Traveling..

Today I am flying to California to see my family. My WHOLE family. Except for baby girl.. She has to stay on this coast. My flight was delayed 15 minutes, so I took the extra time to wander the terminal a bit, knowing I would be sitting for six hours.  I'm not worried about the time.  Jetblue tends to arrive earlier than scheduled, and I know my husband will be waiting for me.

I went to use the rest room as a preemptive measure (who really likes making all your row mates get up just so you can piddle?) and as I entered, there was a lovely woman sitting on the floor by the sink, crying.  A woman who was wearing her own baby in a carrier was taking to the woman on the floor, who was pumping (to keep up her milk supply).

We Remember

Today, two years ago, my family buried my mother.

In many ways, it was the hardest day of my life.

In other ways, it was most blessed.  If only you could have seen how full the church was that day at her funeral, to hear my family and our Church singing of God's promise and Hope in the life she lived, the life we have left to live before we see her again.  To be there with family and friends (and in-laws!) who traveled so far to join us in celebrating Momma's life--what a joy to have such a community.  This is what Christians do for each other.

2 Years?

Has it been two years already?  Twenty-four months is not a very long time--ask any parent of a toddler--and yet, it seems ages ago that I first learned my mother had died.

Last year, I shared the story of my mother's death, and how we celebrated her life in remembrance.  This year, unexpectedly, I am a strange mix of emotions: happy and sad; peaceful and unsettled.

I miss Momma more than I thought I could, and in ways I never expected.  I miss talking to her about adoption, even though I never did speak with her about it, about becoming a parent in this way--it is so different from being pregnant.  When I have dreams that I don't understand, I miss hearing her interpretation of them and what she thinks it means for my life.  I miss listening to her tell stories; stories she made up or stories from her past, or from her family's past.  She had a flare for story-telling.

Still, even now on the second anniversary of her death, I am giddy with excitement.  Today, Taylor and I get to go visit our Little Girl--the court date is getting so close!  All I can think about is whether or not we will have her home in two weeks.. in just 13 days.

3 Months

Our Little Girl is three months old today.  She has already outgrown the hat I made for her.  It was so big when she first wore it...

And as I think about having a three (nearly four) month old baby later this month, I find myself fighting against jealousy of all those parents who have had the chance to hold their babies the whole time.  I think about all the nursing I've missed already, all the giggles and the growth.  I even think about all the dirty diapers and stained favorite clothes and sleepless nights I've missed.  She's changed so much since we met her and first whispered our hopes to bring her home someday.

I think about how our lives would be different now, if we'd had this baby for three months.  Being able to know her and to see her first smile, to be able to make her laugh, take her to doctor's appointments, read her books, sing her songs.  All the time.

But then I also think about the family we wouldn't know if we had our Girl already--our Baby's foster family.  We are blessed that they do not live too far away from us and we are able to go up to see the Babe at least once a week.  It's such a joy to know them, to have them in our lives, and in our Little Girl's life.  They take such good care of her and want nothing but her happiness.  They hope and pray that we are able to bring her home, forever.  And they have opened their hearts to us in ways I never expected.

...

...

Cookies

Nothing happens at the Black's but the Two Little Girls know about it.  Especially in the kitchen.

If you pull out baking bowls or flour or sugar (particularly sugar) or vanilla, you will soon hear the familiar (sometimes dreaded) sound of their little wooden high-chairs *scroooooonkeeeeenkskenrrnenssk* scraping across the dining room, squeaking slowly (but steadily) into the kitchen, and up to the counter, right in front of your workspace.

"I'm just gonna see what's in this loodle bowl here," they say. 

Oh Christmas Tree

Christmas trees are a serious business here at the in-law's.  The sagas of tree-getting are many and varied (and hilarious).  There was the year that Dad brought home 4 trees. Yeah--four.  Because they were all that the lot had left.  They were so lonely, I guess. 

Then there was the year that they got a 16-some foot tree, since in their old house they had cathedral ceilings.  And the year they lived 30 minutes from any hardware stores and broke three different tree stands trying to hold up a large-ish tree, which means three trips to and from town to get a new stand. 


There was the year they got a fabulous deal on a tree that was supposed to have gone to a large company for their rather large foyer, but the tree somehow never made it there.  So dad brought that one home.  Seriously--this tree was 10 feet in diameter at the bottom.  It was totally ginormous.  


That was the Christmas Taylor and I had started dating.  


