, I took care of myself and did not write.  I will forgive myself now.  I am just disappointed that March 23, 2012 will be missing from my blog.

Tears

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love."

---Washington Irving---

I am no stranger to tears.  I cry watching the news. I cry at happy movies just as much as sad. I cry for people I know and I cry for people I have never met. I cry when I am happy and when I am sad.  I cry when I am tired and stressed.  Tears have always been a release and something I am not ashamed to show.  Since August my tears have been more frequent, more intense.  They happen without a moments notice, sometimes they make sense and other times make no sense at all. 

Yesterday I cried for my dad’s best friend who lost his father to his five year battle with Alzheimer's.  The intensity of these tears was driven by the realization that for the first time in my life I truly understand his grief, his loss.  They were tears of compassion and sadness for Jon and his mom and his family.  Jon’s father, Byron, was an incredible man that my father adored. My tears were also those of true anguish as I was brought back to the moment when the coroner and police officer stood in the living room of my parent’s house and confirmed our worst fear.  I cried because there were no words, only tears to express the feelings in my heart.  The grief and the overwhelming love.

I cried when I looked at Facebook and saw this, but I also giggled (just slightly), because you would have to know Jon to understand.  The picture accompanied the post.

"My best friend Byron has joined my best friend Dan in heaven today... It was a blessing God took Byron.  My only regret is... with both of them now in heaven... I'm pretty sure I won't see them again." 

My Dad-Byron-Jon

Jon's Wedding, September 21, 1985

Six Months from Today

***This is a piece that needs some work.  It needs more structure, voice and organization.  I have put off writing it, because I haven't known where to start, but being six months I decided to at least get a draft on paper***

Graduating college in the spring of 2007 I was happy and off to graduate school at CU Denver.  I was also still single!  My younger self believed that I would go off to college and meet the man of my dreams.  I mean that is what happens in the movies so it must always happen that way in real life! Right?  Well, here I am and six months from today I will marry my best friend and man of my dreams and believe it our not, I did meet him in college.

Every week of my freshman year I would make the beautiful walk across campus to the most dreaded building on the CSU campus, the Math Mod center.  Here I took self-directed math courses that only required that you pass a certain number of tests… if only it were that easy!  There was something that made it a little easier to go, “math mod boy”.  Throughout the year I developed a little crush on “math mod boy,” but was always too shy to say a word to him.

It was the summer before my senior year and my days were spent bartending and waiting tables at Red Robin.  Standing behind the bar I look over and there he was, “math mod boy,” in a Red Robin shirt.  I immediately sent a friend off to investigate and sure enough he would now be bussing tables at our little restaurant.  That summer I learned that “math mod boy” had a name and a girlfriend too.  A summer came and went and I thought nothing more of Brian and my “math mod boy” crush.

Winter break was nearing an end and it was one last night out before my semester of student teaching would begin.  Out in LODO at the bar CROCS with a girlfriend I look up to see Brian walk through the door.  Being his outgoing self he said “hello” and we had a conversation.  As the bar closed “math mod boy” asked for my number. 

Life was busy for both of us, Brian lived in Fort Collins and I lived in Denver.  We enjoyed each other’s company, but the timing was just not right.  Life continued for both of us, but somehow we always managed to stay in touch: a random text, running into each other at a CSU football game… life just continued to cross our paths.  He was always lingering in the back of my mind, that wonderful, cute guy Brian.

In November of 2010 our paths crossed once again and this time was our time.

Check That Off

Oh, the sweet satisfaction of crossing an item off a list!  It is like a natural high, the invigorating sense of accomplishment of making that ‘X’ or 'check' next to the task at hand. 

I consider “to-do” lists an art form.  Yes, I am being utterly serious here.  My obsession with “to-do” lists began sometime during my teen years.  I can clearly hear my dad saying, “Jennifer if you would spend as much time actually doing what you are writing on that pretty list of yours, you would already be done!”  Rightfully so, I will admit that he was right and my love of lists was most likely a direct result of needing another form of procrastination (it is important to note that I was middle school and high school long before every teen had texting and Facebook to occupy their study time).  So, what started as a tool to avoid chores, studying and my worrywart behavior has now become an essential ingredient to my daily life. 

