Love lasts for the long haul

My 4 year old is seemingly incapable in speaking in a tone other than "indignant whine". She also can't be more than 18 inches away from me for longer than a single Peppa Pig episode (that's 9 minutes). She sits, leaning on me, and saying, in a plaintive cry "Momma. Momma. I neeeed yoou!"

I can be the household calendar manager, shoe and bill finder and remember-er of if the dogs have eaten. I answer the big questions kids ask about growing up, life, and love. The requests for finding lost toys, shoes, towels, on-and-on are never ending. The requests for snacks, but not that snack, activities, but not right now, and more and more are never ending. The requests for time and presence and ME feel never ending. 

And I end up feeling taken advantage of, invisible, disposable and unappreciated. Oh, and pissed.

Because, I believe and think to myself: "My experience in this world is my responsibility. I deem how others may and may not treat me. I decide how to engage and how to not engage with the challenges and triumphs of your life." And, sometimes I don't like how I'm treated by those I love the most. So I conclude that maybe it's my fault because I allow it to happen.

Parenting is one of those long-term endeavors. In which the immediate feedback is likely to be negative, negative, negative. In which the presence of negative feedback probably means I'm doing my job well. Or at least hopefully not fully f*cking it up. And, like all parents, I sometimes get feedback or information from peers, news articles, even family and friends, that tells me I'm not doing this right.

I don't set the right boundaries, I'm not this enough, or too that, or permit too much or too little of that. And it pisses me off.

Because there are those days. Those days. When the demands are incessant. The requests never-ending. The to-do list a gargantuan, herculean feat, impossible to complete.

The demands of work, even work I love, on me leave so much less to offer to the demands of home and family, and myself. I find myself at the end of my proverbial rope, dangling on snapped words, exasperated sighs and irritated grumbles.

I find myself desperate for a moment to myself, to breathe and rest, but also dreading the cost of that time off the hamster-wheel. For stepping off the hamster-wheel, indulging in that essential self-care, feels like it just jams up the conveyor belt of life that much more.

I find myself over the constant touching, needing, asking, pushing. I find myself over the need to set the boundaries, police screen time, vegetable and sugar consumption, bed times, wake up times, the never ending reminders to wipe-flush-and-wash. I find myself at a loss for patience and kindness. I find myself finding the many ways I am falling short. Shorter and shorter and shorter of the elusive goal of being a "good mom", however that is defined these days.

And so. Those feelings of being disposable, ineffective, taken advantage of, invisible are a confused mash-up of feeling judged, overworked, guilty, and yet responsible for allowing it all to happen in the first place.

But I also know a bad day, does not a bad life. I know that a few days of crankiness doesn't erase the efforts of silliness, love, engagement, support, joy, exploration. This is family. Every moment won't meet the litmus test of how we're "supposed" to live. It won't always meet our expectations. But if we're lucky, and I am, the cuddles outlast the cranky, and love always lasts for the long haul.

If you like, please share!

Color me embarrassed...

I attended a birthday party with my kids recently. It was a children's party with water balloons, sprinklers, and lots of perfect raucous fun. 

Toward the end of the party, One Philly Son was speaking to a girl he'd been chummy with and her mother. His own birthday party was the next day, and he seemed to get along well with this girl, so he was telling her that she "had" to come to his party. We'd never met this girl before, so it was clear that wasn't going to happen, but us grown-ups were dancing that awkward dance of social nicety around our kids' blissful ignorances to it. "Oh, I'm sure she has other plans!" and "Thank you so much for the invitation!"

Then he said, all playful and mock-drama, "you know what happens if you can't come?  - this!" And he bounced a beach ball off my face.

Insert instant mortification here.

In an instant, I feared my persona had changed to the Mom who didn't set boundaries, the Mom who lets her son be a jerk, the Mom who was going to raise criminals and probably defend their deviant actions to the judge. I don't know the other Mom's true reaction, but this is how it felt to me.

It only feels like petty excuse-making to inform you that One Philly Daughter had been clinging to me for hours, that I'd just come off  2 business trips in 2 weeks, that I'd put in nearly 20 hours of overtime in those 2 weeks, that One Philly Daddy and I were hustling like crazy to coordinate the next day's party, that time lately had felt like a mad-dash and it felt like we were still falling woefully short.

In essence, I had nothing more to offer in that moment than a weak, "Ok, then."

Sure, I've observed the odd parent who would explode, "how dare you!" and grab him by the arm, and drag him out to the car, bellowing all the way about respect and behavior and "never coming back here again!". And sometimes I feel like that's the expectation that is expected. In my opinion though, that reaction is more about releasing the emotional pressure valve.

The parenting philosophies that resonate with me involve treating even our bratty kids with respect, because that's how I believe we teach them to act respectfully. I believe in walking through the emotional turmoil with them, as a guide and mentor. So if my kids are feeling upset, emotional, distraught I'm going to dive in and try to find out why, and let them determine a way to get out, feel through it. Because I'm not in the business of either telling them their emotions are wrong, or fixing them for them. Which also means I'm not in the business of demanding a certain set of feelings or behaviors from them. I want to teach respect and thoughtfulness and mindfulness and emotional intelligence by modeling it and teaching it. Not by demanding a series of behaviors without the context of explanation or meaning or understanding.

I've heard this type of parenting denigrated as being wishy-washy. Or indulgent. Or not demanding enough respect. But sometimes what parents are looking for is blind obedience, with any other reaction being treated as insolence and contempt.

Here's the thing: I put no value in blind obedience.

In the years I was a child, there was a lot of the "Honor thy father and mother" mentality. There was a strong "don't embarrass me" element, and the ever popular "children are to be seen and not heard", "if you're going to cry, I'll give you something to cry about", and "because I'm the parent" themes.

And those themes worked, to an extent. I knew to keep quiet, and to keep my thoughts and emotions to myself. It was easy to know when I'd done something wrong, but not always what I'd done wrong, why it was wrong, or how to do it better next time.

Here's what I wish I had more practice at as an "obedient child" : How to think for myself. How to trust myself. How to gauge appropriate and inappropriate behavior in others, and how to select friends based on that information. How to set boundaries for myself. How to stand up for myself. How to communicate my needs. How to handle conflict. How to stomach uncomfortable emotions.

Here's what I had loads of practice at as an "obedient child" : How to anticipate disapproval of my actions and how to adjust myself accordingly. How to be quiet. How to put on a smile when I wanted to cry. How to answer in the "right" way.  How to not rock the boat.

