To move or not to move

Tell me I'm not being selfish. Tell me that it is the right thing for Dad to move. Tell me that I want him to leave his house of 42 years because it's better and safer for him and not just because it's easier and more convenient for me.

We've been begging Dad to move for months, years even. After Mom died, and he was out there in that house by himself, we wanted him closer to us. With Colleen and I living 5 minutes apart, and Jennifer closer to us than to Dad, we just thought we could see him more and do more with him if he lived nearby.

We had many false starts. We looked about 3 years ago at patio homes right down the street from me. They were nice. He knew my mom's cousin who lived there. But the cost was more than he wanted to pay, he said. He wasn't ready. So he didn't move.

Then the bottom fell out of the housing market, and the stock market took a dive, and GM went bankrupt. Dad lost tens of thousands of dollars in equity in his house along with all of his GM stock. He was not going to move with that hanging over his head.

But it was a buyer's market, we said. It's a great time to purchase. You can get a nice place for a song. So we looked. He seemed interested in some other patio homes, but again, they were too much or too big or too small. Back to square one.

So all this time, Dad was dealing with his Parkinson's. He was slow, but he was steady. He was able to do stairs fairly well. He could get up and down out of his chair with ease. He could take his medicine without help. He could drive and take his garbage out and change his sheets and trim his toenails. His moving, then, would have been for us, so that he could be around us more. We worried about him being lonely. Living 30 minutes away made it difficult for him to be with us or for us to be with him as frequently as we would have liked. So he stayed put.

Then a year and a half ago, the health problems kicked in with a vengeance. He had a heart cathetarization done. Eye surgery to lift his lids so they would close. He started taking blood thinner. He began falling every once in awhile. His gait became slower. He had an endoscopy done and they found ulcers in his stomach. He stopped taking blood thinner. He got a pacemaker. His blood pressure went too low, and he began to get light headed when he stood. When they tried to fix it, his pressure went too high. He began seeing things...a black cat in the family room, a dog in the hall, people in the yard who weren't there. He began to have trouble seeing. He couldn't keep track of which medicine to take when. He choked on food. He froze in the driveway and ended up in the hospital for 3 days while his vitals were stabilized.

We found a new doctor who had him go through physical therapy, take a driving test, change medication. Things leveled out for awhile, but we had begun to worry not just about him being lonely, but about him being alone at all. People questioned his driving. We signed him up for free public transportation but he wouldn't take it. The visiting nurse who came after his hospitalization suggested he move. We suggested assisted living. His doctor recommended it. So did his sister and his nephew. Still, he resisted.

He continued to fall. He continued to freeze. He continued to drive. We continued to worry. We got him to look at moving again. At one condo complex, the seller's realtor asked who was looking at the property. We told her Dad was. She raised her eyebrows into her hairline and said, "You need to be looking at assisted living, not condos." We stopped looking at condos.

The doctor saw him in the fall. He told him he should really consider a different living situation. We went to talk to the social worker there. Dad's brother came along. They all pushed assisted living. Dad agreed it might be a good idea. We made an appointment with an elder law attorney and got his papers in order. (His will, un-notarized, was signed in 1972 by two people who are now deceased.) The lawyers strongly suggested assisted living. They even looked at his assets and showed him how he could afford it. He finally agreed to look. So we made an appointment and went last Wednesday.

It was a nice place. There were many people engaged in all kinds of activities. The apartments were very nice. They were fairly roomy. They had full kitchens. They had nice balconies. Three squares a day were included in the fee along with transportation to the grocery to doctor appointments to outings. They had Wii bowling and sing alongs and an indoor pool and sit-ercize. Dad remains uncommitted.

So I push to see other places. I continue to row this boat, nearly by myself, trying to avoid the falls (literally and figuratively) looming in the future. And I ask myself, "If Dad's time is limited, and we know it is, for whose benefit would he be moving? Mine or his?"

Christmas Underpants

I made Chex Mix today right before the kids got home from school. I was remembering how awesome the house would smell when I was little and would come home to find Mom had put the Chex Mix in the oven. The only time she made it was at Christmas, so it was a very special treat for us. I wanted my kids to have that same sense of excitement.

Emily walked in the back door and said with a grin, "I smell MIX!"

Later this evening when Claire and I were rolling out peanut butter balls, we were talking about how they always get new pajamas for Christmas because I always got new pajamas for Christmas. She asked what other kinds of presents I would get for Christmas from my mom and dad.