That was also the year the Christmas tree nearly fell on me... [story for another time]

Firsts

I've held lots of babies in my life.  My sister when I was very young. Nieces and nephews. Siblings-in-law. Friends' babies.  Babies I've only just met.

But always it was just holding them. For a moment.  Here and there.  The baby was always someone else's baby.  They were mine only in Love and far-off relationship.

And I've given lots of baby gifts over the years.  Hats, blankets, carriers, pictures, booties, mittens, clothes, nursing covers, shoes.  I've wrapped them and transported them and handed them over, watching as the mother and father undid the wrapping and ooh-ed and ahh-ed.

I did all that today again, just like always.  But it was wildly different this time.  I sat down on the couch, with That Sweet Baby Girl in my arms and asked Taylor to grab the little gift bag I had brought.  I had thought that the foster mother would open it and ooh and ahh.

"Why don't you go open it? Over there with Baby?"  she said.

I wasn't ready for that.  I'd never opened a gift unless mother's hands were full (of baby).  And certainly never while holding a baby that might be mine.  Taylor brought the bag over, sat down next to me on the couch, and put his arm around my waist.

Christmas to Me

To me, Christmas is a time of creativity.  It always has been.  From my earliest memories, Momma was always cooking, baking, gifting, sewing, painting, and decorating.  She loved the holidays. 

Momma's nativity sets, for example, took countless hours of hard, detailed work from start to finish.  She even poured the ceramics herself, and had them fired.  Then there was the basecoat (which we kiddies got to help with--how hard can it be to paint something all one color? (turns out it's rather tricky, to get it not-lumpy and goopy)), which was sealed, then the antiquing, sealing, colored antiquing, more sealing, and finally, the painted details, which Momma mostly did.  

It was just stunning to see her finished sets arranged just so at the parish holiday bazaar.  I wonder how many of her sets are scattered through our home town--how many lovely pieces of Love and talent and dedication adorn the homes of our friends at Christmastime.  

And still, nothing puts me more in a Christmas mood than getting my full box of paints and paint brushes out and, stroke by stroke, bringing clay or ceramic pieces to life.  

My Christmas Dress

My very own Christmas dress.  A good friend sent me a pattern she thought I would like, and I finally cut it out last week.  I started sewing Friday evening and hand-stitched the hem yesterday afternoon, watching Wall-E with my Sweet P'Taylor...  

I remember Christmas dresses when I was a little girl.  Sometimes we would buy them; sometimes, Momma would make them.  On Christmas Eve we would all open one present from under the tree before going to the children's mass as a family.  Momma would often suggest a particular gift for us to open, and I remember once I received a pair of brand new, shiny black, heeled shoes.  I felt so grown up and beautiful walking into Church that night.  Rustling dress, new shoes, warm winter coat.  I sat up straight because I felt like such a lady.  I paid extra close attention because I was so grown-up.

Christmastime

Our little home is getting ready.. we're all getting excited.

I'm so glad to see my favorite ornaments, too.

Christians Never Say Goodbye

This afternoon I attended a memorial mass for a friend's father, who died 5 years ago.  For me, now, any memorial mass for a parent touches very close to home, and I found myself reflecting on Momma's death, too.

I saw my friend and her mother in the front pew, and I could tell my friend was crying. I thought of Momma's funeral and my family in the front rows.  Daddy, me, Taylor, Vivian. My sister Summer's family. Ray and his family; Bethany and her family.  I remembered how good it was to have so much of my family there beside me, feeling our loss all together.  It was easier to bear the pain when I could hold Vivian's hand or cling to Daddy's arm.  It was more comforting to bury my face in Taylor's shoulder than into my handkerchief alone.

When I first faced the fact that my mother was dying, I thought of my friend, whose father also died from cancer.  She is an only child and I remember thinking to myself, "She only has her mother left to remember her father from her childhood."  I wasn't judging her or her parents for having a "small" family; I wasn't trying to congratulate myself for having "so many" siblings.  It was merely an observation I had at the time, wrapped all about with the coming loss of my mother.  I was especially thankful for my siblings, then, and for my nieces and nephews who had known Grandmama while she was with us.

Hope

The first year Taylor and I were in Boston, he worked a lot on the weekends at a church in Belmont.  He was gone all day on Sundays and often a good deal on Saturdays.  So I had a lot of time on my hands.  I filled the hours with crafting, mostly, and I made an Advent Calendar for us.

