Gratitude Found.

I’m a thankful person.  Really. I am.  It’s just that the difficult business of life often gets in the way of me remembering that.  Or showing it.  Or saying it.

It’s just that my blessed life gets bogged down by criminals, and laundry, and dishes, and the little people in my house who sometimes act like criminals (who keeps stealing my good kitchen scissors??) then make me do their laundry and their dishes.  My lucky existence is interrupted by the most mundane of tasks, the most boring of chores, the repetitive nature of raising children up to be respectable adults (and trying to maintain that whole ‘career’ thing on the side).  Wash, feed, clothe, clean, homework, repeat.  It’s exhausting.  And I’m supposed to add. . .rewarding.  This is the part where I’m supposed to say how it’s all worth it.  Every last little snotty nose, disgusting diaper, and sleepless night pays off ten-fold at the end of the day.  And I’m so grateful for it all.  But truth is, most days I’m not.  Most days I’m too tired to look at my cluttered house, my demanding children and my stacks of work files as life’s greatest blessings.  I’m ashamed to admit they are all too often just tasks to check off my list. 

But then, something will remind me to snap out of it.  Like a friend’s terminal illness, my own stint in a wheelchair, or most recently, it was this. . . 

That’s mom and my mother in law, Edna, three years ago at Thanksgiving.  This photos hangs in my kitchen.  And this year as I flitted about with my hand in the business end of a turkey, and my head spinning with a list of things to do, make, purchase, and decorate as the holiday season lands upon me, I caught a glimpse of it.  I love this picture of them.  I love how happy they seem together, caught in a moment of chatting.  I love how they unknowingly coordinated with color and pose.  I love how they are sitting in my kitchen.  And I love how alive my mother was.  And I’m struck with the void left by her death.  And in that moment, I’m grateful.  I’m grateful for her loss.

Mom’s life lesson #10  There is gratitude in loss.

Most of mom’s life lessons were taught in her grand, loud, laugh-filled, presence.  But this one has come from her absence.  For it is her absence that has made me appreciate all that she was.

Not that I didn’t know how amazing she was when she was here.  I did.  She was a hard one to ignore. It’s just that in living my life without her, I feel grateful that I had such an amazing person to lose.  I am thankful that her presence was so tangible, so real, so large in my life that it cannot possibly be filled.  I am so blessed to have been so loved, so served, so led by my mother’s example, that her absence is continually noticed.

It’s not sadness.  It’s really a measure of my joy.   

The void is proof positive of how lucky I was. . .  I am. . .to have been raised by her. And when I slow down long enough to appreciate the loss, I feel grateful, truly grateful.  And I am reminded that I really do appreciate the rest of it.  Every snotty nose, every long-day at work, and every other little moment that requires my undivided attention.  Because I too want to live large, love big, and lead well so that my children know I’m here.  Really feel it.  It is in my greatest loss that I find gratitude for all that is present. 

I will inevitably get side-tracked again. I will most certainly climb back on my hamster-wheel and let life fly by for a while.  But then I will use her giant metal bowls to make a batch of cookies, or find a note she penned for my girls on the inside cover of their favorite picture book, or hear her words in my own yelling voice. And I will feel her loss.  

 And I will be grateful again.   

Olympic Moments

                        A few of Liz's granddaughters showcasing their Red, White & Blue Spirit
                                                             Chloe, Caris & Kelby

 

I am suffering from withdrawal.  Olympic withdrawal.  The games are over but I wish they weren't.  I love everything about that two-week sporting-fest; from the elaborate opening ceremonies  (though the Brits had me a bit baffled with their giant creepy baby this time around) to the tear-jerking athlete profiles (which is why I was cheering for a runner from Grenada) to the final heart-pounding moments of every last contest (those badminton athletes really know how to hit a slow-moving basket over a low net).  And I find I get just a tad bit obsessed causing my overwhelming need to see it all to supersede my need to sleep.  This leaves me wandering around for two weeks in a drowsy haze.  I’ll catch myself speaking in delusional exasperation like a drug-addict seeking her next fix. "Does anyone know what happened in air rifle???" I will utter, hoping someone can fill me in on what I've missed while I had to attend to some meaningless task like using the restroom.  Doesn't my bladder know this is the Olympics?  Misty May-Traenor will not wait while I pee!!!

This time around, I was mesmerized by something called single-canoe-white-water-slalom during which the observant commentator noted, "this is one of those sports you only watch once every four years."  Or apparently,  once every thirty-eight years, because that's how often I've seen it.  I didn't even know it existed.  And you can bet I'll now be setting my DVR for 2016.

But if I'm being honest, the real reason I love those games so much is not the spirit of competition or the perfect physical specimens that partake of it (though clearly that's why I watch water polo).  No,  I love the games because of the nostalgia.  My mom loved her some Olympics.  And some of my fondest memories are of summer vacations sitting in front of the TV rooting for Mary Lou Retton.   Mom would bite her nails down to the quick, hold her breath and grab my leg in excited anticipation as we silently prayed that Mary Lou would stick that vault.  Then she would yell and clap and laugh in anxious relief when Mary Lou landed solidly on both feet.  We would talk about it around the dinner table and use vernacular as if we were experts in the finest complexities of every sport.  "Hopefully Louganis can hit that full-twisting-double-pike with a clean entry."  What?  Nobody cared that we were totally making stuff up. We thought we were brilliant and that's all that mattered. 

