Past & Present - Imperfect

Today is
Today was
Today would have been 
On this day, December 8, in the year 1952, Robert F. Klett was born. It's a day that's been marked with a celebration for the last 63 years, commemorating his entrance to the world. 
On this day, December 6, in the year 2016, Robert F. Klett, is gone; he died on March 10, 2016 just before midnight. So this is the first December 8 without Bob here to celebrate.

Facebook remembers. A lot.

We've already felt his first absence from birthdays (he so would've crawled through here with her!),

trick-or-treating,

and Thanksgiving day cuddled on the couch or enjoying the brisk air.

In just a few short weeks, we'll spend our first Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, and New Year's Eve, and New Year's Day, and a whole entire year, without Bob. It's interesting because I'm so entrenched in a time when firsts tend to be happy occasions: first smile, first tooth, first word, first steps...every brand new start with my little girl is cause for celebration. Her first celebrations, even (especially?) those in hindsight become slightly less joyful when realizing that many of her beginnings were many of Bob's endings.

 We decorated our Christmas tree the weekend after Thanksgiving, and the event of course included the traditional lugging of the boxed-up ornaments down from the attic. Many of our ornaments, and definitely our favorite ones, are those that Mom and Bob made for us less than two years ago.

And then there's the tree topper, which we didn't have because we could never find one we loved...until Grace, Mom, and Bob made us one together. Bob shaped and cut it out while the ladies decorated it. When we pulled it from the tissue paper a few weeks ago and held it out to Grace, she thought it was beautiful. She was also a bit mystified, though, because when we told her that she'd made it with Mom-mom and Pop-pop...she didn't remember crafting it with them.

 I suppose this post is my present for Bob today. It's true that he's not here to celebrate. But I think I screwed up earlier when I said he's gone; he isn't gone. He's here in the goofy pictures he took and in the gorgeous woodworks he created and in the New Jersey Bob-isms that no one else could think up (or comprehend). I know that I can't keep him as vivid forever; like all memories, and all voices, and all people, he'll soften over time. But even as the edges blur, he'll be here because we won't ever completely let him go. 

I love you, Pop-pop. ❤️

Wandering Aimlessly with a Purpose

I couldn't wait to leave high school. The reason I looked so thrilled at graduation? Because it was yet one more senseless (I thought at the time) hoop to jump through before I could move forward.

For all of the great people and experiences (and there were many) in my high school career, it never felt like a place I belonged. Peers and teachers alike weren't sure how to handle me because I've always been a bit out of the ordinary, for both better and worse.

But I got through high school, and I got through college (a place I genuinely loved and would revisit any day). What did I do from there? I went back to high school, of course.

When I became a certified secondary English teacher, through a series of fortunate events, I knew one thing above all else: my classroom would be different. It would be safe and welcoming, a place for everyone, including kids who felt like they didn't have a place at school. And at least some of the anecdotal data -- and after all, school is all a-effing-bout the data -- I'm on to something. For starters, kids outright tell me that they value the class and our time together:

Then there are the moments where we have fun learning, whether it's a silly costume for a presentation...

...or spending an unconventional class period celebrating the National Day on Writing (zoom in for their awesome reasons about #whyiwrite!).

There are also the most important moments to me, the ones where we transcend the teacher-student model and come to value one another as people. It might mean students are partaking in goofy jokes, just because it makes us laugh (and FYI, the other side says I Haz the Dumb, and it's amazing!!!).

Or it might mean my professional and personal lives collide, and my awe-struck (birth) kid gets to hang out with my lovely (classroom) kids. It's hard to beat.

And lest you think it's just me, or just me tooting my own horn, it's not. Certain coworkers have been voted Class Mom, or have students planning years ahead to be in her class as seniors, or merit a major mention in the superintendent's blog, or...how much time do you have? Because I could go on and on (and on...) about the amazing teachers and students at my school. At the end of the day, what matters most when you put us all together? Well, it's what we make, of course.

