From now on, when anyone asks me how Max is, instead of sighing and saying something like, "Well, he's very two", or (if its another mom usually) launching into the laundry list of difficult toddler behavior he's exhibiting lately, I'll be saying, "Max is bright, funny, happy and healthy and I'm so grateful for his presence in this world I want to sob just thinking about it." And then they'll probably puke. But its overwhelmingly how I've felt since the events in Connecticut last Friday. I've resisted facebook posting about it, have not read more than the bare, tragic facts, and refuse to moralize or politicize it. Instead I hold onto what is dear to me, mourn all the innocent suffering in this world, and pray for peace in my heart.
And watch this over and over and over:
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Let's Pretend This Isn't The First Time I've Posted In 6 Months, Hmmmm?
Max learned to say "cheese".
...and he's going to be 2 (2!!!!!!!!!!!!!) in 3 days. And I want to kiss/squeeze/snuggle him about 600 times a day. Except when he's hiding under our bed when we need to be leaving the house 5 minutes ago, yelling "no, mama no, mama no, mama!" at me and waking up for an hour in the middle of the night to sing "bringing home a baby bumbleBEEEEEEE, won't my mama be SO! PROUD! OF! ME!" at the top of his lungs.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Wild Kingdom
Rural living is relatively new to me, so I get inordinately excited about all the wildlife literally in our backyard (unless its big bugs. Not so then.) Early summer and its attendant yard work (Vegetable garden! Flower beds! Watermelon patch! Putting in a back lawn! Eesh. Bite off more than we can chew much? But I digress) means we are outside, puttering around the house a lot, communing with nature.
First there was this little guy trapped in a window well:
I heard his vain attempts at leaping and fluttering out while picking rocks out of topsoil in the garden one early evening. We put him in a box in the garage with some chicken feed and pear pieces overnight. I intended to take him to Jackson Harbor and let him go the next day. I was watching a friend's little boy and figured the children would get a kick out of watching the baby waterbird released into his wild home (ah, teachable moments). But the baby bird had other plans-he wouldn't leave his box.
Clearly I had made far too cozy of a home for him, or he wasn't ready to be on his own and had adopted me as his new mother. Obviously we had to keep him as a pet, if for no other reason than to see what kind of bird he grew into (despite copious Googling I could not find a match for him. Webbed feet, pointy beak, black and white markings...I'd still love to know what he is if someone out there has more bird identification ability than I).
I spent an entire Max naptime building a more permanent enclosure for the bird. (As anyone who has been following this blog and is aware of Max's dubious sleep habits knows, this is an enormous sacrifice for me. Usually I spend his naps sleeping or reading or some other self-focused activity). I used leftover garden fencing, added a plastic pond, some grass clipping for nest material, more food...it was a baby waterfowl paradise. Less than five minutes after I introduced him to his new home, he squeezed through the fence and took off into the woods, cheeping hysterically.
Asshole.
Speaking of assholes, the very next day, this guy was thrashing around in another of our window wells (which clearly double as animal traps):
Now I'm not scared of snakes. I generally like them. I was quite happy to wait until Max woke up (another teachable moment!), grab my gardening gloves, scoop it out and release it. I reached down into the well and grabbed it around the middle and....it bit me! Good thing I wore gloves. (Initially I wasn't going to as it was only a grass snake. Not poisonous, mellow. Right.)
I reacted by chucking it away from me (Max was safely on the deck the whole time, watching). Instead of retreating into the woods or under the deck like a NORMAL snake, it turned around and struck at me again! I was floored. I'd never seen a grass snake act like that. So I grabbed a big stick and used it to prod the damn thing into the woods. It hissed and coiled and struck and attacked the entire time. All to Max's shrieking chorus of "Bee say! Bee say!" (translation: "big snake! big snake!"). In hindsight, it was likely a mama with a nest and eggs nearby but still...I SAVED you! Those snake babies would be snake orphans if it wasn't for me.
Lessons learned: Wild animals are jerks and check your window wells daily or something is going to smell really bad come July.
