Big Things

Me, Erin, Paul & Mom's Childhood BFF Donna Morris at our First EA Foundation Meeting

I did not just play as a kid. Playing was something less industrious children did. I incorporated businesses, produced elaborate musicals in my backyard and devised ways to make money. Together with my BFF, Suzanne, we were the Paul Allen and Bill Gates of Vancouver Way…without the tech-brilliance and the binary code. We may not have created a multi-million dollar computer company in my garage, but we did run a pre-school out of it when we were barely old enough to babysit. One summer we borrowed a pre-school craft book from my kindergarten teacher and assumed that meant we were experts in early childhood development. So naturally we invited 15 young kids to my house in order to operate a summer pre-school.

We informed my mother of our crazy plan. She could’ve laughed and ignored our idea as the pretend fantasies of delusional children. Could’ve (maybe should’ve) informed us that it would never work, would be too difficult, would take too much time or make too much of a mess. Could’ve told us that a 10-year-old and her 12-year-old best friend were not fit to supervise 15 preschoolers with craft scissors. But she didn’t. Instead she bought us construction paper, found us some scruffy carpet squares and loaned us her best children’s books. She told us we could do it and then opened the garage door and quietly watched from a distance to make sure we managed to keep the toddlers alive.

And that’s when I learned-

Mom’s life lesson #7: You Can Do Big Things.

You can do things that are hard. Never be paralyzed by a fear of failure. Try it. You will surprise yourself. You will find that you are smarter, more creative and more capable than you ever thought you were. She didn’t have to say it. She let me discover this for myself by packing the glue and the glitter into a Rubbermaid container and handing it to me. It was a little craft kit of self-confidence. A way to say, “Go for it. Open your preschool. Why not?”

And so we did it. We dove head first into a sea of finger-painting four-year-olds. And given the $1 per child we charged, moms flocked to our little enterprise like exhausted moths in need of respite to a flame. {What I wouldn’t give these days for some naïve neighborhood kids to offer to entertain my brood for such a fee!} We were a bona fide entrepreneurial success.

It was only the beginning, for Suzanne and I would engage in many a’ enterprise that started with an overly-ambitious idea and became reality because of my mother who encouraged it. No plan was too big. No idea too lofty.

So here we go again….trying to do big things. And it’s even more exciting than free childcare.

The Elizabeth Ann Foundation is Launching! My sister Erin, my Uncle Paul (mom’s little brother) and I have pooled our creative efforts to create something we hope will be REALLY BIG~all in memory of Mom!

We’ve partnered with The Tower Foundation of San Jose State University, which is mom’s alma mater. We hope to raise funds to support their Communication Disorder Clinic-which is exactly where Mom honed her craft as a speech pathologist (and is not funded by State funds at all, but rather relies on the generosity of folks like us). Our inaugural event, A Sweets Soiree Open House, is Saturday March 3, 2012, and it’s all For the Love of Liz. Come eat Mom’s favorite desserts with us and learn all about this foundation in her honor.

SEND US AN EMAIL AT lizsgirls@gmail.com and we’ll send you an official invitation (which includes all the details of how you can help, even if you can’t come and eat sugar with us)!! We want you to be there so we can make it big. REALLY BIG. Because we can do big things.

And because we know Mom would hand us her recipes, help us pen our to-do list and say, “Go ahead. Make this a success. Why not?”

Moose Rubs

The Perfect Birthday Gift

My three year old has a little Grammie in her. She talks incessantly, enjoys a tasty snack, and loves a good back rub. Demands them really. Much like her Grandma.

Growing up, you could not get within a 3-foot circumference of Mom’s back, could not accidentally brush up against her spine, without her asking you to rub her back. Sometimes she would just request it outright, “Oooo. Rub my back,” she would sing. But more often she would simply shake her shoulders and shiver her torso like a draft had suddenly sent a chill through the room. We all knew what that meant. No words were necessary. And if her pathetic little dance didn’t produce the desired results, she resorted to bribery. . .