The Sequel

My mom used to tell me that, from the time she was a little girl, she wanted more than anything to be a mother. And yet, as long as I can recall, I never really had any interest in having kids. Maternal instinct just didn't seem to be my thing. And then one day, this happened:

I was no less nervous or uncertain or terrified than I'd been before. The difference, though, was that I suddenly felt pulled to make something in the world that was about more than just me. Here is the fruit of my (not so literal because she was a tank who required a planned C-section) labor:

That's one of Gracie's first photos. Here is one of the most recent photos of her:

And from the moment I knew I was expecting to about 30 minutes ago when I gave my girl her nighty-night hugs and kisses (100 of each, thankyouverymuch), I've been... Clueless. Insecure. Realistic with a pinch of optimism. Why? Because there is nothing more important in this world that I can do than bring a kind heart, old soul, and genuine spirit into it. And you know what? Those are just a few of the ways I might describe my girl.

The other day, Grace found a ladybug; a dead ladybug. Even though we've had far (far) too many chances to tell her about death, when I told her the ladybug was dead, she said, "No, Mommy. Rosie's just sleeping. We'll take care of her." She was wrong, of course; Rosie had long since left the world. But in her four-year-old wisdom? Grace NEVER quit.

Tonight, we were launching a paper airplane with a rubber band, and Grace's one directive was that we had to share so we could all have fun. Because at the end of every single day, she wants what we all want: to be happy. 

And that, my friends, is how I am a 33-year-old woman who wants to emulate a toddler. Parenthood is the most terrifying, the most difficult, and the most rewarding job because it forces us to hold a crystal-clean mirror to ourselves. In those moments of honest reflection, we can acknowledge what we all want more than anything: Love. Happiness. Adventure. Joy. It's scary, honestly, to acknowledge who we really are, especially when we're passing on a part of ourselves to the world.

People always say that she's my mini, and it is both the most tremendous responsibility and the greatest compliment all rolled into one. 

The older I get, the more I realize how little I know. I question my words, my beliefs, my ideas. And I always decide that I have no clue beyond my own limited views. But Grace? My brave and bold and smart and vibrant little girl? Well, I might not know about me, but I know for damn sure that she will change the world...and that, loves, is the best of anything I could ever offer.

Gray is My Favorite Color

Beauty is...

...in the eye of the beholder.

...only skin deep. 

So many of the prominent ideas in society suggest that beauty, actual aesthetic beauty, is shallow...frivolous...unnecessary. And while I don't want my daughter or myself or any of the other phenomenal women, of all ages, that I know to gauge their value on their looks...isn't there something to be said for appreciating beauty? After all, THIS was my view on the drive to work today:

I may not be certain in my beliefs, but I know there are miracles in the world. Proof? This ⬆️ happens every morning, almost like a reminder that there is something more than us. Further proof of beauty and miracles? ⬇️

 

Life, new and untouched and in absolute awe of the very things so many of us take for granted...and very literally a part of me. Who knew that the very thing that would make me feel whole was a piece of me, thinking & speaking & feeling for herself?

I'm not a pageant mom, nor am I a make-afficianado of any sort. But I do fancy myself an artist of sorts, and that means I appreciate the beauty - hidden and blatant - in the world. As I said, make-up is not my thing (can you believe I turned 33 today and still can't manage eyeliner of any sort, yet alone winged?!), so it's good that I can value...not beauty, perhaps, but our natural sensibilities, those we display freshly-scrubbed after a shower.

Don't get me wrong: no one's writing home about me or seeking my natural affections...but I'm okay with that. I go to bed each night after getting hugs and kisses from my beautiful (that's right, I used the B-word) girl; I go to work with genuine joy in my colleagues, my students, and the intellectual challenges of each day; and I go through each day with relatives so amazing that I couldn't begin to dream them up for myself.

I turned 33 today. I woke up at...hmm, around 4:30am with a frantic mind & a tired soul, only to discover the gift from my loves:

It might look like a collection of paints, no more and no less. But it's so, so much more. It's a testament to the healing nature of art, whether visual or written. It's a testament to my self-induced therapy since I refuse to actually speak to people. And it's a testament to one of the most basic revelations: Life. Is. Beautiful.

