Grandpa

My grandfather — my last living grandparent — passed away late yesterday afternoon.

I remember when I was in college trying to tell him what I was planning to do with my life. Journalism was never an acceptable venture in my grandfather’s mind. I could always be a waitress, “if you’re good at it you can make good tips ya know,” or even an onion farmer — anything but a “journalist.”

When I told him I was getting married and introduced him to my then fiancé, he said something along the lines of "Oh, that's nice" and proceeded to tell my husband all about the government and how my husband's job at DFAS actually works, as opposed to how my husband explained it to him.

To be blunt, my grandfather was a narcissistic bastard, a trait that only got worse with age. He was opinionated about everything. And lord knows he loved to pick fight. 

But in addition to all of that, he was also there for every play, every concert. He proudly took photos of my high school graduation, though no one ever saw them — I suspect the film is still in the camera wherever that ended up. He nursed me through countless ear infections and stomach bugs. He told me funny stories about his youth and fought with me over the black olives at Easter dinner.  He made me pancakes for supper and taught me how to play golf. When I was young, he did everything a grandfather should do, and for a girl with four grandmothers he was the only “grandpa” I felt fit the role. 

Simply put, I loved him. Despite everything, every negative comment or action, I loved him, and I know that he loved me in his own way— and perhaps that was enough.

Baby smiles

Almost a week into month four of parenting and I am utterly exhausted. And while the notable lack of sleep is the main culprit, my husband and I are starting to suspect a more direct drain point — whenever we feel the most tired, the most sapped, we look over and see our child giggling and flailing around with the vigor of a fish just dropped on shore. When we see her so happy, so energized, we’ve come to the conclusion she’s taken the ebullience directly from us.

And this in combination with the screaming at random, the bottomless tummy, the dirty diapers, the projectile spit-up, the head-butts and hair pulls make us glad for the moments of peace when a loving grandparent spirits her away for a couple of hours. 

But if there’s one thing (thus far) that makes it all worth it, it’s her smile. 

Some time between 5 and 7 a.m. she’ll whimper her declaration of “I am awake incase anyone is interested.” Invariably my husband or myself will grudgingly drag ourselves from our chairs or bed to retrieve her. When I enter the darkened room and turn on the crib side lamp, she flinches away from the light. Once she again opens her eyes the first thing she focuses on is my face, and she smiles. She smiles as if to say “Oh hi! You came back. Love me mama!” And I scoop her up in my arms and cuddle her within an inch of her tiny life, because I can’t believe I’ve ever been mad or frustrated with this helpless little thing that beams up at me with such utter adoration. 

The way my child loves us and wants us is worth more than gold, and I feel privileged to be loved by her.

(please note that the photo is a stock image, not a picture of our actual child, however the expression is just about perfect)

Woman in the mirror

Thus far on my quest I have determined that beauty, or more specifically feeling beautiful, comes partially from how one is treated by others. Beauty is a matter of perception after all. In the last few weeks I have made great strides in regards to loving myself again. A major factor in this has been my wonderful husband. The affection he has poured upon me has helped in an immeasurable fashion — being loved helps you love.

Beauty is perception. And, as superficial as it may sound, the second thing that has helped me is a batch of new clothing. 

I really believe that trying on a daily basis to pry on clothes that no longer fit was dragging me further and further into a state of despair. Granted — the process of trying on new clothing in the store caused me to want to curl up in a corner and cry, but once that part was over and I had the occasion to wear my nice new duds out in public, I very quickly started to feel better about myself in general. The woman in the mirror no longer seemed so misshapen, and started to transform into someone a bit more attractive and confident. 

Now, that’s not to say I don’t still have bad days or that I don't still hate the way I appear in photos, but for the moment, the woman in the mirror and I area getting along much better, and that’s a start.

Learning to love myself again

I have been absent from this space for some time now, partially due to my becoming pregnant with our first child. Our darling daughter was born in August.

