Dear Grandma

Dear Grandma,
I can’t believe you are gone. I don’t know if you even realized how much of an influence you had over me, over all of us. There are so many things I want you to know before you really go. Though I no longer am sure that I believe in the thing called heaven, I also don’t necessarily believe that you are gone forever and that this is the end of Dorothy Jean Martin Moe. I hope you are somewhere watching me type this, knowing I’m thinking only of you at this very moment but I know that, even if you aren’t in heaven with Grandpa and your parents, your influence lives in all of us.

The memories you provided me were mostly childhood ones. When I think of being a child, I always think of you and spending precious time with you. The memories are so obscure but so particular only to me that I can’t stop holding on to them right now. I’ve thought of the feel of the sheets on the bed you used to tuck me into at night, the Dove soap and Dixie cups in your bathroom, the beaters full of chocolate chip cookie dough, the doll house we played with, the village on your mantel at Christmas, the holiday meals with ALL the formality of girls in dresses and linen, china and crystal. These memories are all of tangible, physical “things” but your tender voice and specific laughter are in the background. I can’t even describe your laugh or your voice but it is ingrained in me forever.

I remember the moment I told you I was dating a Mormon boy in high school. We were standing in a food line at a wedding and you told me to stay with that boy because he would be nice to me. You were probably the only one in the family who was outwardly proud that I became a Mormon. You were also probably the only one who was so disappointed in me when I left Mormonism and my husband. I really hope you know that this was the only thing I could do to make myself whole, and that you were part of my inspiration to grab onto my life and do whatever it would take so that, on my own death bed, I could say what you did, “I had a good life”.

Grandma, I will never forget that you bought me my first pair of Jordache jeans, that you always made sure you had Golden Grahams and smokey links in the house when I came over…even in pretty recent years. I’ll never forget that, when my sister was born, you were the one to tell me the news. I’ll never forget the standards you wanted for our family and to close my mouth when I eat Doritos. You were the rock of our family, the matriarch of all of us Moes. I’m not sure how we’ll go on without you, but we will. We’ll all have years of life still to live, if we’re lucky. We’ll have laughter, joy, beauty, other sorrows. We’ll have more deaths and, likely, births. In every single one of these moments, you will be with us. You will always be part of who we are as human beings, as a family.

I love you so much, Grandma. You will live in all of us forever.

Your Granddaughter,
Heather

Smackdown is Pending

My posts, of late, have been so philosophical and zen and all about the lessons I’m learning in life. If anyone were to read them, they’d think I have pretty good perspective about things and am open to accepting the aforementioned lessons as they roll into my life. The thing is, this is mostly true. I’m generally a pretty open-minded and accepting person. I HAVE learned that the more I consider all aspects of a situation or person before judging, things end up better. At the very least, I am happier. I can take it all in, process what I need to and then let it go.

Lately, I have realized that this is not the case when it comes to HER. Before you get too excited, HER is not someone you know. It’s not someone I am related to, not someone my kids are related to, not someone you are friends with on facebook or someone you know in any other area of your life. It is not the HER that anyone, who doesn’t intimately know me very, very well, could imagine it would be. This HER is a person that has done me wrong. End of story. There is no “HER side” of the story. There is nothing but HER BEING EVIL, and that is the only way I can see the thing. It was easy to hate her from afar because the hate meter was never stimulated by her presence in my proximity. Though she is somewhat proximal, my mental zenicity would convince me that she didn’t matter and I should move on. Yes I freaking should. Move on. I should consider the freaking source. I should realize that she is the spawn of the devil and stay-a-way.

Then one day, I could feel it. My hate-meter was being tickled in a way that I’d never felt before. I sensed the presence of HER. It was like when Luke Skywalker said, in The Return of the Jedi, “I’ve endangered the mission. I shouldn’t have come.” I closed my eyes, inhaled and realized that Darth Freaking Vader was standing right behind me. All of my zenicity was gone. All of the negative feelings flooded in. My arm was being simultaneously sliced and cauterized by her red lightsaber. Nothing can be done at this point but stare at my stump of an arm and use all my anger to…continue to hate HER.