So, I certainly don't want my kids to think throwing things at people's faces is EVER acceptable, but I'd like them to learn MORE than that. Like to be able to hear that they've hurt someone's feelings or embarrassed them, and know how to take responsibility, apologize, make it right, and get right back to an open and loving relationship.

If you liked this, please share.

Silence is golden. And even more rare.

I have a secret.

I love silence.

I was quite comfortable living alone and adored the sense of accomplishment I got when walking into my apartment (that I found and rented by myself), carrying groceries that I bought, with my money, that I earned at my job.

This glorious life was not without its flaws, as my life-on-my-own started in my mid-20's at the end of a 7-year-long-relationship that spanned 2 cross-country moves and was headed down the aisle. (Should anyone feel the need, you can tell that fella I hold no ill will, and am grateful for the strength it took for him to end something that wasn't serving either of us. I wish him everything we wouldn't have found together.) It included a toxic work environment followed by 5 months of unemployment and hours upon hours of soul searching and worry and fear and scrimping and saving. But also growing and learning.

Today, it is not the pain or soul stretching or sorrow or mourning that I miss. It is the silence. When I expressed to One Philly Daddy recently that I loved and missed silence, he merely shook his head in a bemused way and said something akin to "then you're in the wrong house, baby."

I love my family. I love the true honor it is to be a mother. I've loved and wanted a chance to do right by my kids like a yearning for water or air.

And yet. Sometimes I wish they'd shut the freak up. They're all high energy (kids - globally, and mine specifically) and the movement and noise and chatter can be... too much.

I would love a count of the number of times I hear the words "Mommy, can you..." in a given hour. Forget day. I'd break the counter.

This is what jumbles my nerves and hunches my shoulders and clenches my jaw and, well, you get the idea.

There is a severe lack of silence. Of the ability to hear one's self think. To finish a sentence. To get lost in a book. To allow my own voice to reach my own ears.

My children tend to narrate their lives. Every button they push in Minecraft, every minutiae of their thoughts, every. god. damn. thing. When they're not talking, they're making random chattery, clicky, humming, noises.

Don't get me wrong. I adore that they adore me and want me to see, hear, watch and do every-freakin-thing with them. The other day One Philly Daughter had a cold. And when I announced I needed to take a shower (you know, to go to work. In public.) she asked if she could come with me.  In the shower. One Philly Son has turned even video games into full contact sports involving jumping, yelling, ducking, bouncing.

Trust me, I know, remind myself often that one day, one proverbial day, I will miss this sound. I will wish for the sound of their nonsense and the noise of their toys bouncing off my furniture, their requests for (yet another) snack, their pestering of each other and the like.

And so. I do my damnedest to listen to their yammerings. I pay attention to the things that are important to them. Because they are important to me.

The silence I seek will fuel me. My blog, my work, my life, my eternal internal musings. (Its just who I am. I like to get lost in my own thoughts.) But never at the cost of my loves. For this is a time of learning and growing and soul searching too. And the frightening parts of the glorious quiet years are not lost on me. I was alone, terribly alone. And I am certain one day, I will look back on these years with great longing and nostalgia.

Despite all these awarenesses and acceptances, once in awhile, I say. With all kindness, adoration, respect and as little exasperation as I can muster :

"Will you please just stop talking for just a minute?"

If you liked, please share! 

What my best looks like today....

I've just read another "unplug and pay attention to your kids" blog. And I love those. There are moments I'm struck by the finite time I have with my children while they are young. I'm struck by the fleeting moments that are being sucked up by Facebook, chores, work, commitments, and sometimes, just plain old boredom, irritation and exhaustion.


A few confessions:
I do not like to play Barbie's. Didn't when I was a kid, still don't. Worse, One Philly Daughter is a strict director, and sticks to her plot line. There's not a lot of room for creative license when playing with her.


I suck at video games, which One Philly Son excels at. Like, he's not good for a 6 year old, he's good. I've beaten him exactly once at Smash Brothers and when we play Mario Brothers, more times than not he carries me through a majority of the level. And, I don't mean figuratively. I mean his Mario picks up my Yoshi and carries it through the jumping and leaping and dodging. And he still beats every level. I have to beg him to stick to Worlds 1 and 2.


I'm not terribly entertained by many of the things that absorb my kids.


But. I am absorbed by them. And, so, there are many times I make the effort to play, be engaged and express interest in the things that interest them. Because the people are precious to me, even if I don't care much for the things that they care about, if we're being totally honest. And many times, I'm there. I play the game and we laugh at my gaffes. I play Barbie's and do as I'm told. And we build memories and connections and laughter.


I think that's what is lost sometimes in all these messages that implore us, lovingly remind us, but also, let's be honest, sometimes chide and scold us for scrolling Facebook, focusing on our jobs, cleaning our house, seeing our friends, or just plain zoning out.


Sometimes, checking out a bit can be a kind thing, to both myself and my kids. Sometimes, I'm at the end of my rope. Sometimes, a mild disinterest is kinder than a mean snap. Sometimes, indifference is kinder than anger. Sometimes, going through the motions is kinder than exploding with frustration. Sometimes the polite "mm-hmmm" is what I can offer.

And, no, I don't recommend making Facebook a priority over your kids everyday. Or ignoring your kids for work all the time. Or never making eye contact in favor for a screen or something else.

But, sometimes, the tank is empty. The nerves are frayed. The effort has been made and there's nothing left to offer.


So, when you see me rolling my eyes or blankly nodding, please don't doubt I adore my kids. Please don't question my dedication to my kids.


Sometimes, when it looks like I'm being a distracted, indifferent, unloving mother, I'm still offering my best self.

No rest for the weary, more or less....

I'm tired. I know, we all are. And not the "I'd kinda like to rest for a minute" tired, but the squinting at the computer, straining to understand the words on the screen, kind of achy, slow brain, bone tired.

And that's cool. Cause I should be. I have a recently new job (less than 7 months old) that I love. It invigorates and motivates and challenges and engages me. Awesome. So I put in extra hours. But those extra hours are noticed and appreciated. Also awesome.

I have 2 kids, 2 dogs, an active social calendar and a house to keep up with. There's  dance and gymnastics, end of school concerts and picnics, recitals, rehearsals, and teacher gifts. And don't forget summer camp registrations, payment due dates, health forms and emergency contact forms. Vacation plans, packing and again, payments and forms. Wedding plans, outfits, schedules, gifts, and celebrations. A yard that needs tending and an HVAC system that needs replacing. Car inspections and registrations. All also awesome.