Yes, it may still be a form of procrastination at times, but now it is truly a necessity.  The forgetfulness that has accompanied my months of grief and stress has been overwhelming, lists help.  Those sleepless nights with ideas, reminders and must-do’s racing through your overwhelmed and restless brain, lists help.  Standing at the grocery store agonizing over that one item that you know you are not supposed to forget, but you have, lists help.  Packing for that trip (no matter how short), lists help.  Keeping up with thirty kindergartners and all that accompanies the day of a teacher, lists help.   Let’s just face the facts, lists help!

Sometimes quick lists will do, but I must admit I prefer pretty and colorful lists.  I believe the prettier it is to look at the more frequently I will look at it, thus increasing my productivity ten fold.  Okay, I might be exaggerating, but really wouldn’t we all rather look at something pretty (are you sensing where the procrastination still comes into play)?  The worst is when I have a beautiful, color-coded list that needs added to and I cannot find the writing utensil that I used.  What does a girl do?  Then there are those times when you forget to put something on ‘the list’ so you have to add it, just so you can feel that satisfaction of crossing it off.  The best is when you have “to-do” lists everywhere and have to try to consolidate them into a single working document to breathe success.  An exhausting chore indeed!

The accountability that a list possesses is insurmountable.  It silently reminds you of all the daunting tasks at hands.  It teases you, as you get closer to checking off that last item.  If you do not finish it, how can you tear it up?  Oh the power, oh the beauty, oh the necessity of THE LIST!

Tonight

I choose sleep instead of writing.  This is a conscious decision that I am okay with :)!

Stream of Thoughts

Giggling to myself I laid down, head aligned perfectly in the little headrest, reminiscing about the first time I ever had a massage and how nervous I was that I was so exposed underneath the blanket. Last night the only thought I had is that I certainly hope I pulled the lucky stick when it comes to massage therapists.  Maybe I should have told her to just work on my shoulders and neck, I know they are carrying a load of stress around.  Nah, what am I thinking, full body relaxation is what I need and why I came.  Okay, take a deep breathe, relax, she will be here any minute.  As her hands adjust the blanket on my body and she begins on my back I feel more settled.  She asks, “Is this firm enough or too light?” I tell her it is perfect and hope that she is not going to try to talk to me throughout this experience.  A minute passes, no more words, okay sigh of relief.  I am glad that I had time for a quick shower before I arrived; I know I was sticky from our walk around Red Rocks.  I can’t believe that Brian had never been there!  I guess he did not grow up five minutes away from its beauty like I did.  We should really start going to run stairs there like I did in high school.  Talk about embarrassing, how exhausted I was after one flight of stairs today.  Ugh, I am truly in the worst shape of my life!!!  Okay, that hurt, but that good massage kind of hurt.  Wait… go back to that spot… okay good you felt it too.  Wow, the left side of my back and neck hurt so much more than the right.  My heart is on the left side, maybe that is why; maybe it is holding more of the grief?  Could it be possible that my left side aches for my dad?  Something to consider I guess.  Maybe the love of Brian and family and friends and my kids is keeping the right side a little less knotted.  Unbelievable that same lack of balance I have been struggling with in my brain is evident in the tissues of my body.   Okay, that really hurts… keep going though… so glad you are good at what you do!  I hope it is all right that I left my ring on.  Oh I am sure she will work around it.  I wonder if she notices how beautiful it is?  I think it is perfect, the most beautiful ring around.  I still cannot believe I get to wear it everyday and will for the rest of my life.  Brian did good!  Hmmm, my right arm hurts.  Why does it hurt right there on my Tricep?  My arm has never hurt in a massage before… weird.  Listen to the music and chill out Jennifer.  This is relaxation time.  Turn your brain off.  Enjoy the peacefulness… I wish I could remember her name.  I will ask her at the end.  Please do not judge my legs, they used to have muscle, I promise.  Six months ago they were in the best shape they had been in since high school.  Who am I kidding she sees bodies of all kinds and shapes all day everyday.  I am sure she does not even notice anymore.  I am the one who is judging and I am supposed to be practicing kindness towards myself.  Hey, at least I shaved a couple of days ago.  Oh and my feet will be nice since I had a pedicure on Wednesday.  I am sure she sees some gross feet in this job!  I could not do this job.  I am a touch person.  I need to give and receive touch, but to people I love and care about.  Not to strangers.  She is a special person though, because her touch is kind and healing.  All right, time to turn over.  Now she can see my face and since I am still stuffed up my mouth will be hanging open so I can breathe.  I am sure it is a lovely sight to see.  Oh good, more time on my neck.  Oh how I needed this.  Thank you Brian for convincing me to call this afternoon and get in.  Great birthday present love!  Wow, this is that painful, but good part.  My neck has been killing me!  Thankfully she must feel it too.  She is working all the right parts.  I am going to be sore tomorrow though.  Oh no, back down to the feet, we are close to the end.  I should do this more often for myself.  Who am I kidding we have a wedding to pay for!  I need to send the deposit for the florist in this week.  Thankfully Lindsey emailed me or I would have forgotten the rest of our venue deposit is due on Wednesday.  It is hard to believe it is only six months away and we already have to work on the food selection and payment for that.  Awe, but it is so exciting!  Oh no, there goes the blanket back on the feet.  It has been an hour already?  How is that possible?  I do not want to sit up and put my clothes back on.  One more hour please?  Okay, let’s not be greedy.  Time to go.