Mom would get so excited for those games and her excitement was contagious.  We all caught it.  And like a virus that lies dormant only to reemerge to wreak havoc on your life in four-year increments,  I'm still infected with it.

And it made me realize Mom's Life Lesson #9:

GET EXCITED. 

EVEN OVER THE LITTLE THINGS.

It's not like we were competing in the Olympics.  We never knew a single athlete. Never had any money riding on the winner of table tennis (you know, that pastime we call Ping-Pong every other time of the year?).  But Mom still treated those two weeks like they were something really special.

Life is full of those little things.  The trick is recognizing them.  Mom could spot them a mile away and in doing so she taught me that if we don't get excited over those small moments, then it's all pretty much going to be really boring.

She was that way with everything.   Her motto was,  "It'll be fun!"  And most of the time when she said it, she was talking about something that nobody actually believed would really be any fun at all.  Road trip with seven kids?  Sounds like fun!  Two-hour board meeting?  Sure, it’ll be fun!  Dentist?  C’mon, it’ll be fun!  So in order to humor her, or perhaps to avoid disappointing her, we all jumped on board.  And it usually turned out, well…fun.   

It’s true that Mom’s absence makes it more difficult for me to find those exciting moments sometimes.  I’m not the natural she was.  But I’m trying.  So, when my three girls ask if we can go to the grimy county fair in the 100 degree heat or play a 19th round of ‘Guess Who’, what I’m really thinking is that I would rather take a nap.  But I can hear my mom.  And she thinks that it would be fun.  She would be excited about it.  I can always nap another time.  As long as the Olympics aren’t on.  

The Favorite One

 

I’m pretty sure I was her favorite.  I mean, how could I not be? I’m chatty (if not a tad mouthy and a little sarcastic), I’m a ready and willing lunch buddy (a requirement if you wanted to hang with Liz) and I’m always up for a Target-run at 10:55 PM for plastic storage totes and a label maker for an all-nighter closet cleaning party (she really adored organization).  So out of all seven of us kids, I’m confident she loved me best. 

Only problem is, we ALL thought that.  Ask any of us (in the absence of the other six) and we’ll tell you in a hushed tone so as to accentuate the importance of this honest moment, that we were her favorite child.  It was obvious by the way she made us feel about ourselves.  Like we were the most talented, most important, most cherished person on the planet.  Like we were the only thing that mattered to her.  Really mattered.  Like we were capable of anything we set our mind to and she would be there to support whatever that thing was.  Cheering us on.  Giving us a knowing nod, a wink and an embrace that said, “I never doubted you.” 

This is what a good mother does.  She makes her children feel like they are better, smarter, and more talented than they really are, even in the face of evidence that probably suggests otherwise.  She leads them to believe they are the preferred sibling.  And after years of that subtle ego-boost, her children actually start to believe it.  They think they are amazing.  And they try amazing things.

Mom’s Life Lesson #8

Make People Feel Important.

For people will forget the words you say.  They will forget the things you do.  But they will never forget the way you made them feel.

Mom understood this better than anyone I know.  And it didn’t stop with her children.  If you were her friend, chances are you thought you were her best friend.  If you were her sister-in-law, chances are you thought you were closer than all those ‘others’.  If you were her co-worker, you undoubtedly thought she liked you just a little bit more than anyone else.  And if you just met her while in line at the grocery store, you surely felt like you just saved a couple of hundred bucks on your therapist’s couch.

And you would be right.  For Mom loved people.  Really cared about them. And when you were with her, you truly were her favorite person on the planet.  It was a gift.  One that came naturally.  She didn’t even have to work at it. 

 Liz's Favorite Grandchild

The rest of us are left to just try to emulate her.  I admit, I have to fake it a lot.  I want to believe that my daughter’s talent show song is American Idol quality, but when I don’t, I have to make her think I do.  I really strive to be interested in my neighbor’s grandson’s college plans, but I’m not.  So I feign interest and ask another question, “So how did Danny do on those SATs?” I like the idea of befriending that total stranger at the airport, but hiding behind my Kindle and pretending I’m hearing-impaired comes more naturally.  But I branch out anyway and strike up a conversation.  I can tell you all about the sheet-metal business started by that lovely lady and her father who sat next to me on my last Oakland-bound flight.  Because that’s what Mom did.  And the world could use a little more of Liz’s style, Liz’s sincerity, Liz’s friendship.

And certainly, my home could use a little more of Liz’s parenting style.  So everyday, I strive to make each of my three girls believe they are my favorite. That they can do anything, be anything, create anything. Even though I might have to fake it.    

And so, on this Mother’s Day, even in the face of evidence that probably suggests otherwise, I persist in believing that I was her favorite.  You can too.  And we’d both be right.