All these converge together to create a blessed life. A messy life. A good life. A full life. A life that sometimes has me just feeling a tad numb to the bulk of all that needs to be done. And, most of the time, my reaction has been to just TRY HARDER. DO MORE. DIG DEEPER.

Ah, but Dr. Brené Brown has another idea. Instead of digging deeper, pushing harder, making it work, she suggests we just chill out. Another blogger reviews her thoughts on the idea here.

As put in her books, Brown suggests we  "get Deliberate, Inspired, and Going" - so instead of taking the malaise of a slow energy day, and forcing through the list of to-do's, she suggests we get deliberate in our actions (if you're tired and mindlessly scrolling Facebook, why not just be honest that you're pooped and do something that will actually invigorate you? instead of feed the malaise?), "inspired to make new and different choices" (is your schedule full of stuff you really don't care about? find a way to unravel your commitment to those things) and "get going" (take some action!).

I like this approach because it encourages mindfully being aware of what actually energizes your soul and investing your self and energy into that. It means being honest with yourself, and shaping a life that YOU want, not that someone told you to want or you think you should want. And if you're defining it, others' thoughts on that life become less and less important.

And, it also leaves room for how you define those things to change. What feels like a lifetime ago, I worked at a place that taught me a great deal. My time there ended abruptly, when they determined we were no longer a "good fit", but, as with many things that end, my time there, and the ending was a gift. A wise person there told me that, over time, the things that were important to him didn't really change, but the way there were expressed in life changed drastically.

A word like "fulfillment" may be important, but will mean vastly different things to a 20 year old, 30, year old, 40 year old. Add a few more variables regarding kids, homes, etc, and that definition changes even more. For me, fulfillment at 26 meant being single after a long relationship and really learning who I was. By 30 it meant investing in a wedding that One Philly Daddy and I could pay cash for, and a home that didn't max out our income. At 39 it means a career that offers flexibility, advancement, and stability, so I can provide for, but also have time to enjoy my family. Most importantly is that these are MY definitions. You should make and honor your own. No cheating!

So, yes, I'm tired. My house isn't as clean as I'd like it to be (read: not as clean as I think YOU want it to be, or as clean as my mother would like it, or as clean as my friend keeps hers. As clean as I'D like it to be.) but, I can handle that. My calendar is full, but I'm choosing what to fill it up with and what to leave out. My career is busy, but so, so, so fun and fulfilling for me.

I am busy, and I am tired. But I am choosing what's making me tired, and I'm also choosing what to let go of. I'm choosing how to rest my weary soul, so that it can thrive another exciting day in a life that I DESIGNED. That I chose and built along with One Philly Daddy.

Because, if you build your life for you, you can be freer to decide what can wait until tomorrow. Maybe your sink is full, but writing a blog will make you come alive. Maybe the clothes in your washer are starting to mildew, but your legs and lungs really need a run. Maybe the dust bunnies qualify for their own caucus, but you really want a cup of tea on the patio.

Here's the secret: that blog, run or cup of tea will give you MORE energy for those dishes, laundry and dust bunnies. Feeding your soul allows you to bring MORE to the table of your life. Pushing when you're tired means less to give, less joy, less presence and less YOU.

So, there's always going to be LESS and MORE of stuff. Chores or joy. You or someone else's standards. Things you want to do and things you feel you have to do. Things that fill you up and things that wear you out.

Together, let's try to decide in a deliberate, inspired way what we will build MORE or LESS of. Then, when you're tired, at least it'll be energy well spent on your dreams, instead of someone else's.

Blessed by my burdens and burdened by my blessings

Sometimes I have those days when the sound of my own children chattering, bickering, arguing, negotiating, debating, whining over every god. damn. thing. makes my skin crawl.

But, I'm only too aware that I'm actually blessed with all the riches in the world.

So I'm not saying my kids don't drive me nuts. They do. I'm not saying I don't have crap-tastic days when the work is too much, the mess too high, the noise too loud, and the demands too much.

I'm just also crystal clear that my burdens are in fact my greatest blessings.

So when crap starts to hit the fan, I like to think like this:

My kids have a toy to fight over
My kids have air conditioning to let out the door
My kids have food to refuse to eat
My kids have band-aids to put on their imaginary (and real) boo-boo's
My kids are driving me nuts, not someone else
My kids have beds to refuse sleep in
My kids have shoes they refuse to put on their feet
My kids have brushes they refuse to apply to their teeth

So yeah. Sometimes I lose my mind. And my blessings are burdens and my burdens are blessings.

I used to think I was aiming for a time when I'd never be stressed or burdened. But I think better is finding a way to see the blessings within the burdens.

It's easy to see our burdens, but happier to see our blessings. 

Class is now in session....

I’m trying to decide what I’m teaching my kids by accident.

Yes, the words that come out of my mouth are full of love, and value and support. But what does the rest of me say? One Philly Son suffers those extreme mood swings I mentioned last week. And when I expressed concern in the form of “where he would get these crazy notions” to a dear friend, she honestly and distinctly told me that my words might not be saying those crazy notions, but I might still be teaching him these things.

Eeep.

I’m listening to The Gifts of Imperfect Parenting by Brené Brown. (Whom I totally love. I am going to learn so stinking much from this woman.) She speaks of the difference between guilt and shame, of what we inadvertently teach our children about their self-worth. By how we treat ourselves.

Oh shit.

She states that what we ARE teaches, and that we can’t give our children what we don’t have ourselves.

Shit, shit, shit.

Her work is researching shame, compassion, courage, resilience, and many of those other amazing intangibles we desperately want to instill in our children, and I find I can only listen / read a little bit, and then not revisit her books for a few weeks. I think I’m just slowly integrating these ideas.

So. What we are teaches our kids what they are. And, our actions are more important than our words. The example she gives in the book goes something like this: Imagine your child makes a mistake. You say all the appropriate things – “Its ok, mistakes happen, I love you, we can fix this together, I made this mistake once too!” And your child hears all these messages of worthiness. But later that day, your child sees you make a mistake and you call yourself and idiot and your face shows an expression of anger and frustration and shame. And your child sees you not loving yourself, encouraging yourself, supporting yourself.

Shit.

This event is more powerful and impactful on your child’s conclusions about self-worth and value and worthiness than your words.

Effffffff………

Wait! I get it!