When I was young and naïve as to the value of a dollar, I would yield my massage services for a penny a minute. But I would not come that cheap for very long and soon Mom had to turn to my younger (and less savvy) siblings as her indentured servants. We were all subject to this child labor camp at some point. And inevitably we would all groan when the back dance was performed in our presence as if we’d just been asked to scrub a toilet or fly a suicide mission over Nagasaki. “Do I haaaaave to…?

But I guess that’s why I bought her the Moose one-year for her birthday. . .

Yes. A Moose. With wheels. Of course. Don’t you have one? And it’s meant to be rolled on your back. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But looking back, I’m not sure why I bought an implement that could only be used for the one thing I consistently tried to avoid doing. Except that she loved it. And I loved her. And that’s what we do when love people. We do things we don’t want to. She definitely taught me that.

Mom’s life lesson #6: Service is the Best Love Language.

I’m willing to bet Mom didn’t love driving my ungrateful 9-year-old-self to play practice five nights a week. I’m sure all those Pop-Warner football games she attended in inclement weather weren’t really that thrilling-even in light of my breathtaking halftime shows. I’m quite confident Mom did not love painting the entire inside of my house and I know she was totally exhausted all those nights she sat up with me and my nursing newborn. But she still cleaned my house and cooked me extravagant meals the next day.

She organized upteen closets, vacuumed countless miles of carpet, packed and unpacked a seemingly unending passel of children, and offered up her home as a refuge for many a' nomad because that’s how she hugged. She served. And when she did, you knew you were loved. She didn’t have to say it. It was her little shoulder shake, her tiny torso shiver that communicated without words how she felt. There was no mistaking that dance of affection.

So when I awkwardly squeeze myself beside my toddler each night and demand she turn off her mouth but instead she turns to me and demands a back rub, I try to remember that. And so I do it. It doesn’t really matter that I’m exhausted. It doesn’t really matter that I really should be downstairs folding laundry, loading the dishwasher or watching ‘The Bachelor’ (don’t judge). Nope. I lift my weary arm and gently rub her back. And then do it some more when she’s unsatisfied by my first brief effort. I do it because I love her. And because she’s got a little Grammie in her. And I tell her that. I whisper, “Grammie loved back rubs just like you.” And I wish I had that Moose.

Have A Ball.

Quinlan & Kelby Making Some Memories

It was difficult to watch TV in our house growing up. Not that we didn’t make valiant efforts. We did. Lots of valiant efforts. It’s just that Mom made it impossible to hear anything what with the constant banging of pots and pans and cupboard doors in the adjoining kitchen. Why we never put those little felt circles on those dang doors remains a mystery to me still to this day. Perhaps had we done that, I might not have missed Sam’s last sentimental words to the bar in that finale of “Cheers.” Surely, the climactic ending of “The Sixth Sense” wouldn’t have been so totally confusing without the background noise of clanging cookie sheets and the dishwasher (so, was Bruce Willis dead the whole time? Wah?). Perhaps that 4-part Nova documentary explaining the origins of our universe and the basics of life would’ve all made sense… Wait, I never watched shows like that.

Nonetheless, television in our house had the endless accompaniment of kitchen noises. Loud kitchen noises. And it’s impossible to hear those sounds today without thinking of her. Even in our own homes, our children learned to associate those culinary rattlings with visits from Grandma. Early one Sunday morning my sister was up alone dutifully making breakfast for her family while my mom was hundreds of miles away. The clanging and banging of her kitchen instruments awakened a toddler Carter who ran to his dad with an excited sparkle in his eye and knowingly proclaimed, “Grammie’s here!” He was sorely disappointed to find only his frazzled mother in her pajamas dishing up waffles. Those noises sure sounded like Grammie.

Mom was always making something. Frosting something else. Slicing some plate of deliciousness. The sounds of her symphony of kitchen utensils has become synonymous in my brain with hunger and created a Pavlovian craving for something fudgey or fried, or better yet, both.

Mom’s Life Lesson #5-Make Something Yummy and Make Some Memories.