First there was this little guy trapped in a window well:
I heard his vain attempts at leaping and fluttering out while picking rocks out of topsoil in the garden one early evening. We put him in a box in the garage with some chicken feed and pear pieces overnight. I intended to take him to Jackson Harbor and let him go the next day. I was watching a friend's little boy and figured the children would get a kick out of watching the baby waterbird released into his wild home (ah, teachable moments). But the baby bird had other plans-he wouldn't leave his box.
Clearly I had made far too cozy of a home for him, or he wasn't ready to be on his own and had adopted me as his new mother. Obviously we had to keep him as a pet, if for no other reason than to see what kind of bird he grew into (despite copious Googling I could not find a match for him. Webbed feet, pointy beak, black and white markings...I'd still love to know what he is if someone out there has more bird identification ability than I).
I spent an entire Max naptime building a more permanent enclosure for the bird. (As anyone who has been following this blog and is aware of Max's dubious sleep habits knows, this is an enormous sacrifice for me. Usually I spend his naps sleeping or reading or some other self-focused activity). I used leftover garden fencing, added a plastic pond, some grass clipping for nest material, more food...it was a baby waterfowl paradise. Less than five minutes after I introduced him to his new home, he squeezed through the fence and took off into the woods, cheeping hysterically.
Asshole.
Speaking of assholes, the very next day, this guy was thrashing around in another of our window wells (which clearly double as animal traps):
Now I'm not scared of snakes. I generally like them. I was quite happy to wait until Max woke up (another teachable moment!), grab my gardening gloves, scoop it out and release it. I reached down into the well and grabbed it around the middle and....it bit me! Good thing I wore gloves. (Initially I wasn't going to as it was only a grass snake. Not poisonous, mellow. Right.)
I reacted by chucking it away from me (Max was safely on the deck the whole time, watching). Instead of retreating into the woods or under the deck like a NORMAL snake, it turned around and struck at me again! I was floored. I'd never seen a grass snake act like that. So I grabbed a big stick and used it to prod the damn thing into the woods. It hissed and coiled and struck and attacked the entire time. All to Max's shrieking chorus of "Bee say! Bee say!" (translation: "big snake! big snake!"). In hindsight, it was likely a mama with a nest and eggs nearby but still...I SAVED you! Those snake babies would be snake orphans if it wasn't for me.
Lessons learned: Wild animals are jerks and check your window wells daily or something is going to smell really bad come July.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Kids, Man
Max and I spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with our friends Laila and Walter and their goats. Mama goat, Wink, had her twins about a month ago. Not only have we been lucky to get some delicious fresh goat's milk, but Max gets to hang out with baby goats. At first I was a little nervous as the babies, particularly the girl, are rambunctious. Turns out, 3 week old baby goats and 17 month old baby humans are on about the same wavelength. The goats didn't mind Max and Walter chasing them and hugging them. Max and Walter didn't mind getting jumped on and head-butted. In fact, Walter, all 11 months old of him, head-butted right back. All babies, goats and humans, were equally affectionate and curious and playful with one another and evenly matched on strength. Max and the twins shared a love of exploring the random piles of wood and old farm machinery, jumping and climbing, while mama goat and mama humans looked on. It was an awesome day.
Someone Got a New Camera For Her Birthday/Mother's Day
Lucky for my family my birthday and Mother's Day come hot on each other's heels every year. I don't ask for much, just acknowledging the day is usually good enough for me. This year Dave went all out. I had a relaxing massage and shopping day in Door County last weekend and a new camera to play with this weekend while we hung out on the island.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Vacation Summation
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Charmed Life
...at least it feels that way at the outset of a long visit to the Sunshine State. Sleeping child on the flight, 85 degrees on the thermometer, and lunch on the beach today.
More pictures to follow!
More pictures to follow!
Friday, March 16, 2012
A Matter of Perspective
I knew my time would come. It was bound to happen. No mother emerges from motherhood unscathed by the grocery store screamfest.