Because damn, there is a whole lot of ugly floating around, but the beauty, the completely raw beauty of the world? Well, we couldn't stop it if we tried...and why would we? ❤️

Through the Valley

I asked you not to use the word "zombie". It's disrespectful. Stumbling around squawking for brains? That's not how they do. And "undead"? Nobody wants to be "un"-anything. Why begin a statement with a negative? It's like saying, "I don't disagree." Just say you agree...You're either living or you're dead. When you're living, you're alive. When you're dead, that's what you are. But when you're dead and then you're not, you're alive again. Can't we say "alive again"? Doesn't that sound nice? - Ned, Pushing Daisies 

It's unsettling that life has been so mired with death lately. Beyond my family's own situation over the last month, this past weekend was an odd recognition of life and death, the two constantly bound hand-in-hand. September 10 is National Suicide Prevention Awareness Day, a day sponsored by To Write Love on Her Arms. (If you're not familiar with the organization, as well as its story and its mission, check it out here; it's well worth a read on any day of the year). Sunday, of course, was Patriot Day, or for those of us who lived through it, just the date - September 11 - is enough because we will never forget.

Despite the potentially macabre cast of the past few days, I've been dealing in swirls of darkness for the last few weeks. Mom has made tremendous leaps in her physical recovery, leaps that doctors didn't expect her to make. Following the old adage of hoping for the best while expecting the worst, I'd update family and friends...and then begin preparing portions of a eulogy or the playlist for the service (lots of Petty and Seger, if you're interested).

And yet here we are: Mom's awake, alert, and raising hell for the nurses...and will celebrate her 61st birthday tomorrow. One month ago, I was standing in the ER receiving grave news as she was airlifted to another facility; today, I'm trying to decide what to put in this week's goodie basket other than pickles, pretzels, and Diet Pepsi. Oh, and if you think I'm exaggerating about the raising hell part, well, you know what they say about one picture and its thousand words...

It's true that we can't choose our family, and life and death are relatives to us all, the twins who don't always get along but are irrevocably linked to one another. Just like Grandpa puffing his cigar and making foul jokes or the crazy aunt who laughs a bit too loud when she's had a bit too much, Life and Death will always be around for the reunion. And just like those other relatives, they might be difficult or unwelcome, but they are part of the family...

...so Life and Death really are there all the time. Death is relentless and will find each of us eventually, and that's fine, because we all need an end to our stories. But Life, she can be shy...seek her out and spend each moment with her. After all, none of us know when she'll be ready to say good night, so be sure to hold tightly to her with your eyes wide open.

Dream big, friends.

Trading Places

I just spent one hour soaking in a bubble bath. For eight of those minutes, I hastily yet thoroughly took care of the bathing business. The other 52 minutes? I was on the phone with my momma. This is how I looked after hanging up with her:

Can you guess how I spent the majority of those minutes? That's right, friends..."Niagara Falls" (Scrooged), or more accurately, "sobbing like a little bitch with a skinned knee and shit" (Jay from Dogma). 

Don't get me wrong. Throughout this most recent ordeal, I have felt such a tremendous outpouring of love and support. People have gathered together to help me visit my mom with gift cards for gas and other necessities...

...or loving gestures to show love and support (and may I add yet again: I have the greatest students ever -- these kids are going to change the world -- because, yes, these are from my students )...

and...

And yet. People have been loving and supportive and encouraging and freely offering their thoughts that I'm strong. Then I call Mom and hear her sounding exactly like she usually does, and she is strong and happy and calm. So in the face of her strength? This is me:

(though not so pretty...or Botoxed or shallow or, well, much of anything other than bawling). Mom is in her hospital bed, about to hit the one-month mark of hospitalization with extensive rehab in the future, and she is reassuring me. And you know what? She was glad to do it. She even told me, "I thought maybe you didn't need me or need to cry to me anymore." Wow.

There are a lot of changes happening...and despite the initial outward appearance, it seems like most of them are for the better. Jeremy and I are taking care of each family member as best we possibly can...and family, friends, and neighbors are showing that people truly are good at heart...and my kick-ass mom is showing she always was and always will be the baddest broad in town.

Every obstacle, every hit...Mom takes it and makes it awesome, makes it her own. I dried my eyes (and the rest of me because, y'know, I was taking a bath) and pulled myself together, and I'm ready to roll with the punches right along with Mom...even if we need to use a wheelchair to do it.