It’d be easy to follow the force and maintain my zenicity if I could walk away from the fight with my stump, get my robotic arm and never face HER again but I cannot. Unless something drastically changes, the HER will be maintaining an unavoidable proximity in my life for the next few years. And here I remain with my stump, unable to unload my hate. HER is the first person that I can pretty much genuinely say I hate. I hate hate. I hate that I hate. But yet I hate…and it’s all her fault.

As I was explaining all of this to my amazing husband I had to warn him that a smackdown is most definitely pending. There will be a time when HER-Vader will approach me and I will whip it out (my beautiful green saber) and I will do it. I will knock her over, cut off her arm, smack her face, pull her hair, screech obscenities and repeat until I collapse from exhaustion. One day, he will see a side of me that will only exist in my perfect storm of proximity, hate, PMS, sleep-deprivation and hunger. I had to warn him and then, very hesitantly ask, “Will you leave me when this happens?”. As long as he doesn’t leave me, I think the smackdown may cure the hate and zinicity will solely reside. If he leaves me because of what he’s witnessed, it will be ALL HER FAULT.

Time is a Bitch…and she’s HERE NOW

My oldest kid is getting ready to graduate. There is so much to do that I’m getting buried and overwhelmed. I’ve started this monster thing by planning an open house for her. How am I supposed to feed dozens of people when I can’t even feed my family without major head-scratching? The most overwhelming thing isn’t the food, though. It’s the fact that my kid is GRADUATING. She’s got a prom dress. You can’t graduate without that. She’s taken all of her AP exams. She’s chosen a college. She is *this* close. This is exciting and scary for her but for me it is petrifying. In that it makes me feel as if I am as old as petrified wood.

On the other end of the spectrum, I’m watching my two remaining grandmothers go through possibly their final challenges. For both of them, it seems as if they are winding down. How do I type that? My grandmothers are dying. They seem to be ready for it. Grandma Moe just wants us to take her home, let her sit in her chair facing the lake and watch the sunset while she goes. Yia Yia (on the Greek side) has entered hospice care and knows that her time is limited. Even though they are both ready for this and they have both had full lives, it’s very hard to think about them dying because it seems as if it automatically signals the end of something big in my life. I guess it’s my childhood. I have so many childhood memories of my grandparents. They are ALL good and they are all about the indulgence of being a child.

Between the kid going away and the grandmas trying to go away, I find myself being very pensive about time and life and the concept of being here now. I truly believe the lessons I’ve been given so far by whatever universal power that may be out there (or that may be inside of myself) have all been trying to teach me to do that. To enjoy this moment right now, even though right now Kate is practicing her clarinet and having a really hard time hitting those high notes which makes my teeth feel like needles.

Sitting on the Couch

Recently, my husband and I were sitting on our couch watching American Idol (the kids make us). I was comfortable laying next to him, my head leaning on his arm, my hand on his thigh and feet touching his. Suddenly I realized that what was happening at that very moment was something I, at one point, thought may never happen again: complete and utter comfort with another human being. It was the simplest, most imperceptible of moments to anyone else but that one moment brought the biggest joy to my heart…

Almost five years ago, before I tore myself away from my ex-husband, I did a little test. One day, when I found myself needing to go to the emergency room for what turned out to be an anxiety attack, I decided to go alone. I didn’t call a soul, not even my Mom. I thought that if I could handle a trip to the ER by myself, I could tolerate the inevitable aloneness that divorce would bring. I did it. I drove there, got told to take a chill pill, got discharged and did it all BY MYSELF. So I was set. I realized that I would not die if I were alone and off I went on my journey into solitude. It was actually nice for a while. His laundry wasn’t all over my floor, I could turn the light on when I was getting ready for work and not wake anyone, I could sit on the couch and watch whatever I wanted without having to always listen to him breathe, for the love of mike. The absence of continuous conflict in my life was so worth any loneliness I may occasionally feel when there was no other adult to talk to for DAYS.