Woodman's on a Saturday afternoon wasn't my best idea ever, but after living in the boonies for awhile, I've gotten soft. I forgot that there's a damn good reason I hadn't been in a supermarket on a weekend in ten years. (And that was PRE-bebe.) Supermarkets on weekends are hell. Hell. I worked in one for seven years for christ's sake. I know. Unfortunately, blinded by the promise of produce variety, organic meats and two whole health food aisles, I ran headlong into disaster, carting (quite literally) my 15 month old with me.
The first half hour was one of Max's finest. Flirting with strangers while mama deliberated over brussel sprouts and blood oranges, he was all smiles. Then squirrellyness, boredom, the presence of so many strangers, hunger and those flourescent lights (I read something once about how the lights in malls and supermarkets and big box stores have been proven to be disturbing to humans, particularly children, and the likely cause of many a public meltdown. Totally makes sense) combined in a shitstorm of "I want OUT! Hold me NOW!" which in 15 month old sounds like this: "EEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMA!!!! MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! sob sob sob".
Lather, rinse, repeat. I placated him briefly with one of those vile foil squeezy packet things which ended up being shoved through the metal bars of the cart, squirting puree all over said cart and child. More screaming ensued. I was halfway done and not about to give up. If I lived somewhere other than an island, I would've ditched my cart and returned later, sans bebe. But alas.
Of course I left my babywearing wrap in the car (never entering a store again without it), so I picked him up, smearing myself with snot and pumpkin-colored puree, parked my cart at the end of the aisle, and dodged other shoppers, grabbing anything that looked appealing, dropping it back in the cart, hoping my purse doesn't get stolen, hoping my arm doesn't fall off, hoping Max doesn't start arching his back and wriggling, hoping I don't look like a lunatic (fat chance). Made it to the checkout lane. More screaming as I had to put him down to pay. We finally made it outside in the fresh air and sunshine and I put him down to walk along the pavement in front of the store while we waited for Dave to pick us up.
I'd like to say I'd kept my cool in the store, cuz I did, mostly. I certainly didn't get mad at Max. Don't blame him for freaking out. It was way more than a little one could handle and the fact he handled it with such aplomb for the first half hour is amazing. Like I said, I should've picked a less busy time to go and worn him instead of putting him in the cart. But it wasn't til I was outside I realized I was sweating buckets. So as I took deep breaths and followed behind my now-happily toddling, exploring (and by "exploring" I mean "picking up garbage on the ground and making sporadic breaks for the busy parking lot") child, a teenage boy pushing a cart, followed by his mom passed us. The woman smiled at Max and smiled at me. Her son called back to her, "You okay back there Mom?" to which she replied, "Yes, I just can't keep up with your long legs anymore" and then she smiled at me and Max again.
I wasn't imagining the wistful look on her face.
Woodman's on a Saturday afternoon wasn't my best idea ever, but after living in the boonies for awhile, I've gotten soft. I forgot that there's a damn good reason I hadn't been in a supermarket on a weekend in ten years. (And that was PRE-bebe.) Supermarkets on weekends are hell. Hell. I worked in one for seven years for christ's sake. I know. Unfortunately, blinded by the promise of produce variety, organic meats and two whole health food aisles, I ran headlong into disaster, carting (quite literally) my 15 month old with me.
The first half hour was one of Max's finest. Flirting with strangers while mama deliberated over brussel sprouts and blood oranges, he was all smiles. Then squirrellyness, boredom, the presence of so many strangers, hunger and those flourescent lights (I read something once about how the lights in malls and supermarkets and big box stores have been proven to be disturbing to humans, particularly children, and the likely cause of many a public meltdown. Totally makes sense) combined in a shitstorm of "I want OUT! Hold me NOW!" which in 15 month old sounds like this: "EEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMA!!!! MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! sob sob sob".
Lather, rinse, repeat. I placated him briefly with one of those vile foil squeezy packet things which ended up being shoved through the metal bars of the cart, squirting puree all over said cart and child. More screaming ensued. I was halfway done and not about to give up. If I lived somewhere other than an island, I would've ditched my cart and returned later, sans bebe. But alas.