That’s probably why my Christmas memories are all wrapped up in a little morsel of peanut butter goodness drenched in chocolate and packed on a paper plate. If you know Liz then you know the Peanut Butter Ball, for during the holidays, those two were inseparable. I have such fond memories of sitting up until two in the morning, hunkered down around her butcher-block table, talking incessantly, laughing uncontrollably (there may have been something about the late hour-sugar-coma that contributed to that), and rolling hundreds of peanut-buttery, sugared spheres. It was a holiday tradition. Well, that, and the 10 pounds we would all gain after enjoying the fruits of our labor.

Christmas won’t be the same without her this year. But I can make some balls, and remember. I’ll loudly bang around some pots and pans to get the full effect. And it will be like she’s right there with me.

Liz would love for you to carry on the tradition. So the famous recipe is HERE!! Enjoy. And Merry Christmas from Liz’s Girls.

Liz’s Peanut Butter Balls

½ Cup Softened Butter

1 Lb. Powered Sugar

2 Cups Peanut Butter

Stir well and add 3 Cups of Rice Krispies.

Roll into balls.

Melt 1/3 (scant) bar of paraffin with 6 oz Chocolate Chips and 8 oz Hershey Bar on low heat in double-boiler. Roll balls in chocolate until covered. Set in small confectionary cups.

Full Circle

Mom, Me and My Little People

I was a puker as a kid. Ear infections and the sniffles were for wussies. I went straight to the full-blown stomach-flu when I got sick. The kind of flu that laid me out helpless, begging for ice chips and requiring that I keep a small bucket within reaching distance at all times. The kind of flu that came on quick and thus meant that sometimes that bucket was not close enough, resulting in…well let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. And mom was always there. Cleaning it all up. Scrubbing the carpet. Sanitizing doorknobs with gallons of Lysol (a smell I still associate with those emesis-filled days). Wiping my little sweaty brow with a cool washcloth and washing my trusty blue vomit bowl for the upteenth time. It was thankless. And it was a window into my future.

For DNA is inescapable. And my girls are pukers. Shameless, full-on, without-warning, not-gonna-bother-with-a-simple-cold, stomach-flu-getters. I had it coming. All those times I laid on our velvety family room couch and called for my mother who would come only to hold my hair and rub my back while I heaved that latest attempt at a saltine cracker into that little blue bowl, meant I too would someday experience that precious joy of parenting. It was only fair.

So there was that time I found myself in the middle of a vomit-fest. One of my littlest people who was normally a blur of barefoot bouncing, incomprehensible babbling and crazy-making, was now just a little lump of sick. And I couldn’t keep up. I mean, what do you clean first? The screaming toddler with the remnants of last night’s pizza smashed deep into her hair? The blanket she’s now tangled in? The rug that has not escaped the fray? Or maybe my pajamas that have become the obvious casualty of my one-woman virus war? What do you do when your child does not yet have the requisite verbal skills to tell you she’s about to puke all over your new Ugg Slippers? How do you cope in your sleep-deprived state at 3 A.M. when the up-chuck won’t stop and she’s exhausted her last clean onesie?

Well, if you are me, you throw in the towel. Or rather, you cloak yourself with said towel like some sort of puke-shield, slump in a rocking chair, and clutch the boneless little frame of your diapered-daughter and wait for the next round. Because it will come. And you’re gonna have to wash that towel.

And then you call your mother.

“It won’t stop,” I whispered with my vomit-weary voice. “How can such a little person produce such copious amounts of puke? She could totally rival any post-homecoming college frat-house. I smell like old milk, and she’s…well, she looks like a drunk carnie who’s had one too many corndogs.”

“I know,” she would say trying to hide her satisfaction. “But this is just what moms do.”

And that’s when I learned Mom’s life lesson #4:

This is just what moms do.

And what is “this”? “This” is hugging your vomiting child. “This” is wiping buggers with your bare hands, sharing your last little piece of coveted chocolate cake, and surrendering sleep in place of worry. “This” is cheering like a rabid football fan for #2 in the toilet and leaving a full cart of groceries in the aisle as you escort the tantrum-throwing two-year old away from the canned goods. “This” is attaching an apparatus to your breasts like a jersey cow three times a workday so your baby gets “nature’s nutrients.” “This” is enthusiastically singing “You Are My Sunshine” off-key, and reading “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” for the gagillionth time. “This” is giving your whole heart in a way you never thought you could and then watching it scamper off to kindergarten without looking back.