The Book of Job

When it rains, it pours, and this year has been a monsoon. No need to recap each downpour, but this past weekend -- what should've been a relaxing four-day weekend -- flooded me out. Gracie was sick coming into the weekend, but getting over it by Friday...at which point I was diagnosed with hand-foot-mouth disease...which felt a lot better this morning while Brian was diagnosed with strep throat at Urgent Care. *deep breath*

Despite spending a few days itchy and sore (and a few more coming up where I'll look like a walker from The Walking Dead as I...shudder...peel), it could be worse. Now, one of my dear friends and I have agreed to stop saying so because it's apparently being taken as some great cosmic challenge. But the thing is...it really could be worse. When I first sat down to write this post, I was sitting in the gorgeous sunshine watching my daredevil careen through the yard on her new 4-wheeler with not a care in the world.

After our grand outdoor adventures, it was time to relax, and Gracie did that the same way she does everything, completely and with absolute devotion (girl zonked out!). And I had to stop and wonder: if this isn't nice, what is?

Life was further tossed into perspective with -- wait for it -- a call from my mom. Just over a week ago, we were wondering if she'd be able to breathe on her own; just over three weeks ago, we were wondering if she'd live through the night. So getting a call from my mom, a call where we giggled and caught up and made plans for the future...hard to beat. Another friend told me to cherish these moments and, until this nearly-normal evening call, I didn't truly realize how much they'd mean to me.

This led me to reflect on what's been happening around me while all of this has been happening to me. When I thought that the first week to school would be nearly impossible with the chaos I had whirling around me, my friends and coworkers took that as a challenge. For starters, a coworker brought me a fresh, homemade lunch every single day. I'd show pictures, but, um...I ate everything before I could take a photo. Oops? (And so, so delicious!)

Then, in the midst of first-week-back craziness and their own busy lives, my (fill in with the best compliment you can possibly imagine) friends showered me with cards: handmade cards with personalized notes and gift cards for gas and food to ease the ache right now. It's rare, but it struck me speechless. If life gets tough, these ladies are the ones you want to have your back.

So, I don't want to make it an ongoing challenge, but really...it could be worse. I have my family, and I have my friends...and there's really not anything else I need.

I love you all! 😘

If Not Now...Then When?

I've been quiet lately, at least in the blogging sense. Part of the reason is that I've been trying to focus on enjoying the dwindling days of summer; a larger part of the reason is that I've had much more pressing issues to address. Through an experience I'd never wish on anyone and gladly undo in my own life, I've experienced one major truth:

As an educator, I pride myself on eloquence and clarity. In the case of 2016, clarity takes precedence: this year has sucked ass. Like, big hairy ass, too. I've lost my stepdad to a 5+ year battle with cancer;  experienced relationship issues because...y'know, life; lost, found, and lost old friends again...and then shit got real. (Don't you just feel the classy eloquence in my words?!) But the problems of the last two weeks have reinforced something I've always known:

I got a phone call just after 1pm on Friday, August 12. It was my mom, asking that I take her to the ER because she had a nasty case of food poisoning. Hearing - something - in her voice, I went to her right away...even though she told me (in typical fashion) that I could wait until evening to get her. Turns out, I couldn't have waited and, in fact, I should have gone to her sooner. Mom has a rare, impossibly perfect-storm condition of necrotizing fasciitis, or what the media so delicately refers to as "flesh-eating bacteria." The name really isn't accurate, but it's close enough for simplification purposes. Hours later, I left the ER as my mom was taken by helicopter to a hospital specializing in skin and tissue care. Her surgeon very clearly let me know that she might have as much as a 20% chance of survival. My mom; that's my mom he was talking about...

So the past two weeks have been an eternity, a cruel waiting game of moment-to-moment because "we just don't know." This past week has been one of action. My mom had her left foot amputated on Tuesday; the right foot followed on Wednesday. Today came another long-awaited (within two weeks) moment: Mom was taken off the respirator and is now breathing on her own. Oh. Hell. Yeah. My momma is a tough bird.

True, Momma, so very true. You are the toughest...and the best, ever. And despite any other challenges I've encountered in my life, the past two weeks have been the most difficult. But today, with a burst of positivity in self-sufficient breathing, Mom managed to bring us our greatest joy from the last month.

I want to end with a moral, a lesson, a burst of great revelation; I can't do that because I don't have one. None of this makes sense to me. What I do have is a tentative optimism, a cautious hope for the future my family and I have with Mom. One of the best days of this past summer was strolling Hershey Gardens with Gracie and Mom...and I can't wait to wander through with you next summer, my sweet girls.