I mean……… That’s a cool idea! I’m so glad I learned this! I certainly had no intention of inadvertently teaching my children conflicting ideas about worthiness. My ever-present exploration of the art and science of boundary setting and self-care is ready to take another step! My intentions have been nothing but good, and my heart is in the right place, and I love my children. I’ve come by this mistake honestly, and now I can make efforts to improve. Awesome! I’m so proud of my effort and willingness to learn.

So. My kids are my best teachers. If you’ve read before, you know there are a few feelings swirling in me that I might rather my kids NOT learn. And my words alone are not armor enough against the Trojan Horse of my own emotional undermining of worthiness, love and value.

You see? To teach my children, first I must learn. For my children to believe, first they must see. So, to protect my children, instill in them a sense of worthiness, a sense of resilience, and sense of self and the ability to connect to others in this world, first I need to do those things myself.

See? We’re all learning here.

A bruised toe, not a bruised heart

So what I've learned is, the things that drive me most nuts, are the things that have the most potential to teach me something new.

One Philly Son is curious, kind, sensitive, intelligent, emotional and energetic. He can also have wicked mood swings. Like major you-don't-love-me meltdowns, maybe-I-should-die meltdowns. And they drive me NUTS, for so many reasons.

1) I hate that he's in anguish. Plain and simple, whatever the cause, I don't want him to hurt, not like that.
2) A part of me is furious. I built this life so he'd NEVER have to guess if I loved him or not. It hits a deep nerve to hear him say that we don't love him or that he feels unlovable.
3) A part of me is jealous. I don't know if he feels free or not, but to me, who numbed most feelings for years, in an odd way, I'm jealous that he's so overrun with his emotions and so connected to them that he can't help but let them out. I imagine he may wish he had more control, but control isn't always the answer.

So I've struggled. To convince him we do love him, more than anything to the moon and back. One Philly Son, don't you know you're my everything? I've expressed frustration and anger - One Philly Son, HOW can you ask that? Don't you KNOW how good your life is? Don't you KNOW how much I love you? I've felt defeated, that I failed. I feel my efforts are futile and that I am powerless. One Philly Son, I've tried, I've tried and I don't know what else to do to make you feel safe and strong.

But, of course, you know those reactions have A LOT more to do with me than they do One Philly Son. He's living his life, experiencing HIS experiences, expressing himself. In many ways, it has NOTHING to do with me.

And the feelings of anger, frustration, futility and that I feel are keys to ME, not him. We were concerned about his expressions that seemed to be laced with self-loathing, and consulted a doctor. And his advice, was to teach, by modeling and conversation, the underlying emotion that One Philly Son was feeling. So that he can learn to navigate own his internal storms without turning the raging sea onto himself.

The other day One Philly Son invented a game of trying to toss his bag of popcorn into the basketball net outside. It is a full height net, and he's only 6, so it was challenging. He kept at it for nearly 5 minutes and didn't give up. For him to show perseverance, even in a task like this, is something he couldn't always do. A few short years ago, he'd likely refuse to try, already convinced he "couldn't do it." But, finally - he got the bag of popcorn into net!

And the bag of popcorn got stuck in the net!
And, in an attempt to get the popcorn out, he picked up a rock, and threw it.
And, the rock landed on my toe.
It was a big rock. Involuntarily I yelled "OWWWW!" 

One Philly Son immediately began expressing some real self-loathing. Immediately his face was crest-fallen and he started saying "I'm terrible, you shouldn't love me. I should never get another snack or popcorn again. I can never have screen time again."

And I can empathize with the roller coaster he was on, I've experienced it myself. Inside the space of 5 minutes or less, he went from the excitement of trying something new, to frustration and doubt at his ability to succeed, to dedication and commitment of not giving up, to relief and elation of getting the bag in, to dismay at getting it stuck, to pride at creating a solution, to horror and shame that he hurt his Mom.

Or at least, that's what it looked like to me, in the dim twilight of evening as I saw my son wander and speed through these many emotions.

One Philly Son is someone who has always been very, very hard on himself when he does something "wrong", and hurting his Mom certainly counts as something "wrong."

So rather than express my frustration at his warp-speed emotional journey and my hurt toe, I tried to express those emotions I surmised he was feeling. And he was able to come back from self-loathing rather easily.

Sometimes, these experiences are just exasperating, frustration, annoying, and downright infuriating for me. But, when I'm able to step back, and view the experience as an opportunity for ME to learn, for ME to be taught something by my son's experience, I find that I am pushed to be in touch with MY feelings. To identify where I am, how I feel, so that I can help him identify where HE is and how HE feels.

One Philly Son showed no intent to hurt me. He showed no neglect in considering those around him. There was no "fault" to be assigned. So for me to express anger or frustration in this situation would merely have added proof to his pudding of being bad and wrong, that mistakes are not to be made, that accidental hurts are not to be forgiven. We made sure to discuss not throwing large rocks for any reason, and that it is important to be aware of those around us when we are playing. But we did not blame or shame or even remind him later of the error he'd committed.

So as much as I try to help him, the experience is just as eye-opening for me. As nuts as he makes me with his extreme emotions, maybe he's here to help me get in better touch with my muted emotions. To help me find the words when maybe I'd rather just rush onto that roller coaster of I'll-never-be-good-enough.

Just because it's a gift, doesn't mean I'm ok with it....

To clarify.
I HATED the idea that what happened to me, my family and my siblings was a gift. (And this time that word is laced with sarcasm,disdain, anger and disgust). I resisted it, and railed against it and fought it with every logical and irrational argument I could throw at it.
What happened in the walls of my home was a sin against humanity, and a crime against many laws as well. It was revolting, disgusting, terrible, unfair, and filled me with feelings of injustice, despair, anger, helplessness.I'm not glad that terrible things happened in my home.

But, when I viewed those events and people as evil, disgusting, hurtful, painful, I became, to myself, only a product of those things. I became broken, less than, not enough, incomplete, broken, dirty, disgusting and only able to bring hurt and pain to those I loved. The hurt of those early days and the confusion and realization that this was not right coursed through my veins like a life force of its own. At least one of my siblings always had the awareness that this was not right, but I didn't. It hit me like a ton of bricks when I learned, realized, was taught, that this was not right.

It colored how I saw the world, events, and mostly, myself. I was broken, and hadn't even realized that I was. How could I trust anything, anyone, at all? How can I know say that experience is a gift?

Because the truth is you, me, even my father, we are all gifts. We all have in us the chance for beauty and more and love.