So I told her, "When I was a kid, we always got a ton of presents from Grandma and Poppy."

"Really?" she replied. "How many did you get?"

"Oh, I don't know. About 6 or 7 I guess."

She was shocked. My kids get about 4 or 5 presents under the tree each year. They get the traditional new pajamas, a new outfit, the girls get an angel and Kyle a nutcracker, and then a couple of other small things that I think they would like. We really try to keep it light and practical just because I don't want Christmas to be an orgy of presents.

So when I said my sisters and I got 6 or 7 presents, Claire's jaw hit the table. "What kinds of things did you get, Mom?" she asked.

"Well, we always got pajamas, as you know. Then every year we also got socks."

"Socks?" she said.

"And new underpants."

"For CHRISTMAS?"

"Yep. Every year. Pajamas, socks, and underpants," I said, seeing where this was going.

"Did you like getting those as presents?"

"Sure," I replied. "We liked getting new things. It was always nice to open the box and see a rainbow of colors looking back at me. One year we got underpants for each day of the week. They said, 'Sunday,' 'Monday,' 'Tuesday,' on them. We loved those."

Claire just looked at me. "You loved getting underwear for Christmas?"

"I sure did," I replied. "And as a matter of fact, we got Poppy socks, underwear, and tee shirts for Christmas too."

I told her how Mom would take us to Bacon's and with our Christmas Savings money, we would pick out two or three pair of Gold Toe black or blue socks for Dad or sometimes get him a box of handkerchiefs or a bag of Fruit of the Loom boxers.

"We usually got Grandma underwear too," I told her.

With this she just lost it. "So you're telling me that you all gave each other underwear for Christmas presents every year, and everybody liked that? Were you poor or what?"

"No," I said, "We weren't poor at all. We could just always use new underwear and socks, and they were just something that Grandma wrapped up for us to open on Christmas Eve. It never crossed our minds that this was not a 'normal' present. What would you say if I gave you underwear for Christmas?"

She gave me a sidelong glance and said, "I'd say, 'Okaaaaay. Thanks, I guess.'"

I'm seeing a trip to Target this week for one more present to put under the tree for each kid this year. It might become a tradition in our house too!

Thanksgiving 2009

Things I am thankful for this year:

My dad is still breathing air. Yes, he's slow. Yes, he looks awful. But he's still here. That is something. I am thankful that there is medicine to help keep him with us longer. I am thankful for the Movement Disorder Clinic and Dr. Houghton.

Kyle is normal and healthy. God, I am thankful for that. I am blessed that all of my kids are normal and healthy, but I don't know what could have gone wrong with them like I do Kyle. I am thankful that his spine decided not to close down in the base instead of up where it matters. His life, my life, would have been so different if things had been just a vertebrae or two off.

My girls are pearls. Really. They love each other like crazy. They are good students. They are good athletes. They are just good. I am thankful that Emily has an eye to be black today. That the ladder hit her along the bone instead of in her eye. She is very lucky about that.

I am thankful for Kirk's job. He is such a good provider. He isn't afraid to go out there and make things happen. God forbid we were dependent on me for income. Not a pretty picture. I am thankful that his military position has kept him in Frankfort and not overseas. I am thankful we have a relationship where he lets me be in charge. He is the boss at work, but since home is my work, I get to be the boss here. I am really thankful he is okay with that. I am very thankful I get to stay home.

I loved our Disney trip this summer with friends. So much fun! How lucky we are that we got to go yet again. How lucky that Kyle still wants to hang with Mom, Dad, and Mickey.

Kyle has picked his high school. I am glad about that and thankful we can afford to pay for it. He is making good choices and has friends and does well in school. He is good with children and old people. I like the man he is becoming.

Claire is an amazing dancer. I am thankful for the grace God blessed her with. She is kind with a beautiful spirit. She is self-motivated and so smart. I am so proud to hear others brag on her.

Emily is so herself. Football to dance class. She is a funny girl with a contagious laugh. I am thankful she marches to her own drummer and prays she will always do so.

I am in love with my house, my neighborhood, my city, my state. I am planted and am thriving. I love it here in my little corner of the world. I am so, so thankful that Kirk agreed to settle here 13 years ago. I would be stunted if I was anywhere else.

I am so thankful for my wonderful sisters. I am glad our children are friends. I love being with them and sharing life with them. I wish Jennifer was closer, but I am glad she gets home as often as she does. I'm thankful for Aunt Jeri and her family and all the relatives who touch our lives on a regular basis.