The hope of a future relationship was there, of course, but I wasn’t very optimistic. Of course I could get “dates” and find someone to hook up with on my free weekends but I soon realized how fleeting and empty this all was. It was quickly becoming clear to me that finding a quality individual, worthy of actual space in my life would be almost impossible. The point was driven home to me one day when picking up my son from a friend’s house. The parents were sitting on the couch watching television. Her head was against his arm and they were utterly comfortable. It was the simplest, most imperceptible of moments to anyone else but that one moment brought the biggest ache into my heart. It made me run from the garage up to my bed and flop face down with belly sobs pouring out of me. I realized that, as much as my new life was the right choice and as much peace that had entered since he vacated, I risked never having that utter comfort ever again. My little ER visit test had not prepared me for this. It hit me hard that to get to that moment with someone, the moment where you are sitting on your couch comfortably leaning against each other watching television, a person would have to be invested in me. Who would want to sit there with ME on the couch? He’d have to like me, be attracted to me, listen to all of my stupidity, put up with all my kids, like the way I kiss, like the way I dress, like the way I smell…and I’d have to like all of those things about him. No way. Never, ever going to happen. Even if it could happen…how long would all of that *take*?

I can tell you now that it takes about four-ish years. As of last Tuesday.

Cuppa Joe

We travel to Iowa on occasion to visit Kurt and Annie and one of our favorite stops is Cuppa Joe. This is an ecclectic, quirky coffee shop with plenty of atmosphere and wonderful drinks. Their latte has a deep flavor and they always make a pretty swirl with the foam. They give us brightly colored cups and saucers, they use fair trade beans and have a tip can that says “Tipping makes you sexy”. It’s just a fun place to stop in Cedar Falls with the kids. Today they’re doing homework while we sip and soak in the utter coolness of the place.

My Ex’s Face

It’s amazing how quickly, when I see a picture of my ex, I just want to rip his face right off of the print. Right off of his head, actually. Recently my youngest son asked to see his baby book. Knowing full well that no book exists, I had to scramble to come up with an excuse…still scrambling… Anyway, I shortly thereafter decided to break out the scanner and start digitizing some prints. It has been a lot of fun. I’ve been all wistful about time passing and the meaning of life and all of these types of things. Of course, I decide that I must get out this boy’s baby pictures and scan them so I can at least make him a digital baby book. The other kids have scrapbooks with carefully trimmed pieces of coordinated paper and momentos carefully cemented in with the most delicate of adhesives. Screw that. This kid is getting a book that I very carefully auto-create from blurb.com.

It’s not that I don’t love him. Nobody can doubt this. But I am working full-time and raising four-slash-six kids to be wonderful human beings, all the while trying to be a worthy wife to my husband. All with NO help from my ex, which brings me back to my point: his face.

Rifling through these pictures was lovely. I realized that in my hugest belly pic, taken days before this child’s birth, I was wearing both horizontal and vertical stripes. I remembered his birth and the hours leading up to it as a time of great realization that natural birth may not be all that once believed it to be-even though I did not have the benefit of any drugs. I recalled the look on my oldest daughter’s face as I looked over and saw the tears that were streaming because she had just witnessed her brother’s birth. Then I SAW IT. The picture of my ex holding his newborn son. Of course, now, as I see it, I have the knowledge of what happens after this picture is taken. I know that he will choose to live a different life, away from his children. That he will choose an old, mean woman to share his life with instead of them. Ooops, I digress…

I made a conscious decision to include pictures of him in my digital files because he, quite simply, is their father. He was a part of those moments and he deserves space on our network drive and in their memories. When I look at his image with his children, though, there is so much there that I never allowed myself to really see until now. Maybe only I can recognize the apathy on his face, the utter distraction and laziness, because I was the only one that got to live with it day after day. When I look at these photos, it’s like I am allergic to bee stings and I just got swarmed with bees. I want to rip them off of me. I want them to never have existed. I want to rewind time and make better choices. None of us can do that, though, can we? As much as any of us want to rip our ex’s face off (and I know many do), we can’t. We can’t even toilet paper their house when we’ve had way too much tequila. Or tell our kids really what an ass they are. Well we can, but we really shouldn’t. And I won’t. I will continue to scan his icky face into my digital memory. I will make a blurb book for my boy that includes him and I will continue to say, “Yes, that’s your Daddy holding you.”