Firsts

Twenty-seven years ago today, at 11:42pm, after 26 hours of miserable labor, I was born by cesarean section to Daniel Mark and Lori Anne Hubbard.  My dad was twenty-five and my mom twenty-four, in July they would celebrate their second wedding anniversary.  It was on their first wedding anniversary, July 9^th, in Reno, Nevada that my mom ushered my dad away from the blackjack table to inform him that she was either: pregnant or dying.  Sure enough there I was on Saint Patrick’s Day nine months later.  I was what you call an “accident,” but I must say the best accident two married people can have!

Since my dad died, I have heard from many, that it is all those “firsts” that occur after the death of someone close that add to the emotional difficulty of loss.  Together we have faced the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, the first New Year’s Eve and his birthday.  All were hard and required courage, a deep breath and the support of one another to make it through.  I knew at each of these family gatherings that my dad would want us to smile, to laugh, to love.  I also knew that he would be there with us every step of the way.

When lost in thought and considering all those “firsts” I never considered my birthday being hard.  It simply did not cross my mind.  Yet, I am realizing that on your birthday you naturally think about your parents.  They are of course the people who brought you into this world, who nurture and love, care and comfort, guide and support, each day of your life.  As I have gotten older my dad was usually the first person I heard from on my birthday, as we are both early risers for work.  This morning there was no call.  Today there will be no call.  It is the strangest feeling, knowing that for the rest of my birthdays, my dad will not call to wish his Wacker-Doo a happy day.  Even though I know he is sending me love this very moment, it is just not the same.

I am a very lucky girl to have been born to the parents that I was.  Today I am doing my best to be grateful that I had the years with my dad that I did, not angry that he will not know his twenty-seven year old daughter.  I am grateful that twenty-six other birthdays were shared with him.  I am reminding myself to be thankful that my dad was the man and father that he was.  While the time spent together will never be enough, it was still enough for him to have a profound impact on my life and the woman that I am today.  I will continue to do my best each day to make him proud.  To live each year of my life to the fullest and take nothing for granted.  To appreciate my family and friends and life and all the small joys that occur all around. My dad would expect nothing less.

Bowling

Birthday Bowling or Blogging?