For a variety of reasons from his own likely abuse, to a lack of understanding of bipolar, and even a bit of his own refusal to consider the beauty of life, my father was not able to be much of a gift to me in the traditional sense.
Many of my personal characteristics that are strengths today : kindness, empathy, an even-keel (in public), strength, acceptance, optimism - were deliberately cultivated as a response to the lack of their existence. They were not always modeled for me to absorb naturally.
But. I am still a gift. I am brimming with potential to love, connect, grow, learn. 
And that is how my youth can be a gift. Those things that happened to my siblings and I will NEVER be a gift. But I AM A GIFT. And YOU ARE a gift.  
And you,and I, we have the choice, to take those disgusting, horrible painful things,and survive them. Grow through them, and to take something ugly, and turn it into something beautiful. Because, we are gifts, all of us.

Maybe my gift is the realization that no matter how sure you are that you have nothing to give, in fact your gifts are endless. Maybe my gift is the thought that, even if your father tells you "no one will love you" and insists on keeping you, and your world small, you can BLOSSOM, and GROW and bust out of the bullshit lies you were told.

I'll never be grateful my father was ill. But I'm grateful always of the lesson that my worth is not determined by his actions. That my worth and value is an inalienable right. That no matter the mistakes I make or hurts I inadvertently inflict or things I get wrong, my worth is the same.

And so is yours.

If you've suffered pain or hurt or unfairness in one or many forms, the concept that that experience is a gift is down right offensive. It was to me for a very, very long time. How dare you suggest that those frightened years have somehow made me better, how DARE you?!?!?! 

I'd have given just about anything to see the world through eyes that didn't see what I saw, that could feel love with a heart that didn't have to build a wall to protect itself from its very source, to expect life to unfold in a beautiful, fair, fun, enjoyable way instead of always being on guard for the next attack on my body, soul or both.

But. I can empathize with a woman who never felt support from her mother and struggles with it decades later. I can look a child in the eyes and tell them, with full belief, that they are amazing, no matter the horrors of their life. I can fight, and fight, and fight to build a world that is how I hoped mine would be. I can see the value in struggle, the beauty in imperfection, and the worth of each one of you.

And that, is, in fact, my gift. Don't lose your gift to keep the pain.

Daring to dream....

Do you dream?




Do you dream big, or do you keep yourself small? Do you limit yourself and your greatness to fit into the box that has defined you? Maybe you built the box, or maybe others built it for you. Maybe it was built for you when you were a child before you even had an awareness of who your "self" was. Maybe you built it slowly over time, one board at a time, so slowly that you aren't even sure how you ended up in this box. Maybe it was built in one horrifying instant, with the walls so high reaching you can't see the sky or the sun or the birds anymore. Maybe you don't even dare to pull your eyes off the floor of the box, and aren't sure if it reaches the sky or if you could step right over it.




In many ways, I'm living big, huge dreams. I come from a home ruled by mental illness and decades upon decades of shame, secrets, anger, fear. But I'm building a home with love. Security. Laughter. Toys, food, clothes, and play dates. These things aren't the glitz and glamor often associated with dreams, and yet. Once upon a time, these were the biggest dreams I dared dream. Nothing else was more important, nothing else farther out of reach, nothing more important to achieve.




Now I find myself wondering: Do I dream small? Where could I go, if I dared dreamed larger. If I harnessed a thought, an ideal, a "me" that energized me and motivated me and pulled me out of bed? Made me so excited, that I couldn't wait to run up hills, and jump out of bed?



The more I consider these thoughts the more I embrace the idea that the sky is the limit. I'll be 39 years young in a few weeks. In those years I've embraced the ideas of thriving. Of growing beyond the pains I had no part of inflicting.




But. I viewed those pains as burdens to bear. Obstacles to overcome. Experiences to explain. Pieces of me that would always be broken. Something that pushed me accomplish, so I could prove my value. Convince the world that I, in fact, did have value. That I had value, and could add value. In ways I often haven't considered, I've been living my life as an attempt to prove I didn't deserve the events of my youth.




Recently a revolutionary idea has been introduced to my world, that I resisted mightily for a time.

What if all the events in your life, regardless of how painful and horrific, were gifts?


What if they were put there to teach you things? Bring you to a higher place? Grow you into something more?
What if you could dream bigger than the box that has been built around you? What if the box was never really there at all?


What would you dream then?

Boston, we are here...

When a horror like Newtown, CT or the Boston marathon bombing of today or the Colorado movie theater shooting happens, I feel compelled to watch the news coverage. I can't, almost won't turn it off (when my children aren't around, One Philly Kids are 1 and 3. They have enough life ahead of them to confront these heady issues.)

Given my overall life philosophy and goal is to avoid negative, painful, violent, angry and evil thoughts, feelings, events, images and information, I've often wondered why that is. I barely watch the daily news because its too depressing, but this, this I feel compelled to watch.

Why do I not turn it off?

I don't feel the icky rubber-necking feeling from gawking at accidents and other people's pain.

I don't feel a rush of anger, or desire for vigilante justice.

I do occasionally find myself overwhelmed with disbelief, sorrow, and tears, but I do not feel an overwhelming disappointment in humanity. I, as many are, am struck by the bravery and courage of those rushing forward to help, to protect, to comfort, to serve.

Unfortunately I've had plenty of opportunity to reflect on this is recent history.

In a twist of fate, I found myself in PA, glued to a television, in horror, during the Colombine shootings, when a loved one lived in Colorado, minutes from the high school. A few years later, I lived in Colorado, and awoke to the horror playing out in New York on 9/11, hours from those I loved, and thousands of miles from the horror. In both cases, I felt bizarrely displaced, not where I should've been, not where I'd been all along. And all I could do was watch.

So why don't I turn it off?

Quite simply, because 113 families will never be able to turn off this horror show. As of this writing 3 families will be forced to remember this as the anniversary of the day they lost their loved one. Countless first responders will wait days, weeks, months before they are able to tend to themselves, as they put the safety and survival of others first. Every person who lives and works in Boston will be dealing with this reality, for days, weeks, months, years to come.

I can not save a life. I can not comfort a victim. I can not find those responsible. I can not provide relief for those who can not escape this reality.

The only thing I can do, right now, this minute, is not turn a blind eye.

All I can do is not avert my eyes, cloaking myself in the dark comfort that at least this isn't my reality, not today.

I watch, not to give undeserved glory to those causing the pain, I watch to say to those affected : you are not alone.

I can not fathom your pain; I do not presume to know an ounce of the burden you now carry.

But you are not alone.