Easter

Since about 1983 or so, I have been part of a Greek family.  My mom married a Greek man and brought us into a different world.  Now my heritage is all northern Scandinavian so we’re a bunch of light-skinned blond people.  Imagine us entering this Mediterranean world.  My first memories of Easter with the Greeks are full of bowls of octopus, plates of sweetbreads, bottles of ouzo and loud, boisterous people speaking a totally different language.  It was a strange place that didn’t make me feel comfortable or at home.   As the years went on, I integrated bit by bit and all of the Greek traditions began to seep in and just become my own traditions.  I now can’t imagine Easter without them.  I haven’t seen an octopus around these here parts in quite a while, sweetbreads may have happened only once and ouzo is pretty scarce these days too.  We white people probably have diluted many of these traditions down quite a bit but those that have stuck around are pretty near and dear to my heart.  The cracking together of red eggs while repeating, “Christos Anesti” and “Alithos Anesti” (“Christ Has Risen” and “Indeed He Has Risen”), the Easter bread, singing of the Christos Anesti song before dinner and the loud, boisterousness of the family are all precious.

This year when I heard that the Greek side of the family was going to gather its remaining few-ish members and go to a buffet for Easter dinner, I decided to offer up my house.  I couldn’t imagine having an Easter without these few traditions that are still hanging on in our family.  We’ve lost a lot of members over the years and sometimes it feels like we’re really hanging on by a thread.  Of course things will never ever be the same as they were in these old, loud days with so many people speaking Greek and eating exotic things but I just can’t let go of what is left.  I’ve come to realize that this holiday in particular doesn’t have anything to do (for me) with its “Christian” purpose.  I can genuinely say that I don’t believe in any of the miracles that are taught in relation to Easter.  The magic I do now believe in, more than I ever have before, is family.  These traditions link my childhood to my children.  They link us through generations.  They are a shining example, through us white people joined to the Greeks, that family is what you create with those around you, not the biology and happenstance that created you.

Band Fags

Back in olden times when I was in high school, the band kids were called “Band Fags”.  I was a Band Fag.  I played the most GEEKY instrument EVER:  the bass clarinet.  It was as skinny and as tall as I was and it was the only clarinet part I could play when I joined band in the tenth grade.  My desire to become a Band Fag started when I started twirling a flag in the color guard.  The more immersed I got in Band Fag culture, the more I realized that I had found MY people.

I am prouder than proud to say that four out of my six kids are fellow Band Fags now.  I was looking for a way to test my new Smugmug plugin so I decided to post the album of my son Kyle and his trombone.  I’m so proud of my little…um…Band Fag.  Is it wrong to call your kids fags on the internet?

View photos at SmugMug

An App For That?!

I can now blog from my Iphone. Be prepared for a stream of ridiculous, random, meaningless to you posts. I am SO excited to tell you my thoughts-on-the-go! The iPhone is aMAzing! Better than…well…ice cream! I am one with it. I live in a perfectly happy little touch screen world in which I can bond with other iPhone users I meet in elevators. She sees me with mine and says, “Iphone?”. I say, “Yes…isn’t it amazing? If the whole world had iPhones we’d all live in peace.”. She says, “I know, right?!?”. That is all that needed to be said. Elevator doors open and we both step out knowing we each make the world a better place.

Things That Make Me Feel Old

So my oldest daughter is graduating from high school soon. She’s amazing, we’re proud, she’s going to college, blah, blah, blah. All of this progression is making me feel old. It must be coincidental that several other things are making me feel old as of late, right? I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I am being thrust toward FORTY.  I’ve heard from several female people that FORTY is the magic age at which your body starts to tell you that your fabulousness better lie in something other than your physical vessel or you are doomed.  I’ve been actively working on my inner fabulousness since late 2005 and it’s coming along well but this does not make this other thing, the inklings of physical degradation, any easier at ALL.   So here are the things that I believe may be a sign of impending elderliness:

• Increasing satisfaction in and anticipation of the wearing of stretchy pants.
• Subtle adjustments of reading material along the X-axis.
• Awareness of bowel movement patterns.
• Beer gut (see first point).
• Knowledge that I will, very likely, be a grandmother at some point in the next ten years (the oldest will be twenty-seven in ten years…F*CK!)
• Memory of my parents at my age…and they were OLD.
• Thoughts that my menstrual cycle is pretty much useless and could disappear without me caring too much (yes, I know, it’s early for these thoughts but I have SIX children…did I just blog the word menstrual?).
• Realizing that the giggling female med students at work are closer in age to my daughter than they are to me…F*CK!!!

And finally…the big one…

• When dropping my girl off for her university placement exams this past Saturday, the sudden and violent nausea, then tears, then visions of her life flashing before my eyes as if all of those little curly-haired fits of stubborn rage were literally just last week.  *SOB*