Of course I left my babywearing wrap in the car (never entering a store again without it), so I picked him up, smearing myself with snot and pumpkin-colored puree, parked my cart at the end of the aisle, and dodged other shoppers, grabbing anything that looked appealing, dropping it back in the cart, hoping my purse doesn't get stolen, hoping my arm doesn't fall off, hoping Max doesn't start arching his back and wriggling, hoping I don't look like a lunatic (fat chance). Made it to the checkout lane. More screaming as I had to put him down to pay. We finally made it outside in the fresh air and sunshine and I put him down to walk along the pavement in front of the store while we waited for Dave to pick us up.
I'd like to say I'd kept my cool in the store, cuz I did, mostly. I certainly didn't get mad at Max. Don't blame him for freaking out. It was way more than a little one could handle and the fact he handled it with such aplomb for the first half hour is amazing. Like I said, I should've picked a less busy time to go and worn him instead of putting him in the cart. But it wasn't til I was outside I realized I was sweating buckets. So as I took deep breaths and followed behind my now-happily toddling, exploring (and by "exploring" I mean "picking up garbage on the ground and making sporadic breaks for the busy parking lot") child, a teenage boy pushing a cart, followed by his mom passed us. The woman smiled at Max and smiled at me. Her son called back to her, "You okay back there Mom?" to which she replied, "Yes, I just can't keep up with your long legs anymore" and then she smiled at me and Max again.
I wasn't imagining the wistful look on her face.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Poor Me
For the second morning in a row we were awakened by a very unhappy little boy, crying in his crib, rather than babbling cheerily to his comrades, Bear, Bob and Kangaroo. I suppose I'd be crying too (and very nearly was at one point) if I spent the first moments of my day covered in my own poop. As it was I spent the first moments of my day covered in my kid's poop (you can't NOT pick him up.) That's right folks, its diarrhea time in the Small household. Of the explosive variety.
Mama was supposed to get together with some girlfriends and get her hair done and have some well-deserved solo time this weekend. But alas, it was not to be, thanks to the gastrointestinal machinations of her little son. So there was that disappointment. Add to it a lot (a LOT) of smelly laundry, clingy behavior ("Maaaaaaaama, Maaaama, Mamaaaaaa!") and some ill-conceived Facebook stalking (old acquaintances who are single and child-free and living what appear to be seriously glamorous lives) and you get one hot mess of self-pity. I'm not proud of this reaction. I'd like to say I gracefully and nobly decided to stay home with my little intestinally-challenged baby and nurse him back to health but that would be a huge load of crap and really, there's quite enough crap around here already. So I pouted and lashed out at my virtual saint of a husband and just generally acted like a self-indulgent a-hole. Life has a way of slapping one upside the head and forcing one to lighten up and laugh at oneself however.
After going back to sleep for a couple hours after the craptastic morning (right, I know, my life is so hard. Saint Husband hung out with little Mr. Poopypants while Cranky Mommy went back to bed. I KNOW.), I emerged, still out of sorts. Things were beginning to look up as I perused one of my favorite blogs, which had this link: http://www.phdinparenting.com/2011/12/11/toddlers-the-hours-are-long-the-years-are-short-video/#.Tz6oqvk3Yqc
Its a great video, about different moms' experiences with toddlers, a real commiserating, put it in perspective-type thing. So there I am, enjoying the video, sipping my coffee, Max is in my lap, cheery and cuddly, when it happens. Blowout #2 for the day. In my lap. Through my sweatpants. My NICE sweatpants. (Yes, I have nice sweatpants. Shut up.) While I'm watching a video about the trials of parenting a toddler.
Can't make this stuff up people.