I offer my strength, love and peace, by not pretending this isn't happening.

I offer my condolences by refusing to look away.

I acknowledge your new reality by not ignoring it.

I offer my fervent hope that you will find what you need to carry you through this unspeakable experience by watching, paying my respects by being here in the only way I can.

My thoughts, and prayers are with you, I wish you peace, strength, love, and all that you need.

You can't turn it off, so for now, neither will I.

I'm still here, I'm still watching.

"He makes me laugh"

I think One Philly Daddy is funny. He says I'm easily amused.

We're a good match like that.

Have you ever seen "Roger Rabbit"? I remember the scene when Jessica Rabbit is asked why she's with Roger, a goofy rabbit, and she answers "he makes me laugh" in that sultry voice.

That has stuck with me - as a reminder that the reasons of love may not be obvious from the outside looking in, that what a person needs and wants in a partner may not be what is expected. And that joy and laughter will end up being more valuable than looks or money.

One Philly Daddy is crossing something off his bucket list, and took a stand up comedy class at a local theater. He's been writing and asking me "is this funny?" for weeks. He's taking his funny business seriously.

The class culminates with a showcase of performances by the class for friends and family.

I can't wait to see him perform.

No matter how it goes I'm proud of him for doing something he's always wanted to do, impressed by his dedication and work, and inspired to do the same with my dreams.

Knock 'em dead babe, they'll be rolling in the aisles.

You know you're a parent of toddlers part TWO

When you stumble on one child messing with the other child's meticulous toy set up, you find yourself panicking, frantically trying to set it right and muttering "no, no, no, he's going to be so mad!" under your breath.

When your children get the stomach flu, you reach out to catch the vomit with your bare hands.

The morning bathroom routine that used to take 45 minutes has been whittled down to 12. Brushing your hair and teeth is now considered your "routine". Bonus points for deodorant with a pretty scent. Lose points for using Daddy's Old Spice because yours never made it to the shopping list.

Every surface of your house is now fair game for toys and fingerprints. This includes the dining room table, bathroom sink, and hallways. The stairs will be a hard battle to win, but stick to your guns. If you have metal framing and magnetic toys, even the walls are fair game. (See photo)

In addition to the previously mentioned urine aroma, you'll likely have crumbs and the occasional aroma of spoiled milk. This will occur regardless of how strict your food-doesn't-leave-the-kitchen policy is.

When greeting your child in the morning, after a nap, or a long play date, you subtly feel the seat and crotch of their pants for leaky diaper wetness.

You carefully coordinate meal and nap details in the mere hopes of obtaining 5 solo minutes in the shower. Despite careful planning, your dogs lose their sh*t as you are in a state of undress and mere seconds from turning on the water, waking one baby and infuriating the other. You may or may not have fantasies about mute dogs, sound proof bedrooms and hiring a nanny for half an hour a day.

You know you're a parent of toddlers when...

The poopy diaper falling off the changing table and landing face down on a pile of books is merely annoying, instead of Haz-Mat suit gross.

You stop wondering why your house has a persistent urine aroma.

Your own clothing becomes an acceptable place to wipe runny noses, ketchupy faces and sandy hands.

On the first day of Spring, you find yourself driving in the warm sun with the windows down and Elmo blaring.

You pull the car over to take off your child's shirt because he is hysterical that he spilled chocolate milk on it. You don't argue when he asks to remain shirtless.

Singing the "A,B,C's", "wheels on the bus" or "B-I-N-G-O" while at a restaurant for dinner isn't embarrassing. Nor is congratulating your child on his pooping in the potty.

You wake up after 4 hours of sleep, even if no children are awake, because your body is convinced this is enough.

Having enough time to complete the simple task of loading the dishwasher, going to the bathroom, brushing your teeth or folding a load of laundry is both rare and exhilarating.

You love every minute of it.

Too cool for school

One Philly Son's nursery school (which we l-o-v-e love) has a fundraiser in the spring, which consists of the classroom parents constructing an obstacle course in the community room, and inviting friends and family to attend and make a donation to support the programs that they offer.

And the programs include a Whale Watching program, music from an outside music teacher, visits from a local theater, 4-H chicken hatching, and a dog visit from the ASPCA. So the funds, in my mind, are well spent. These are programs at a nursery/pre-school. I know elementary and high schools that don't offer extra programs like this.

Since I have a flexible, work from home schedule (thank you!) I am one of the classroom parents for One Philly Son's class, so I was charged with creating an obstacle that reflected his class, the Rainbow Fish.

In our parent meeting to brainstorm, I was told other parents had done a "pond" with "fishing" - a kiddie pool with a net and some plastic or cardboard fish. So I gathered that, as well as my contribution to the "filler" obstacles - tunnels, riding toys and a small trampoline.

I didn't think I was knocking one out of the park,but I figured I was making a full, classroom parent contribution.

But, an over-achiever, I am not. Apparently.

There were parents with carefully, hand-crafted and hand-drawn ponds, turtles, bees; obstacle courses with multiple steps and parts.

Uh-oh.

I had a brief "oh. shit." moment.

Crap. My stupid kiddie pool and fish were nothing compared to the hours and effort put into these other obstacle courses. I was falling short.

And yet. There were classes who's parents didn't contribute an obstacle at all. 

And I find myself reeling in the urge to make a "at least I'm not as bad as..." speech.

Mind you, I have no desire, nor will I ever, to stay up all hours of the night to hand craft art for a school of 2 - 5 years old to tromp on. But I also don't want to be the Mom who is just phoning it in either.

Due to circumstances, there were times my Mom was the go-to Mom, heading our Girl Scout troops and attending school functions, taking care of classroom parent duties. And there were times we were the ones perpetually without permission slips and gym clothes on the right days. These things happen, and good-Mom's everywhere have different skills, aptitudes, abilities and life circumstances in the 20-odd years of parenting.

The only person I want to compare myself to is myself (sounds easy, doesn't it?) - so I'm trying to avoid the "oh, poop, I'm not the Martha Stewart of pre-school obstacle courses" and "can you believe the so-and-so class didn't do anything!?" reactions.

Cause neither feels nice, productive, relevant, or something I want One Philly Son or Daughter to learn.

The point is, I want to do my best, and strive for improvement, but accept who I am. I want to be the Mom contributing, but not at the cost of my or my families happiness or well-being (or sleep). But, I don't want to be the Mom bringing in the bare minimal requirements of involvement.

Next year, I'm gonna step up my kiddie-obstacle course game. Look out!