I choose birthday bowling :)

Disclaimer: I did not bowl the turkey... Brian's brother Justin took over my game and was the successful bowler!

Cheers to more writing on St. Patty's Day and my birthday!

Tootsies

There is nothing better than looking down and seeing beautifully painted toes!  Nothing makes me as distressed as looking down to my feet and seeing unpainted toes.... I cringe in the shower, I can't wear flip-flops, I have to hid them under socks!  Even in the winter my toes must have some color.  Silly, maybe, but it brings me such joy!  I love that on toes any color will do.  I find the bright orange and pinks are the very best!

My grandma loved her toes painted too.  When she was battling cancer and even when her battle was near the end I would go over and paint her toes.  I think she got that same little leap in her heart knowing that her toes were cute and sparkly even if she herself did not feel the same.

Last night my sister invited me for a pedicure and as I sit here finishing my report cards I keep looking at my pretty orange toes and smiling!

Up North

 There is a place where the world stops.  Where time appears to stand still and the simplicity of life is all that remains.  There is a place in the north woods where the sound of water lapping against the dock and the call of the Loons echoes throughout the stillness of the night.  Where the days are filled with laughter and love and the nights with stories by the fire.  There is a place in the north woods, on Lake Namakagon, where my heart is full and right.

I was seven years old when I first experienced the beauty of a great northern lake.  It was not Lake Namakagon, but it was beautiful.  It was not until college, that my parent’s good friends, The Rueggers, invited us to their new cabin on Lake Namakagon.  It was love at first sight and has become our family’s most treasured retreat on earth.  Surrounded by the north woods it is the definition of tranquility and beauty.

At the lake my body becomes my clock and guide.  We wake to sip coffee on the porch and catch up on life.  Bike rides, runs and walks fill the morning hours and when all have risen and the beer cooler is full the boats become the thrones.  Sometimes there is skiing, knee boarding, jet skiing and tubing.  Other times the pontoon boat is all we need, as the IPOD plays the tunes and endless floating fulfills the day.  “The Chief” serves the best Bloody Mary’s around and delicious margaritas too. On Wednesdays it is “Wing Ding” that leaves not a single frown. 

My dad went to college with Pam and Rick and their friendship has remained a constant in our lives.  Part of what I love the most about the lake is seeing how relaxed and happy my dad was while we were there.  He was with his friends and family doing everything that he loved.  I treasured listening to them all talk about their college days and their day-to-day lives now.  At the lake my dad was 100% carefree.  He would take off on the Jet Ski with a look of pure excitement on his face!  He didn’t worry about having an extra gin and tonic, knowing that tomorrow was just another day of fun. 

This August we went to Wisconsin.  This summer I got one last wonderful week on the lake with my dad and family.  I got to see my parents hold hands on the boat and laugh.  We drank coffee together in the morning and had gin and tonics at night.  It was another perfect week on the lake, full of memories that I will hold forever dear.  This summer we will go back and while it will be difficult, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Self

This past weekend was tough.  I felt off-balance, overwhelmed, de-energized, sad, frustrated, lonely and discouraged. I try to be good to myself.  I try to remember that no one expects me to be ‘okay’ all the time or to be able to do it all, but this weekend all I could focus on was how inadequate I have felt the past few months.  I know that I am grieving.  I know that my life got flipped upside down in a split second and I lost one of my biggest supporters and dearest friends… my dad. I know that grief affects you in ways you are not even aware.  That it takes time and patience and letting yourself be to navigate the whirlwind of emotions.  Nonetheless, I have felt that no matter how hard I try I am not being a good enough daughter, sister, fiancé, friend, teacher or colleague.  According to my personality type on the Enneagram I am your classic, “Type Two-The Helper.” To be the one needing taken care of, to be the one that needs to receive and not give, talk about a battle for my inner self!  So this weekend I sat in my own self-misery and cried and collapsed and allowed myself to just feel it all.