I'm not going to end this post with some sappy conclusion about how I wouldn't trade all the poop and crying and "maaaaaama"-ing for anything in the world, because I would. I totally would. I'd trade it for a glamorous carefree existence wherein I get plenty of sleep, have long, delicious dinners at trendy restaurants and scintillating conversation over $60 bottles of wine. I'd trade it for blown-out, shiny hair and a pedicure. The problem is, the poop and the crying and the need are part of Max. And I wouldn't trade him for anything in the world.
I'd better go, I think my sweatpants are done drying.
Mama was supposed to get together with some girlfriends and get her hair done and have some well-deserved solo time this weekend. But alas, it was not to be, thanks to the gastrointestinal machinations of her little son. So there was that disappointment. Add to it a lot (a LOT) of smelly laundry, clingy behavior ("Maaaaaaaama, Maaaama, Mamaaaaaa!") and some ill-conceived Facebook stalking (old acquaintances who are single and child-free and living what appear to be seriously glamorous lives) and you get one hot mess of self-pity. I'm not proud of this reaction. I'd like to say I gracefully and nobly decided to stay home with my little intestinally-challenged baby and nurse him back to health but that would be a huge load of crap and really, there's quite enough crap around here already. So I pouted and lashed out at my virtual saint of a husband and just generally acted like a self-indulgent a-hole. Life has a way of slapping one upside the head and forcing one to lighten up and laugh at oneself however.
After going back to sleep for a couple hours after the craptastic morning (right, I know, my life is so hard. Saint Husband hung out with little Mr. Poopypants while Cranky Mommy went back to bed. I KNOW.), I emerged, still out of sorts. Things were beginning to look up as I perused one of my favorite blogs, which had this link: http://www.phdinparenting.com/2011/12/11/toddlers-the-hours-are-long-the-years-are-short-video/#.Tz6oqvk3Yqc
Its a great video, about different moms' experiences with toddlers, a real commiserating, put it in perspective-type thing. So there I am, enjoying the video, sipping my coffee, Max is in my lap, cheery and cuddly, when it happens. Blowout #2 for the day. In my lap. Through my sweatpants. My NICE sweatpants. (Yes, I have nice sweatpants. Shut up.) While I'm watching a video about the trials of parenting a toddler.
Can't make this stuff up people.
I'm not going to end this post with some sappy conclusion about how I wouldn't trade all the poop and crying and "maaaaaama"-ing for anything in the world, because I would. I totally would. I'd trade it for a glamorous carefree existence wherein I get plenty of sleep, have long, delicious dinners at trendy restaurants and scintillating conversation over $60 bottles of wine. I'd trade it for blown-out, shiny hair and a pedicure. The problem is, the poop and the crying and the need are part of Max. And I wouldn't trade him for anything in the world.
I'd better go, I think my sweatpants are done drying.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Up North
Some would argue that I now reside in the region known by all Wisconsinites as "up north"...however, I'm not sure I would completely agree. Technically Washington Island is north of the state halfway point and we're part of northeastern Wisconsin, so geographically? We're up north. But as anyone from America's Dairyland knows, up north is more flavor than physicality. Native American reservations abound, snowmobiles are the preferred method of transportation in winter (in fact, some taverns are only accessible by snowmobile trail), antlers are standard decor, supper clubs do a thriving business, old-fashioneds are downed with regularity, and more often than not, businesses have "northwoods" somewhere in the title. There's also the inescapable feeling of being surrounded by more uninhabited land than not. Its the same feeling one gets out west in places like Wyoming and the Dakotas...a reminder that America still has a great deal of wilderness. My aunt and uncle and grandmother definitely live up north. And we went to visit them recently. Check it out:
Sledding!
Look Ma! No snowshoes!
Its a Subaru commercial. (We didn't realize we bought the same color...)
The UTV used to get Grandma up and down the steep slope to the house (aka The Popemobile). Naturally Max loved it.
Ah, family.
One West Highland Terrier kiss too many.
All tuckered out.
Monday, January 16, 2012
What We Do In The Winter Part I
The incredulous tone, the wide eyes, the expression of disbelief...as if to say, "how, WHY would anyone live in this place year round??!!" Longtime Islanders has experienced the question so many times I imagine everyone has their practiced and witty response. I however do not. Yet. Maybe next summer when I field the question countless times I'll just write down the link to this blog post.