Until then, have fun fishing, kids!

The landmines of Motherhood...

The plan is that we're "done" having babies. And I'm thrilled with it. I'm not old, but I'm not young enough to want to do "this" (i.e. conceive, house, create, birth,and, oh yeah, raise another person) again. I want to love, giggle, laugh with, chase and revel in the two glamorous little beings we've already created.

My sister is expecting, and I, rather tentatively, took in the news. Would this shake my resolve? Would I get the itch? Would I get baby-envy? Would I suddenly have the secret desire to create another life?

Gladly, I did not, and my resolve stood firm. I'm thrilled with my family, just as it is. Should we be blessed with another, we'd welcome him/her with open arms. (Though I am out of "One Philly" Monikers. That would take some thinking. Hmmmm.) But I'm not in the business of baby-making any more.

I gleefully packed bags of items for my sister, and sorted the items she didn't / wouldn't need into a "consign" pile. I've never consigned before, so this is the grand experiment, is this worth the time/effort? Or will I just donate the stuff going forward?

So I've already sorted through the stuff once, in a gleeful Sister / Sell exercise. Now, I'm just tagging and preparing the items for sale to be sold.

And then....the memories started coming, perhaps because this is meant to be the final pass before they go on to live with someone else....

the one silly shirt I bought proclaiming the obvious to the world.

followed by........

Also obvious.

A few short weeks ago, these were items I was joyous to be getting out of my house. Less than 18 months in this house, I'm eager to get the space back from all the baby items we're no longer in need of. Excer-saucers, highchairs, bouncy seats, bassinets, activity mats. 

Necessary, all of them, but bulky and used for such a tiny short window of time. 

Even so, some of the items brought back memories....

Our positive pee-sticks, both planned and still a surprise. One Philly Daddy and I (8 months pregnant and sweating in the July heat) trying to install our car seats. One Philly Daddy filling a baby pool in the yard to make an oasis for his hot and cranky pregnant wife. Me insisting One Philly Daddy take belly shots, and them turning out amazing, and meaning so much more, because it was him taking the pictures.

 The odd sensations of my body not being my own. The mind spinning of trying to figure out just how this was all going to work. The decision to try for One Philly Daughter, and the rainbow we saw the day we found out she was on her way. The joy they bring us. The sleep we lose for them. The stress of wanting to do it right. The fear of frightening medical news. The pride in their first steps, their first words, first jokes, first friends, all the firsts to come. The time we give them instead of ourselves, and each other. The overwhelming love and the yearning desire that it be enough. The beauty and blessing of it all. 

See, I'm just trying to make some room in the garage, and now we're all weepy. 

Be warned, Mommy's-to-be hunting for consignment bargains, these gently used and greatly loved items priced at a discount are going to find a place in your heart, even after you need the space back in your house. 

Viva la Daddy!

God bless his heart, One Philly Daddy is trying to teach One Philly Son patience, communication and tolerance for One Philly Daughter's destruction of the beloved trains and their tracks.

This, Daddy's of the world, is the dozen red roses of your pre-parenthood lives.

Carry on.

And a happy Easter to you!

This past weekend One Philly Family went to a local park for a candy scramble sponsored by the local Kiwanis club.

It was great, and, I thought, well organized. There were different age groups so the "hunting" (to be honest, it was a field covered in candy and Hershey kisses) was fair, and there were small chocolate bunnies as a give away for each participating child sponsored by local businesses.

To add a competitive edge to the fun, there were 3 eggs hidden for each age group, and the children who found these eggs won a larger chocolate bunny.

All in all, a great family outing, and I wouldn't change a thing.

They did make one small request though.

"This is for the kids" they said. "Parents, please let the children find the candy and look for the eggs themselves, this is their time."

A simple request, thoughtful and touching,
I thought. But, I also thought, maybe unnecessary. I didn't suppose there'd be Mom's and Dad's elbowing 4 year olds to get to the last Werther's. I mean, this is Easter, right?

But, I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong.

I "hunted" with One Philly Daughter in the under 36 month category and watched when One Philly Daddy took his turn hunting with One Philly Son, who "competed" in the 3,4,5,6 year old category. He's 3 so I just wanted him to have fun; One Philly Daughter managed to capture 6 Hershey kisses, I was proud of that.

As I watched my boys make their way to the starting line and wait for their fellow hunters to gather at the line, I felt a certain giddiness for them - the excitement of the hunt!

Then, I heard next to me :

"Push to the front! Tell him to PUSH to the
FRONT"

"Behind that rock, in the middle! An ORANGE EGG! PUSH to the FRONT! Get the EGG!"

"God! Tell him to push to the front!"

Ahem.

Please, revisit with me the facts of the day:
1. Free
2. An event organized for children
3. Guaranteed candy
4. Guaranteed "prize" regardless of performance
5. A stated, specific request to let this be about the kids having fun

The patriarch in the family (not the chanter) next to me went on to recount how he and his friends devised a plan to cheat the egg hunts when he was a child, in order to guarantee winning a prize.

So it's a family tradition, then. Tradition is important.

I don't want to rant or climb on a soapbox, but cheating and publicly encouraging a child to cheat don't exactly say "Easter" to me.

Geez!

So, Happy Easter to ya. I'm sure this is just what Jesus had in mind...

Losing our minds...

In the very recent past, One Philly Son has started throwing some wicked tantrums. At least, that's the best word I can use to describe what happens when he is a room, or an entire floor away from me and begins screaming "Mommy! Mommy! Come help me! Mommy I NEEEEEDDD YOU!!!!!!"

He cries. His face turns red. His nose runs. 

Because his train has fallen off the tracks.

Or worse, one of his trains is just. not. fast. enough.

When One Philly Daughter (darling that she is, walking and starting to talk) dares enter the invisible force field that must surround One Philly Son's room, he begins to shriek "No, don't break my tracks! I don't want you to touch my trains, NOOOOOOOOO!"

Even though she remains feet away from said tracks and trains.

Now, lest you think One Philly Son is all freak out and no fun or love, this is not 100% of the time. He just seems to go from 0 to 100 in no time flat, if you know what I mean.

I've tried reasoning with him. "It is not nice to talk to Mommy like that."

I've tried ignoring him. "I'm not talking to you until you speak nicely." Followed by 5 minutes of "Mommy, I NEEEDDDD YOU!!!!" and eventually leading to "Mommy, can you please fix Thomas?"

I've tried matching him. "YOU CAN NOT SPEAK TO MOMMY THAT WAY!"