I am glad to be having good communications with my mother-in-law. I hope it continues to improve.

I am blessed to have everything I could possibly need and most of what I want. Who could ask for more?

Jeans Envy

For most of my life, I have had jeans-envy. Being vertically challenged, I have always been jealous of my male counterparts who could walk into a store, find a pair of jeans that fit them both waist-wise and length-wise and walk out with pants ready to wear. No trip to the tailors’ necessary. No hemming once they got home. Just jeans that Goldilocks would love: not too short, not too long, but just right.

Women’s jeans come in three lengths: “Tall,” (which I am definitely not), “Average,” (which I consider myself pretty close to being), or “Short,” (which designers apparently think I am).

The problem with“Average” jeans is that I am not 5’7” unless I am in 4-inch heels, and even then, when I’m not twisting my ankle, I’m stepping on the hem of the”Average”jeans. “Short” jeans are fine until they are washed, and then they are just too short. They come to the tops of my feet and just sit there, no way close to looking cool and fashionable.

Last week, while waiting for my daughters’ dance classes to end, I wandered into Steinmart. Near the entrance were several racks of jeans, Calvin Klein, Gloria Vanderbilt, Nine West…I walked over, remembering when all I wanted in life was a pair of Calvins. I took the jeans in hand and noticed something odd. Not only was there the usual size 8, there was an additional number, “32.”

I stopped. Could it be? I checked another pair. They said, “Size 10, 30.” I flipped through all the jeans on the rack, and sure enough, it was true! I could buy a pair of jeans not only by waist size, but also by length! There were “4, 29s” and “6, 33s” and “12, 30s.” Jeans to fit any and every woman who ever wished that she, like every single man who ever bought jeans, could buy hers by length as well as width.

I tried on several pair before I found the right size for me (I guess the designers were right about me!), but I walked out with a pair of Nine West jeans that were just right. I call them my Goldilocks jeans!

You can probably find these at any local department store that carries Calvin Klein and Nine West , but I got mine at Steinmart, ready to wear, for $29.99. (I still didn’t get a pair of Calvins, but I got cool and fashionable, and that’s what it’s all about!)

Snapping Beans

When I was a kid, my mom put up a lot of food each summer. It started in June when we'd go pick strawberries. Within the week, we'd have half a dozen batches strawberry jam in the freezer and bags of strawberries frozen to eat over ice cream later in the winter. As summer moved on, she would do the same for blackberries and peaches, making jam and bags of frozen fruit out of both. I didn't mind helping with those. I would pop pieces of ripe fruit in my mouth while we worked so that by the time we were finished, my chin was dribbled red or purple and I was sticky all over.

When tomatoes started coming in, Mom would make spaghetti sauce to freeze for us to eat later too. I loved helping with those tomatoes. She would bring a big pot of water to a boil and then drop the tomatoes in for 30 seconds or so. Then she would scoop them out real fast and put them in an ice water bath. Right away, the skins would split and start to peel off. I thought it was so cool to just pop the skin of the tomato off and put the flesh into the big Pyrex bowl where it waited for chopping. Then we'd cut the tomatoes in half and dig our fingers down the sides to scoop out as many seeds as we could. Soon the house would be filled with the aroma of garlic and onions and oregano and if someone didn't know any better, they'd think they were in Italy when they walked into the kitchen.

We had an apple tree in the back yard for a time. The neighbors behind us did too. Neither tree bore great fruit because neither my dad nor the neighbor sprayed for pests, but the trees did have apples every year and those trees are where my love for food preparation and storage ends. The apples from these particular trees were tiny, about the size of a lemon. They were irregular and spotted and wormy. Mom didn't care. She'd send us out to pick any apples we could reach and even pick up the ones that had fallen on the ground. We couldn't pick apples from the neighbor's tree, but since many limbs hung over our yard, Mom figured that any apples that fell into our yard were fair game, so we had to pick them up too. Didn't matter if the apples were bruised on one side or half eaten by bugs. Mom would cut the bad parts out and slice the rest for apple sauce, freezer bags, and pies. I hated it. The apples were so small that they were difficult to peel. I hated cutting into one to find that I had also cut a worm in half. I worried about how many worms made it into the winter stash without my knowledge. It was just a chore. But we sure loved the apples come January when Mom would take a bag out of the freezer and heat them on the stove with cinnamon and sugar and serve them with dinner.