My mom did all “this.” And I understand it now. I understand why she did it. She did it because she was a mom. And I now know that when you are a mom, you wear yourself out for the little people who take over your life. I now know that you donate your best days, your best efforts, and sometimes your best pair of shoes to those who could never understand what you’ve surrendered until they have children of their own.

And I know I could never really give back to her what she gave to me.

Except, at the end of her life, in one small way, I was able to repay the tiniest amount of my due. In those final days, cancer had ravaged her body and rendered her weak and weary of the suffering. And we found ourselves once again at opposite ends of that little blue bowl. And I as took it from her on my way to wash it out (and maybe spray some Lysol for good measure), she apologized. “I’m sorry you have to do this,” she said in a voice so soft I hardly recognized it anymore. “I’m sorry you have to sit here and clean up after me.”

“It’s okay, mom,” I said. “I’m a mom too, remember? And this is just what we do.”

Party Like It's Your Birthday

Mom and Me at My First Birthday Party

I was one cool kid. I mean, I had a sweet pageboy haircut, I was into the “theater-arts”, and I liked to use big words like “peruse” and “behoove” while meticulously detailing business plans with all my little eight-year-old friends. Ok. Maybe it’s a good thing I had a cool mom.

She made me cool long before I knew I could be. She knew how to throw a party and I became legendary for my birthdays. There was the “nerd-themed” party at which Erica Dunlop showed up in her girl scout uniform with her head-gear on…and won the costume contest hands-down. Then there was the “fifties” sock-hop at which we blared “Rock-Around-the-Clock” and mom taught us the hand-jive in our garage. {I was pretty-much born to hand-jive, baby.} There was the year she sent us out in teams to scout the neighbors’ homes for scavenger hunt goodies (“Good evening Ms. Jones. Might you have a calendar from 1982?”), and there were all those sleep-overs. Oh the sleep-overs, a total misnomer since we rarely slept, but for which she planned intricate games and then endured hours of girl-giggling and high-pitched screaming that would send even the dogs into the other room to escape the madness. She was a saint. A saint with a party-hat and streamers. A saint with a penchant for a good time.

And today is her birthday. A day she would most certainly use to celebrate. Which reminds me of. . .

Mom’s Life Lesson #3: There is Always a Good Reason for a Party

Never miss one. Show up. Or better yet, plan one yourself. It’ll be fun. Life is better when celebrated with a couple hundred of your closest friends. There will be good food there. And lots of it. Preferably a selection of morsels drenched in chocolate. You will not leave hungry. Promise.

Have a theme. Decorate as if you are competing in some sort of Lifetime Television Reality TV Show that will crown Hostess of the Year. Costumes are hilarious. Play games. Give prizes. Laugh a lot.

Stay late. Close the place down. Then go out for French Silk Pie afterwards or maybe a DQ Blizzard. One can never have enough dessert…or enough of a good time.

Mom was a good time wrapped in a flesh and bone package. She was the life of my party. And today, on her birthday, I raise my glass full of sparkling cider in tribute to her and vow to live life the way she did. Like it was one big reason to celebrate. Like I don’t have to get up early in the morning. Like she was still here with me to enjoy it...

Happy Birthday Mom. The party won’t be the same without you. But we’ll still have one. . .

Confessions of a Loser

Baby Liz in Her Summer Best, 1947

The long days of summer inevitably remind me of my mother. She loved this season. Probably because it meant she was off work, free to spend her days buried in her latest novel, sleeping in until noon, staying up to the wee hours of the morning, shuffling me to the local cabana, organizing some closet in need of meticulously-labeled Rubbermaid bins, and playing endless games of Uno and Crazy Eights.