Because we've been doing a lot so far this winter...
Going to play group:
Having family movie night:
Making funny faces:
Organizing Mommy's shoes:
Taking long baths:
Standing unassisted:
Watching the snow fly:
Having a dance party wearing Daddy's socks:
Practicing walking in the snow:
To borrow a phrase from Calvin and Hobbes, the days are just packed.
Because we've been doing a lot so far this winter...
Going to play group:
Having family movie night:
Making funny faces:
Organizing Mommy's shoes:
Taking long baths:
Standing unassisted:
Watching the snow fly:
Having a dance party wearing Daddy's socks:
Practicing walking in the snow:
To borrow a phrase from Calvin and Hobbes, the days are just packed.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Missing
I met Brandi in middle school. We have the kind of friendship only enduring countless crushes, sleepovers, dances, bodysuits, note notebooks, forbidden cigarettes, wine coolers, Saturday nights at Metropolis, Summerfests, camping trips, church festivals and every possible permutation of adolescent female shenanigans together can create. I've known her and her little sister Katie (I won't even go into the things we did to corrupt her) for two decades and except for a couple years during/after college where we lost touch, have been privy to all the ups and downs of their lives. Unfortunately a major "down" occurred last year, just before Thanksgiving. Brandi and Katie's father, Dirk passed away pretty suddenly.
My own father died after a long battle with cancer when I was 13, and I don't know if Brandi remembers this (we've found that often one vividly recalls an incident from our adolescence while the other draws a complete blank), but one of the handful of times I ever really cried about it was at Brandi's apartment one night when we were having a sleepover. I don't remember what precipitated it, but I DO remember Brandi hugging me for a long time and letting me cry. I can't think of many times in my entire grown life where someone just held me and let me cry. I can't think of many times I've ever LET anyone do that.
I wish I could've been at the hospital during the difficult weekend before he died. Of course I went to the memorial and the party afterward. The memorial had an open mic at the end where anyone could get up and speak about Dirk. I admire Brandi and Katie for being able to talk about their dad then. I wanted to get up and say something, in fact, I'd rehearsed it the whole drive to Milwaukee. In the end, my anxiety about public speaking, and even more so, public crying, got the best of me and I remained seated. I'd like to share what I wanted to say with Brandi and Katie, others who knew and loved Dirk, and those that didn't know him at all.
Dirk belonged to a snowmobile club and always invited me along for trips and rides. When Brandi and I were 15 or 16 we went up north (Eagle River maybe?) on one such trip. There were a lot of us, Brandi's uncles and cousins as well as friends. We got into the usual mischief with purloined vodka and staying up late and driving the sleds too fast (I shudder to think how I possibly survived the frequent stupidity of my teenage self). During the day we took long trail rides as a group. It was on one of these rides that I had my first crash. I was driving one of Dirk's sleds, Brandi was riding on the back and Dirk was behind us on another machine. He was messing with me, riding my tail and gunning his engine. A sharp curve came up suddenly, I hit the gas instead of the brake and the next thing I knew the sled's front skis were hung up in a tree and Brandi and I and the snowmobile were dangling precariously above the ground. It was probably only inches but it felt like miles. Dirk got us down and we assessed the damage: a cracked windshield. I was in tears. Dirk never scolded me or got upset. In fact, he got out the camera to document the scene (I'll have to dig that photo out one of these days) and insisted I get right back on and keep driving.
Its a little story that at the time seemed like a big deal and its one I immediately think of when I think of Dirk. Not only was the crash scary, the worst part for me was my initial fear that he'd be angry with me. Or disappointed. And he wasn't either.
I spent countless hours and weekends at Brandi's house. Dirk was always around to chauffeur or chaperone (albeit a pretty easygoing chaperone). He never expected anything but good from me, I felt. As a result, I never wanted to disappoint him. I respected him. I wanted to make him proud of me. And in that way he stepped into the role that went missing when my dad died. I don't know if he intended to or if it was just how it happened, and I'll never get to ask him. I don't think it matters anyway.