At the core of it all is the realization that I am not really taking care of myself physically or emotionally.  I am running on empty and cannot keep up forever.  My physical self needs sleep, good food and consistent exercise.  My emotional self needs time to just breathe, time for me to stop and be done for the day.  I need to give myself permission (like I did today) to leave work at 4:00, because it is beautiful outside and long walk would sooth my being.  That it is okay to be selfish and do what I need to do for my own well-being.  In order to be the person I want to be for others, I first need to take care of myself.  I need to find balance.

It is time to be better to myself again, take time for myself again and appreciate myself again.

Just a start...

A lot of things make sense now, looking back, but at the time I was more clueless than I have ever been in my life. Christmas Eve morning Brian walked through the door around 8:00am (after working his umpteenth overnight in a row).   Drained and exhausted from the chaos that is retail at the holidays he had just enough time for a quick snooze before we were off to my parent’s house to watch the Broncos game.   He nicely asked me if I would iron his new shirt, very sweet I thought to myself, he wants to look nice for his first Christmas Eve with my family.  I always remember loving my holiday dress (usually new) as a child and I still try to find something “cute” and a little bit more “fancy” than my everyday garb for Christmas Eve.

The amazing smell of Italian sausage filled the air as we walked into my parent’s house.  My sister and mom were busy in the kitchen, my brother and his girlfriend already settled for the game.  It was a typical afternoon watching football (besides the obvious fact that Dad was not there).  The end of the game was uneventful so I ran upstairs and put socks on my freezing feet.  When I came downstairs Brian announced that he had a little anniversary gift for me by the fire (our one year had been the day before).  Giddy that I was already getting to open a present (I might have been begging to do so for several days) I ran to the fireplace and opened a very neatly wrapped gift.  Brian moved closer, but I remained utterly and completely unaware that my sister and Chardae both had their cameras out.  I took my time, savoring opening my first gift.  Inside I found a beautiful jewelry box that I had noticed a few weeks before while shopping with Brian’s sister-in-law.  It is a precious, small silver box, about 4 inches by 4 inches, engraved with the words: Good Things Come in Small Packages.  Brian asked my to read it out loud, which I quickly did and then leaped up to give him a thank-you hug.  He looked at me and said, “Well, that’s what I got you!”  I replied, very matter-of-factly, “I know, I love it!” Seeing that I obviously was not getting the clue, he said, “I got you another small package.”  It was when I looked at him at this moment that I started to realize there was something else happening here.  I looked at him, “no you didn’t!” and to that he said, “Yes, I did,” and dropped to one knee.  I was immediately overcome with emotion… I had no idea this was going to happen!  “Jennifer Ryan” was the way he began as the world around me stopped.  At one point I had to reach out and grab his shoulder to hold myself up, as tears streamed down my face.  When he finished his words, I grabbed him and sobbed… it was my sister who finally asked if that was a yes.  Laughing I pulled back and said, “of course!” When I finally looked at the ring I was speechless. The best words I could muster up were to tell him he was so sneaky and ask him when he had done this!  As I got down on my knees in front of him and he slid the ring onto my finger I continued to laugh and cry, utterly lost in the moment with the love of my life.

It was perfect.  My words cannot begin to depict this moment in time.  It was more than I could have ever imagined… at my parents house with my mom, sister, brother and Chardae all there.  I have pictures and a video that I will cherish forever and someday show our children and grandchildren.  We toasted to champagne that my parents had bought in Napa Valley two weeks before he died.  And he surprised me… and it is the best surprise of my life!

**This is a rough draft in its finest form.  I want to go back to this piece and make it perfect.  It needs more explanation, more imagery, and more emotion.  But for tonight, this is all the energy I have left***

Wordless

 Tonight I cannot seem to find the right words.  So instead I borrow the words from another writer. Sometimes others can express it better than you can yourself.