Crazy Eights. A card game requiring more luck than skill, but one that I still absolutely Had. To. Win. Although my competitive nature would eventually serve me well in my future career, it caused me great angst as a seven year old during consecutive rounds of meaningless card games. Losing a hand meant I lost my mind and my afternoon deteriorated into fits of crying and irrational frustration. I would throw down my clown-clad fist of cards and scream, “That’s not FAIR!!!” Embarrassing. I know.

And what would Liz do? Certainly not enable my immature tirade with any empathy. Nope. She would fix the deck of our next hand to ensure I lost again. And again...until I stopped the ridiculous display of huffing and crying and stomping around (though I'm guessing I was pretty entertaining). But my summer streak as a Crazy Eights loser taught me:

Mom’s Life Lesson #2: Life is Not Fair.

She would tell me this every time I tried to make the fairness argument (yeah, it wasn’t limited to Crazy Eights). How many times I must’ve said, um, whined about that. And it never worked. Mom was quick to point out that life isn’t fair. The sooner I learned that, the happier I would be. Other people will get things I won’t, do things I can’t, go places I will not, win when they shouldn’t. Friends, grown-ups, and strangers alike will disappoint me, break promises, make bad choices. I cannot control what happens, but I can control my reaction to it. I have no guarantees except my own attitude.

Mom knew this to be true. And as if to prove her own point, she got cancer. The ultimate in unfair. But she met it with an attitude that buoyed her up, rallied her loved ones, impressed her doctors, and allowed her to survive with it longer than she should have. And though sometimes I miss her so much I’d like to stomp around, throw my frustrated fists in the air and scream (at nobody in particular) that it’s just not fair, I remember, I’m right. It’s not. But it’s not supposed to be. And mom would think it ridiculous that I dwell on it.

So I don’t. Instead, I think I'll play some Crazy Eights.

What She Taught Me...

That’s me. At one. And that’s her. My mom. Best mom ever, really. The woman who would teach me so many things. Important things. Things I couldn’t possibly know as I stood at her leisure-suited knee that day, but that I would soon find invaluable. Like how to stand up for myself. Like how to make peanut butter balls. Like how to clean the lint trap in my dryer and keep avocados from turning brown. Like how cute boys are cool in high school but the smart ones are hot in college, and the fact that leisure suits went out of style for good reason.

So on this Mother’s Day, the first one I’m spending without her, it seems only fitting that I pay tribute to her here. Share what I know because of her. Because she loved me enough to teach it to me. Because she loved me enough to let me learn them.

Mom’s Life Lesson #1: You Are Strong Enough to Handle Anything

She never told me this. She just proved it to me. It was subtle, and at times, frustrating. There was the time in third grade when I forgot my lunch and begged her (in my best pathetic voice) to bring it to me. I might die of starvation I thought. Might not make it through that grueling hour of P.E. without sustenance. Might not have the energy to trudge home lest I get a sandwich. But she wouldn’t relent. My lunch was my responsibility and if I forgot it, I needed to find a way to solve my own problem…or go hungry trying. Somehow I survived, and I never forgot my lunch again.

There was that time in high school when my first real boyfriend broke up with me. I really just wanted her sympathy. A little pity in a time of hurt. An embrace with an understanding ear while I wept on her shoulder. Instead, she told me this was my opportunity to “get back out there” and see what I’d “been missing.” She was right. There was more out there. And most of it wasn’t worth crying over.

Then there was her cancer. A mean, vicious breed of the disease that robbed her of more time here with us. And yet, once again, she demonstrated how to be strong. Strong enough to handle it. Strong enough to teach all who watched her what strength really meant.

I learned I was strong because she let me find that out for myself. She didn’t rescue me. Didn’t let me feel sorry for myself. She forced me to find my own strength. And all the while communicated without ever really saying so, that I am strong enough to handle anything. And then in the end, she served as the ultimate example.

So someday I can only hope that my girls will yearn for me to rescue them but will instead discover their best when I refuse. I can only hope that they will someday tell me that they are better because I proved they didn’t need me. She taught me well.

I am stronger because of her. Stronger because she loved me. And strong enough to handle this first Mother’s Day without her. But I wish I didn’t have to know that…

Happy Mother's Day Mom.