Corn and green beans put me over the edge too. My dad had a friend who would send a bushel or two of corn home just out of the blue. We never knew when it would come. Dad would pull into the drive with a grin on his face and haul out two big burlap bags of corn. Mom's face would fall because she knew the work that had unexpectedly come her way for she had to put the corn up immediately or it would get tough. That was another job I hated. The corn always had worms and it was sticky and the silks made me itch. I dreaded pulling back the husks to find a big, fat, white corn worm gnawing away at the kernels. Once we got the husks pulled off, we had to cut the kernels off the cobs and into a big bowl. Then Mom would take the back of her knife and scrape the cobs to get all the juice out of the corn that she could. Corn juice would fly all over the kitchen. It was mess! We'd be sticking to the floor for days after, but again, there was nothing like a bag of sweet corn from the freezer, fried up with butter and salt in the middle of winter.

My least favorite job, however, was snapping beans. We would get a big bushel basket every so often and we'd have to sit out on the patio and snap the beans into bite sized pieces so Mom could can them the next day. I thought there must not have been a bottom to that old basket because it felt like it took forever to break up those beans. Mom would can them the next day and the house would be hot and we would be banned from the kitchen in case the canner blew up. I was terrified that that would happen. I had visions of the lid to the canner flying through the air and slicing through the wall. The jars would explode and Mom would die in a hail of green beans and glass. Of course it never happened, but I thought each year that it might be the year that it did. I remember the "sssssss" sound of the canner and the pops the jars made as they sealed. Mom would be so proud when all of her jars would be lined up on the shelves in the basement waiting for us to eat in the months to come. For all I hated the work that went into canning beans, I loved, loved, loved to eat them.

After she died, there were still a two jars left downstairs from the last time she canned beans. The beans were from Dad's garden. Mom had been gone a year, and my sisters and I just couldn't bear the thought of opening those beans and eating them. They were a tangible gift from her. A reminder that she had been here, been alive, cared enough for her family to go to all the work to store up food for winter. We finally decided to eat them on Thanksgiving. We opened them up and cooked them and ate them. There was not one bean left. How could we waste any?

I thought about all these things today as I sat on my own patio breaking beans. Mom and I had canned together in the summer of 2004 when she was well. I didn't feel comfortable enough to do it by myself without supervision, so she was going to help me the next year too. It didn't work out that way. She died in September of the following year after being sick the entire summer of 2005. Funny that the one thing I hated most as a kid is the one thing I wanted to learn to do more than anything. Mom's cousin, Betty Jean, is coming out to my house tomorrow to teach me to can. I am excited to learn, but I wish Mom was here to teach me.

So as I sat there today, thinking about how hard I had tried as a kid to get out of helping Mom with this chore, I just wished I could sit on the patio with her and break beans one more time.

Thoughts at the Start of Football Season

I love football season. I love the bleachers, hot in August and freezing in October. I love the smell of home fries from the concession stands and lollies and sodas that never have the right syrup/carbonated water mix. I love the players, sweaty and grass-stained, their hair messy from wearing helmets. I love the referees, older guys, working for their passion of the game. I love the coaches, those dads who can’t get enough. I love watching boys who started out little bitty guys in flag football, gain skill and confidence and strength over their “careers.” I just love football.

Football season started this weekend with our jamboree games. Teams who aren’t in the same bracket play each other for practice, to get those first-game jitters out of the way without it mattering if they win or lose. But sitting on the bleachers on Sunday (cool in August for a change), I was reminded of the one thing I hate about football…The Ugly.

I arrived with my son the required one hour early before his game. The game on the field was starting the second quarter. I took a seat and set out to work on my day planner, glancing up now and then to watch the game. It was a good game. Both sides played well. I found myself paying less attention to the work in my lap and more attention to the action on the field. I was feeling the football spirit once again.

Then, as one team scored, The Ugly began. The coaches across the field started screaming. The fans in the stands started yelling. Not just cheering the players on, but also yelling ugly things like, “KILL HIM!” and “HURT HIM!” and “TAKE HIM DOWN!” One man said of a player on his own team that he “played like a faggot.” They screamed at the referees, yelling, “Can’t you see, Ref?” “What are you? Stupid?” I even heard the f-bomb thrown out a time or two.

Since I had no stake in this game, I stopped what I was doing and observed the people around me. It occurred to me that if someone was doing a documentary on Catholic youth football, that the people in these stands would not look very Christian. I daresay that they would have been ashamed of themselves if they were to watch their behavior on screen afterward. The coaches looked less like dads and more like Bear Bryant on a really bad day. One coach was called for an unsportsmanlike penalty. Really! In a jamboree game!