Words of Wisdom for Women- Rachel Snyder

Collapse

“Give in and admit that you just can’t hold it all together anymore.  Fall limp into a pair of waiting arms and let somebody hold you for once.  Sob uncontrollably and shudder and let your eyes close and feel your body melting.  Collapse into the Rabbi’s arms and tell her you want to come to temple.  Collapse on a friend’s sofa and ask her to make you a cup of tea.  Collapse into a circle of woman and know they will not let you fall.  Collapse into the strong and comforting lap of the Goddess, of God, of Jesus, of Buddha, of an ancient Grandmother whom you never met yet know all the same.  Take off your shoes and stockings and collapse on the floor.  Find a big, warm bosom—real or imagined—where you can lay your head down and rest.  Let go and feel the tension drain out of every muscle, every cell of your body.  Believe that you are still competent, still strong, still capable, but for the moment, it’s okay, you’re safe now, collapse.”

Balance

“When you find yourself teetering too far in one direction, bring some balance back into your life.  Balance your work time with playtime.  Balance your social butterflying with quiet, uninterrupted periods of solitude.  If you’ve been giving too much, let everyone know you’re ready to receive.  Balance your diet.  Too much of any one thing--no matter how good--can never be good.  If you’ve been running around at breakneck speed, slow down before an accident or injury does it for you.  If you’ve been sitting in front of a screen (any screen!) for too long, get up from your chair and dance or walk or swim or stretch.  When you feel like you’ve been balancing too many things for too long, put some down.  Do it slowly and mindfully, so you don’t lose your balance while you do.”

 ***I wrote this on Sunday, but due to the internet not working last night was unable to post it***

Today

Today I…

Woke up early to a sweet kiss from Brian before he headed out to work.

Decided against waking up when he left and slept in until 8:30.

Put my hair in a ponytail, put on my sweats and headed out for my parent’s house.

Stopped by Starbucks and picked my sister and myself up a latte.

Sat in my parent’s living room, in my dad’s favorite coffee drinking spot, drinking my latte and talking with my sister.

Decided breakfast burritos were in order.

Drove with my sister, sunroof down, dad’s playlist jamming and us singing Bruce Springsteen’s Badlands, to the Tamale Kitchen.

Ordered more breakfast burritos and tamale’s than necessary.

Enjoyed a morning and afternoon with my mom working on wedding plans and listening to my brother talk about my dad and himself and golf.

Took a walk and thought about my bike…. wanting to get back on my bike… being afraid to get back on my bike… needing to get back on my bike.

Enjoyed a chicken burrito bowl from Chipotle with Brian and ran errands.

Walked with Brian to Baker’s Street to meet mom and sister for happy hour.

Drank some margarita’s and enjoyed the laughter and love of family.

Plan to curl up with Brian, watch a movie and go to bed.

Today I did nothing I had planned to do, but everything I wanted.

Jennifer or Wacker-Doo?

I have been thinking a great deal about nicknames recently.  They are a profoundly interesting and rather personal topic when one really considers them.  Names are powerful, such a core part of our identity.  Call me Jenn, call me Jennifer, but do not ever call me Jenny.  I do not identify with Jenny.  Not that it is a bad name, it is a perfectly wonderful name, but not mine.  However, someone calling me Jenn or Jenny makes sense, as it is simply the shortened version of my full name.  Nick-names though.  Nick-names are frequently illogical, ridiculous, funny and often only understood by the giver, the reciever and a few close others.  Then there are the nick-names between lovers... now that is something to talk about!  I love the moment, when surrounded by friends, that someone let's the cute, often very entertaining, nick-name of their significant other slip.  I think what intriques me most about nick-names is the story behind them, as strange as they may be.  I also adore that most nick-names stem from a love and a closeness between those who speak and know the name.