I am lucky to have such a friendship, such memories and such influence in my life. Brandi and Katie are lucky to have had Dirk for a dad and I feel such sadness for what I know they are feeling at his leaving. I know personally what cold comfort stories and memories can be when one is grieving. But it is all we really have when someone dies. Our love for them and the memory of their love for us.
My own father died after a long battle with cancer when I was 13, and I don't know if Brandi remembers this (we've found that often one vividly recalls an incident from our adolescence while the other draws a complete blank), but one of the handful of times I ever really cried about it was at Brandi's apartment one night when we were having a sleepover. I don't remember what precipitated it, but I DO remember Brandi hugging me for a long time and letting me cry. I can't think of many times in my entire grown life where someone just held me and let me cry. I can't think of many times I've ever LET anyone do that.
I wish I could've been at the hospital during the difficult weekend before he died. Of course I went to the memorial and the party afterward. The memorial had an open mic at the end where anyone could get up and speak about Dirk. I admire Brandi and Katie for being able to talk about their dad then. I wanted to get up and say something, in fact, I'd rehearsed it the whole drive to Milwaukee. In the end, my anxiety about public speaking, and even more so, public crying, got the best of me and I remained seated. I'd like to share what I wanted to say with Brandi and Katie, others who knew and loved Dirk, and those that didn't know him at all.
Dirk belonged to a snowmobile club and always invited me along for trips and rides. When Brandi and I were 15 or 16 we went up north (Eagle River maybe?) on one such trip. There were a lot of us, Brandi's uncles and cousins as well as friends. We got into the usual mischief with purloined vodka and staying up late and driving the sleds too fast (I shudder to think how I possibly survived the frequent stupidity of my teenage self). During the day we took long trail rides as a group. It was on one of these rides that I had my first crash. I was driving one of Dirk's sleds, Brandi was riding on the back and Dirk was behind us on another machine. He was messing with me, riding my tail and gunning his engine. A sharp curve came up suddenly, I hit the gas instead of the brake and the next thing I knew the sled's front skis were hung up in a tree and Brandi and I and the snowmobile were dangling precariously above the ground. It was probably only inches but it felt like miles. Dirk got us down and we assessed the damage: a cracked windshield. I was in tears. Dirk never scolded me or got upset. In fact, he got out the camera to document the scene (I'll have to dig that photo out one of these days) and insisted I get right back on and keep driving.
Its a little story that at the time seemed like a big deal and its one I immediately think of when I think of Dirk. Not only was the crash scary, the worst part for me was my initial fear that he'd be angry with me. Or disappointed. And he wasn't either.
I spent countless hours and weekends at Brandi's house. Dirk was always around to chauffeur or chaperone (albeit a pretty easygoing chaperone). He never expected anything but good from me, I felt. As a result, I never wanted to disappoint him. I respected him. I wanted to make him proud of me. And in that way he stepped into the role that went missing when my dad died. I don't know if he intended to or if it was just how it happened, and I'll never get to ask him. I don't think it matters anyway.
I am lucky to have such a friendship, such memories and such influence in my life. Brandi and Katie are lucky to have had Dirk for a dad and I feel such sadness for what I know they are feeling at his leaving. I know personally what cold comfort stories and memories can be when one is grieving. But it is all we really have when someone dies. Our love for them and the memory of their love for us.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Christmas: Cousin Edition
Max got to spend lots of time with his cousin Emerson over the holiday weekend. It was awesome...so different from last year when side-by-side tummy time was the extent of their "interaction". It made me think about how much fun growing up with cousins was for me and how much fun its going to be for them.
Besides, they'll have each other to commiserate with about their crazy relations.
Besides, they'll have each other to commiserate with about their crazy relations.
Christmas: Uncle Edition
My brother should so use this video clip to get chicks. Kinda like borrowing a puppy for a few hours.
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