Post-pregnancy I’ve been dealing with a number of challenges, including one I really wasn’t prepared for — my self-image.

While I was pregnant I was proud to show off my baby bump. I was relieved and pleased that the hormone influx did not cause me to become one of those women who complain about becoming “fat” (you’re not fat, you’re pregnant!).

I spent months mentally preparing myself for the remaining weight that would be — possibly permanently — added to my physique.

I have never been a skinny girl, I’ve always been a tad “solid” in regards to my weight.

I was determined to be OK with myself because I had had a baby — of course I was going to be heavier than I was before, of course I was going to have stretch marks, it’s all OK because I had a baby.

Truth is, now that I'm there, it’s not OK — I’m not OK.

I look in the mirror and I see fat and flab. 

In the photos taken of us with our daughter I could not see past the double chin that seemed to come out of no where when I looked down at our precious bundle of joy. I feel odd, out of sorts and not like myself — I used to love myself but now I’m not so sure.

These photos are an act of courage on my part, to post my imperfections for all the world to see. In my mind this is the first step down a long road to loving myself again, as I am. 

I want to accept my battle scars with pride. I want to be self-assured that I am beautiful, just as I am.

I want it. I’m just not sure how to achieve it.

Path of the author

"...For yea verily, the path of the author is strewn with dying liver cells." 

(Quote from the awesomeness that is Tea with the Squash God)

Always a lady

A week ago Sunday, my grandmother passed away. 

And after a week of reflection — interspersed with tears and laughter — I've decided to write some of the thoughts down.

I was 4 years old when my grandfather married "Grandma Dorothy." And all of a sudden this tiny woman with three (grown) children and one teenaged grandchild became step-mother to nine and grandmother to over half a dozen kids. Looking back, I can see how overwhelming it must have been for her.

For my part, I was the youngest of five grandchildren, the rest of them boys. An only-child, I had a flare for the dramatic and tendency to talk to myself. What little I remember of the wedding (in my role as flower girl) involves my new cousin and bridesmaid Marterese (then 16) keeping me occupied with games behind the alter, and having to hold my cousin Joe's hand going back up the aisle (It was sweaty. I didn't like it.)

I was jarred a bit by mother's reaction to her passing. While my mother loved and appreciated her, Grandma Dorothy was her second step-mother. Mom was very blunt about our place as her step family, something I had never considered before. She was never a step relation to me — she was my grandmother, period.

As said during her funeral service, grandma could enter an elevator with four strangers and leave it with four new friends. Growing up, whenever we were out to dinner — whether it was their regular place or someplace new – Grandma Dorothy would "adopt" the waitresses. She was always friendly. She was always polite and courteous. And she appreciated a good life-is-funny laugh. 

She was the epitome of a lady. I still remember her cringing when grandpa encouraged me to wipe my hands off on my pants instead of a napkin.

Perhaps most important to me — she tried. She may not have known to handle all us grandkids, but she made a damn good effort. She couldn't cook very well, so she made a point to stock a variety of Jello packs so she always had our favorites on hand. She took me berry picking, taught me to play Chinese checkers, and took care of me when I was sick. 

She made an effort to learn my favorite flower, and occasionally surprised me with rose adorned presents or souvenirs. Her favorite was iris, something I intend to add to my garden in her memory. She delighted in discovering things we had in common like favorite book ("A Girl of the Limberlost") and favorite TV shows (British comedies).

Grandma Dorothy was always happy to see you. She loved visiting and being social. Even when her memory faded to the point where I'm fairly certain she no longer knew who we were, she was always so happy to see us. One of my more recent cherished memories of her was four years ago when I brought my 6'3" then fiance over to meet them. Grandma, all 4-foot-nothing of her, insisted on giving him the grand tour of their two room, one bath abode — and he dutifully followed her around. It was one of the cutest things I think I've ever seen. I'm so grateful he got to meet her when she was still mostly herself — her wonderful, welcoming and utterly ladylike self. 

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