When I was born, for reasons I will never know, my dad began calling me, Jenny Wacker Doo-Doo.  Okay, I know am already contradicting myself, I said that I do not identify with Jenny, I don't.  Except for this one circumstance, when my dad (or my mom who also took to calling me by the name) would call me Jenny Wacker Doo-Doo. When I would ask my dad about this nick-name and how it came to be his response did not have the clever story I was expecting, just love.  The story goes that shortly after I was born he was holding me, cooing and those were the words that came out and they stuck.  Throughout my childhood and growing up my nick-name eventually took on the suedo forms of Wacker Doo or Wacker.  Most of the time it was endearing and said with love.  However, there were those times when I got older (and too cool) for friends to know me as Wacker that he would throw it out there for the world to hear.  He did it because he could and he loved seeing that look of disgust on my face that he would go and embarass me like that infront of my friends...the way only a dad can. 

My immediate family calls me by the nick-name too, but really it was my nick-name from dad.  It was just another little way that I knew how much I was loved.  It was a name that continued throughout my childhood and adulthood.  Even at 26 years old, I would walk into the house and with the same unwavering love in his voice I would be greeted with some form of Jenny Wacker Doo-Doo. There have been moments recently where I can so perfectly hear... it makes me smile... it makes me cry.   I know that I will forever be his Jenny Wacker.  It makes me, me.

Serendipity

It was Sunday morning, the day after dad’s service.  Our immediate family had made it back to the house in one piece after a few too many adult beverages to help settle one of the most unsettling days of our lives.  As the house refilled with the weeks familiar faces of close family and friends it was determined that some greasy, unbelievably unhealthy hangover food was in order.  Off went my brother and his girlfriend to McDonalds.  We all just sat and stared.  With the service over an odd feeling was looming about the house.  That debilitating question running through our minds: what now? The house was quit and relatively still. 

It was when the McDonalds arrived that a little laughter began to fill the air.  Brian and Chardae walked in with more McDonalds than I can ever remember seeing at one time.  They, almost in disgust, informed us that we ordered $82.00 worth of burgers and fries.  Okay, that is slightly disturbing, but funny at the same time.  They then proceed to announce that they ordered it through the drive-thru.  Laughter took over as they discussed their $82.00 drive-thru experience. 

Eventually someone decided to get out the guest book from the service.  We talked about who was there, whom we saw and whom we missed.  We were humbled and honored by everyone who was there.  I wish I could tell you who read this out loud, but I can't. All I remember is it was the BEST thing I had heard since Tuesday.  It made my insides hurt from laughing, it gave me a mission for the rest of the day, and it was my obsession.  Every person who entered my parent’s house that day had to stop and look and hear my laughter.  I could not get enough.

Three-quarters of the way down one of the guest pages was this signature:

 Carol Anne and the Spirit Serendipity Doo-Dah

Wait! Who? What! I was laughing so hard I could hardly stand it.  I set off on a mission to find out who this person was that would sign such a ridiculous thing in a funeral guest book.  I texted my dad’s colleagues, I questioned anyone and everyone I could, but the Spirit Serendipity Doo-Dah remained a mystery.  At first I was sort of irked by this.  Who, in their right mind, would write such a thing?  However, as the day wore on I realized that whoever this person was offered me a gift.  On this heartbreaking and confusing day she gave me laughter.  A little something else to focus some attention on besides the “Dan sized hole” in my heart.  My mystery was eventually solved and it made me appreciate it even more. I will forever be grateful to Carol Anne and her dog’s spirit…. Serendipity Doo-Dah.

300 Fingers, 300 Toes

300 fingers, 300 toes

60 hands, 60 feet

30 kids I do teach.

30 beautiful smiles, hearts all aglow

Greet me each morning

Backpacks in tow.

Unique they sure are

No two alike

But judge no they don’t, they choose to embrace.

Day in and day out

A smile they share

Reminding me how lucky I am to be there.

On the worst of all days (this year has brought plenty)

They show me the beauty

There is love all around me.

Their lives are not easy

The resilience they show

Inspiration more profound than they’ll ever know.

This class they are special

One of a kind

They remind me to laugh, to smile, to dance.

They count on me

I count on them

Teaching and learning until the days end.

10 fingers, 10 toes

2 hands, 2 feet

30 kids and a teacher they teach!