I had grown up with a felt calendar which my grandmother had made for our family.  It was so exciting to take turns every day pulling each new ornament out of its numbered pocket and finding the perfect spot to snap it on the tree.  Each ornament had its own explanation, which we read from the little booklet disguised as a present under the felt tree.  It was so perfect for children.

Thanks Giving

Thanksgiving was always Momma's favorite holiday.  She told me it was her favorite because all she had to worry about was food. And--let's be honest here (in case you haven't figured this out yet)--my family was really into food.

Especially Momma.  

And boy did she "worry" about the food.  Not that she stressed out about it, but she planned and planned for it. I think she really looked forward to the holidays all year long, planning for months ahead of time: stocking up recipes and thinking about what she'd make and how she'd serve it. She loved parties.

She had stacks of magazines with recipes she wanted to try.  Countless cookbooks were piled on her bookshelves. Her recipe box was stuffed with 3 x 5 cards.  Every year she'd try at least one new dish.  Usually, there would be several--sweet, savory, and cookie-y.

Hawaii--A Summary

So, you may be wondering what our Hawaii vacation was like.  If I were you, I'd be wondering, but (knowing myself as I do) I may not really want to hear about it because I'd be jealous.  But you're a much better person than I am, I'm sure, so I'll go ahead and share.

T's parents took the whole family to Hawaii for a week to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary.  Most of the family arrived in HI on Thursday, but T and I didn't get there until Saturday afternoon.  As soon as we got there, we started to relax. It was almost as if our bodies could already feel the waves rocking us back and forth on the water, lulling us into a soft sense of loveliness.  It was my first time going to Hawaii; we stayed on the south shore of Kauai, right on Poipu Beach.

In fact, after just a few days there, swimming every morning, lunching, and swimming some more, I found that if I sat still, I was still being rocked by the waves. Back and forth, up and down. So peaceful.  I woke in the mornings to the sound of the waves breaking on the shore, perfectly in time with Taylor's breathing, who slept contentedly on my shoulder.

If there's one thing I take away from Hawaii, that could summarize my whole experience, it's that the ocean is a magical thing that sets the rhythm and pace of life there.  I understand, now, why T wants to be close to the ocean.  It's so easy to feel little in front of it.  It's big and mysterious and calming and magnificent.

Our week in HI was full and relaxing and wonderful.  We went hiking and swimming and touring and shopping and eating and beer tasting.  In summary, I'd have to say that I would go back, but I was also glad to get back home.  I truly loved it, but it's hard to think of Thanksgiving and Christmas when it's 85 and sunny and beachy outside :)

Enjoy the photos--hit me with questions!

Hawaii

The Baker In Me

I've always loved to bake.  I get it from my mother.  My earliest memories of her in the kitchen, especially around the holidays, were her baking.  She probably made something of everything over her lifetime.  Cakes, cookies, candy, baked decorations.. it was wonderful to see how she loved to make.

Her mother loved it too.  As Thanksgiving approached, Big Mom (that's what we called my maternal grandmother--she was, after all, from Texas) would start to bake sugar cookies. Batches of them! She carefully sorted through her two or three suitcases of cookie cutters, picking which ones she wanted to use that year, and she'd mix, chill, roll, cut, bake, and store the cookies for days on end. Then she would put her kids to work frosting them.  There were plain cookies and imprinted cookies and all shapes and sizes (we have a tree cookie cutter from her stash that's nearly a foot tall), turkeys, pumpkins, santas, stockings, even full nativity set figures.

Tradition

to Annie
from K.K.

It's not the same when I type it out.  If you want the full effect of the memory those words have for me when I think of them, they have to be in Momma's handwriting, scrawled in pencil on a Christmas gift tag, attached to an evidently hurriedly-wrapped present found on my pillow in the morning.

Kris Kringle presents were just one of the traditions Momma kept during Advent.  I recall, over the years, we did many things through the Catholic grade school we all attended.  Mostly it was a Jesse tree, which we'd color and cut and paste and decorate at school the last week of November and bring home to keep track on throughout December. There were also the paper chains--do you remember those? Each day's paper link had something helpful to do on it.  But it was our domestic church traditions that are most important to me.

Like those Kris Kringle presents.  Now, I could be romanticizing my past, but I seem to recall we got the best KK presents on the coldest, windiest days of the year, when we were most reluctant to get out of bed.  One morning (probably during Kindergarten), I remember waking up and, looking around, perceiving that it was not in fact Christmas yet, I immediately pulled the covers over my head to go back to sleep.  [Sometimes, I still wish I could do that.]