A lady (and I use that term loosely) behind me was out of control. After a player on the opposing team was called for a late hit, she stood up and screamed, “Is that how you do things up there off Westport Rd?” When the penalty was announced, she waved her arms back in forth in the air shouting, “Oh yeah! Oh yeah!” She ranted throughout the game, making derisive comments about the other team’s players, coaches, school, and neighborhood. Nobody asked her to be quiet. A few people tried to shush her, but no one said, “That’s enough.”

After the game, one of the people around me stopped and said, “She’s not with us. Don’t judge us by her behavior.” I agreed that there’s one like her at every school. What I thought to myself though was, “Why do we let it go on? Why don’t we say, ‘Enough?’ What are we afraid of?” I have 3 kids who started playing sports at school 9 years ago, and I have never been moved to act like I was at this game.

I’m guilty of not speaking up. I have sat in the bleachers with equally vociferous parents and kept my mouth shut. I’ve sat there while our fans screamed at the referees, the players, and the other fans and not said a thing. I’m guilty as well of being a less-than-shining example of a model fan. I’d like to think I’ve never acted as ugly as the people I sat around on Sunday, but I don’t think I’d bet too much on it.

I plan to change that.

This past Saturday, our parish leadership team set a goal for the year for our church. We are challenging our parishioners to become “Eucharist-centered” people, meaning that we keep Christ in our minds in all that we do, whether it is at mass, at work, at Kroger, or on the playing field. All we do should be for the glory and praise of God.

I would like to extend this idea to the entire Archdiocese. I would like to challenge everyone to act in a more Eucharist-centered way, not just on Sundays in church but on Sundays in the stands and on the fields. Ask yourself, “Would I act this way if Jesus was on the other team? Would I scream at Jesus if he made a bad call? Would I yell, ‘KILL HIM!’ if Jesus was running for a touchdown?”

Don’t get me wrong. I am all for competition. I love the cheering and the yelling in the stands FOR good plays, FOR touchdowns, FOR the win. I love the challenges and the heartbreaks and the wins and the losses…well, not so much the losses, but you know what I mean. I love the excitement and the anticipation and the team spirit and the fun. What don’t love is The Ugly.

I think that if we all behaved as though we were being filmed for a documentary on youth football, we could get rid of some of that Ugly. If enough parents stood up and said, “ENOUGH” when things got out of hand, we would get rid of more of the Ugly. If we all try to remember to keep Christ in the game, we wouldn’t even know what Ugly was.

I love football, but it is a GAME. Contrary to popular belief, CSAA football is not a blood sport. We quit those a couple of thousand years ago. Remember, those players out on the fields, while they may look huge in their helmets and pads, are in grade school. They are CHILDREN. Would you scream at your own child like that? Would you scream at God’s?

Random Thoughts

I found out this week that my grandmother, Mimi, went to live on the Island of Jersey in the English Channel for a spell when she was 16 years old. She had graduated from secondary school, and her father, who must have been a very progressive kind of guy, sent her there to learn to speak English more fluently. She also spoke three other languages: French (obviously), Spanish, and Catalan. He also sent her to as many additional schools as she could attend---stenography school, etc.---to give her the best education possible.

I find that remarkable. It was 1906. France. He was a cork maker for the champagne industry. His wife, my great-grandmother, ran a tavern out of their house. Yet he was open-minded enough to send his girls (my great aunt as well) to as many schools as they could attend so that they would have a better chance at life than he and my great grandma did.

Then in 1912, they upped and moved to America. June 12 they landed in New York City. My great uncle was already here. When my grandma arrived, at the ripe old age of 20, she was well-educated enough in English and secretarial skills that she was able to get a good job in an office. A few years later, she met my grandpa, and that was that. But for a little while anyway, she was an independent woman, living and working in the busiest city in America at the turn of the century...what a heady time that must have been for her!

I am thankful for Grandpa Joe's liberal attitude towards his daughters' educations. It translated well through the years. My dad was raised to be open-minded toward women, and in turn, raised us that way. Even though I am a stay-at-home mom now, it has been MY choice to do so. It was never, ever suggested to me that there was anything I could not do if I set my mind to it. I think Mimi, because of her father, must have felt the same way.

Papi, je vous remercie de tout mon coeur.