I've tried modulating and modeling calm, slow, even tones. "how    can    i    help   you?   what    is    wrong?"

I've considered all possibilities:  I'm giving too much attention, not enough attention, too much sleep, not enough sleep, too many boundaries, not enough boundaries, his diet lack balance, he's jealous, he's tired, he's bored, he's mad, he's testing me, he thinks he rules the roost, and a few others.

For the most part, I feel good about how I handle it. I'm trying to provide him the tools to learn, handle and express his emotions, while also learning to consider those around him. I fear that my occasional losses of temper "Just STOP IT!" will scar him for life.

But its a far cry from the list of expletives in my head "What the BLEEP is wrong? Don't BLEEPIN wake up your sister again! Are you kidding me? You're this freaked out cause a BLEEPIN, BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP train ran out of batteries? Oh BLEEP!"

I don't, won't, and wouldn't want to lay any of that on a 3 year old who is obviously working through something, particularly as my job, as I see it, is to guide, teach, love and protect him. Even from becoming a little b-r-a-t.

But it certainly ties my insides up in knots. The anxiety of not knowing how to help, of feeling such frustration and anger myself, and worst of all - the sensation of not liking a part of a person I would die for, is not so fun.

Did I make it sound fun? I didn't mean too.

I'm not sure what the story is. I don't know if the answer is to just let One Philly Daughter annihilate the Island of Sodor, reduce the Steamworks to a pile of rubble and mangle Thomas, Victor, Percy and Toby beyond repair and force One Philly Son to just deal or to scoop her up and distract her with something else and give him his precious space.

When all she really wants is anything. her. brother. touches.

Clearly, something is frustrating my darling little man, I'm just not sure if this is one of those developmental stages that will magically clear up with no apparent cause, beginning or end. Or if this is something I should be doing something deliberate about.

I do know, eventually, the answer will become clear, and everything will be sorted out and One Philly Son will have a surer footing under himself.

Until then, I'm on the look out for some Valium-laced, chocolate-peanut butter treat to help me cope. Fat-free of course. I have no idea how long this is going to take.

Ghosts, grandfathers and guardian angels...

I've never been a die-hard believer in ghosts or an afterlife, but I also freely admitted there were unexplainable phenomenon that could be attributed to an afterlife. I didn't have strong opinions about what happened after death, though I didn't believe we ceased to exist.

I've seen a few episodes of Long Island Medium and have been touched by her common theme, her repeated plea to us all - the love you feel doesn't go away, be open and aware of the signs, and believe them when you see them.

Ok, a touching moment, a sweet thought but there wasn't a someone I was hoping to connect with from "the other side", even if there are stories woven into our lives about it.

When I was pregnant with One Philly Son, my husband lost his grandfather. I didn't know Grand-pop very well, but I know he was salt-of-the-earth people and greatly loved. I cried at his funeral for the great grandson he almost got to meet.

When Grand-pop passed, he left something to be opened by his family after his services. Amazingly and unknowingly, it was the passage that had been selected for the cards at his funeral. I know I felt his presence that day.

To those I love and Those Who love me

When I am gone, release me, let me go.

 You have so many things to see and do.

You mustn't tie yourself to me

with tears. Be happy that we

had so many years. 

I gave you my love, you can only 

guess, How much you gave me in

happiness. I thank you for the love you

each have shown, but now its time I 

traveled on alone. 

So grieve a while for me, if grieve

you must. Its only a 

while that we must part. 

So bless the memories within your heart.

I won't be far away, for life goes on. 

So if you need me, call and I will hear. 

Though you can't see or touch me, 

I'll be near. And if you listen with

your heart, you'll hear, All my love

around you soft and clear.

And then, when you must come this way, 

I'll greet you with a smile

and say "Welcome Home." 

Prior to his passing, Grand-pop gifted us with a collection of the Winnie-the-Pooh stories, for us and our soon-to-be kid(s). The collection is not necessarily a "kid" version full of bright, colorful pictures, but a nicely bound, high-quality hardback book with a few black and white sketches to illustrate the story. An heirloom.

So imagine our surprise when, at just over a year, at a time when nothing held his attention and he never stopped moving, One Philly Son started spending time looking at these books. Not a brief glance, or a cursory examination on the way to something else.  No, 45 minutes at a time, happily flopped on his chair, pointing and babbling away in baby-speak no one could translate. He was calm, focused, and quite happy. Even now, at 3 years old, there are days he takes these books down and spends an inexplicable amount of time "playing" with them. Even more astonishing, is the care he uses when moving, stacking, "reading" these books.

We've taken to saying "Hi, Grand-pop!" or "tell Grand-pop we say hi!" when he pulls these books out.

So when Robert passed, I involuntarily, greedily, selfishly hoped and looked forward to the day, moment when a simple unexpected something made me think of Robert, and made me think of his love, still here.

Yesterday, I rode the train to the city for work, only the third or fourth time I've done so in the past 2 years.

As I entered the train, I broke the cardinal commuter rule for a comfortable ride (and I know, I commuted to the city by train for nearly 5 years): I sat behind the two strangers talking about, of all things, guns and politics, across the aisle from each other.

I sat through rantings about the government and gun control and 9-11. Still, I wasn't bothered, I felt a pull to sit there, so I did.

And then it happened. The woman mentioned Robert's nephew, a prominent Judge in the Lehigh Valley, in a conversation that previously had zero relation to him, Robert, me, or anything that even slightly related to us.

That was enough for me to smile, to remember. A mention of a loved person we held in common, in a place I rarely am, overhearing a conversation that had zero reference to me, or Robert, or even his nephew.

When I returned home in the evening, a gift of a potted plant with a note of condolence acknowledging Robert as one of my Guardian Angels clinched the deal for me.

This was on the program at Robert's funeral:

An Irish Funeral Prayer

Death is nothing at all. 

It does not count.

I have only slipped away into the next room. 

Everything remains as it was. 

The old life we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. 

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. 

Call me by the old familiar name. 

Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.

Put no sorrow in your tone. 

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. 

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. 

Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.

Let it be spoken without effort.

Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was.

There is unbroken continuity. 

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, 

just around the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt, nothing is lost. 

One brief moment and all will be as it was before. 

How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting, when we meet again.

One Philly Son bears both Grand-pop and Robert's names for his middle names, and I know they will look out for him, and us, and it gives me great comfort. 

Grand-pop and Robert, we love you and miss you. But you already knew that, didn't you?