But, there were still those presents that Kris Kringle (who wrote just like Momma...) left for us as the anticipation grew. They were always rather small presents, nothing too elaborate.  Sometimes it was just a candy or treat wrapped up for us. On Sundays, there was a family gift--something we could all share and enjoy.  Sometimes it was a box of tasty Christmas chocolates, or delicious cookies.  Sometimes it was a beautiful Christmas book, which we would read as a family later that night.

In the evenings on the four Sundays of Advent, Momma would gather us around the dining room table which was always laid, quite simply, with the advent wreath and candles.  It was a gigantic wreath.  I have faint memories of it going with the (artificial) Christmas tree we had for years, but I can't be sure.  All I remember was that it was pokey and big and very green and huge. And it was the very first Christmas decoration we got out every year.  There was a white, 5-candle holder that fit nicely inside it, holding our purple and pink candles.  Momma always had a white candle for the middle, to light on Christmas eve.

So we would all stand around the table, holding hands, all the lights turned off except the candles.  The first week, Vivian lit the candle. The next week, I got to light two.  Bethany lit three the next week (she got to light the pink candle! Pink because the third Sunday means we're almost there. Christ is almost here!) and Summer lit four the Sunday before Christmas.  On Christmas Eve we'd come home from church and Ray would light all five candles (five, Vivian and I thought, that's a whole lot of candles. I wish I could light that many).

And, holding hands, we would sing. [No, not the song from the Grinch] :)  We sang an ancient hymn, blending our voices in the soft glow of candle light, letting the still, silent darkness wrap our melody round with holy waiting.  O Come, O Come, Emmanuel!  And ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here, until the Son of God appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.  

This seems to be the season for remembering traditions.  This is time of year when families gather and spend time together, close inside against the cold.  History emerges from dusty attic boxes; it comes to light at the bottom of a hot cocoa mug.  Tradition and historicity cannot be ignored during the holiday season, as they can much of the rest of the year.  But I say it is a blessing that we cannot hide it.

We can't ignore our past stories. We should seek to understand them and pass them on.  Maybe if they make sense, we'll feel more inclined to hold on to them.  I know I will keep mine close, especially as my family grows, and I have my own little ones to tell stories to.

...

On Parents

When I was in middle school, it was super-cool to call your friends' mothers "mom."  I did this with a few of my closest friends, but it never really caught on for me. Momma was mom to me, and calling another woman that didn't sit well.

And then I got married.  Momma instantly welcomed Taylor to the family with a warm hug and a big kiss and said to him: "And my name is? *pause* Mom," answering her own question. She wanted to be a mother to him in all the wonderful ways a mother-in-law can.  He was truly a son to her. In a different way, of course, than my brother was her son (he was always just "Son"), but not in a lesser way.  Not at all.

I didn't ask my parents-in-law what they wanted to be called after Taylor and I got married.  Most people I knew called their in-laws by their first name, but I felt compelled to call Taylor's parents mom and dad.  I don't know why.

T and I were visiting his folks' house soon after we were married and his dad asked me a question. I said, "Sure, Dad."  Since  I hadn't asked them if it was ok to call them mom and dad, I wasn't sure how he'd respond.  But he looked at me, tilting his head a little to the side, the way he always does when he pauses to consider something, and smiled at me and said, "I guess I am Dad to you now, huh?"  Soon after, I asked Mum if she minded at all that I called them mom and dad and she told me: "Oh not at all! I'm glad you feel close enough to us that you feel comfortable calling us that."  Me, too, Mum :)

And now, four years later, it's even better. They are Mum and Dad, through and through. They have been so good to me--I truly feel like their daughter and it is simply the natural thing to call them by who they are to me.

And Mum especially.  Mothers and daughters have a special relationship, and I am thankful for the blessing of my mother-in-law.  Since I first came into the family, she has offered her love and support, but especially so after Momma died.  In her own quiet, gentle way, she was there for me in so many ways.  She didn't try to step up to replace my mother at all, but she filled her roll as husband's-mother as perfectly as any woman could.  In all the little things she does for me--birthday and anniversary presents, calling me to catch up (y'know, because husbands get distracted and don't always share everything), emails, inviting me to take walks with her, cooking with me, sharing so many stories of motherhood and wifedom, even flying in with six kids to attend Momma's funeral--she has been a constant help and companion.

I love you, Mum :)