Losing Javi

Last week, the unthinkable happened. Friends of ours lost their young son in a choking accident. He was 23 months old and was giggling with his sister when a carrot lodged in his throat. The obstruction couldn’t be removed in time and Javi’s short time with us came to an abrupt end. 

Javi’s celebration of life was yesterday at a church in the neighborhood. At the service, New Orleans style jazz musicians dictated our emotions with their songs. Some upbeat and celebratory, others reminding me of a Dixieland funeral procession. The pastor offered words of comfort. She said Javi’s spirit lives on in our memories of him. She reminded us that Javi was able to save three people’s lives through his organ donations. His heart beats on in the body of another child. Amazing Grace filled the church during communion, overwhelming us with sadness. Javi’s mom sobbed at the front of the church.

Sidewalks in front of the church decorated to honor Javi. 

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried over these past ten days. I keep referring back to Javi's GoFundMe page to read the story and look at photos again and again. Some days have been harder than others. One day, I cried publicly at work. The next, I tried to not think of Javi as much in an effort to be more productive. As a result, an odd thing happened. I missed the grief. In my grief, I was a better person. More appreciative. More patient. More present. Sure it was more painful, but grief is meant to be felt, not ignored. I expect it will fade with time, but I am in no hurry to give up this grief and the awareness that comes along with it. Awareness of the things that matter and the things that truly don’t. 

Last night, after we put the kids to bed, Chris asked me, “Why is this so hard? I didn’t know Javi well, but it’s so, so hard.” I’ve wondered the same over these last ten days as I’ve struggled with emotions. Here’s what I’ve come up with: 

It’s hard because he was a child. 

It’s hard because he must’ve been so scared. 

It’s hard because we have children. 

It’s hard because our family dynamic is the same as theirs – we also have three children. 

It’s hard because this is real life. Not someone else’s friends, but our friends. People we know. Who live in our neighborhood. Who have been to our house and who have played with our kids. 

It’s hard because they’re just like us. 

It’s hard because Javi and our boys resemble each other – brown eyes and hair, big cheeks, and super adorable. 

It’s hard because this shouldn’t have happened. 

How could it be anything but hard?

I cannot imagine the grief and sorrow Javi’s parents and sisters are enduring right now. It’s surprisingly difficult for me and I am an outsider. They are living it. Yesterday, I noticed how strong they were to welcome and receive friends and family at church. Everybody wants to offer support and comfort knowing full well there is no cheering up from this. There is only moving on. 

In honor of Javi, blue balloons and ribbons rose in tribute throughout community. I noticed them on the way home from swimming lessons yesterday and for the umpteenth time since Javi’s death, swelled with emotion. He touched so many people. Looking forward, I don’t think I’ll ever see a blue balloon and not think of sweet Javi. 

This Next New Year: 2016

This morning, I reflected on what might be realistic goals for this next new year: losing baby weight? keeping the house organized? running a distance race? having more fun? Violently interrupting my thoughts was my 3 year old puking all over the couch, much to the amusement of my 6 year old. It was a fitting metaphor for life right now: goals will be interrupted, kids come first, and sometimes you just have to laugh. 

Some of my goals are already in motion: raising 3 kind-hearted children, nursing my littlest through his first year, adjusting back into the work force. Each of these tasks is enormous, but perhaps overlooked because they are rooted in my values. Other goals will require more of a conscious effort, like drinking more water. Why is it so hard to drink enough water? I like water!

My biggest hope is to streamline life with three kids. No one told me three kids would be this hard.

Wait. Everyone did. 

Turns out everyone was right. Even with my easy peezy baby, it’s difficult to be a good parent to three kids. (Note: It’s easy to be a bad parent to three kids.) Though, despite all the chaos, exhaustion, and emotions, I feel content in a way that I never have before. I feel more joy than I ever have. The ridiculousness that comes up on a daily basis makes me so happy. “I farted the cheese” is never going to stop being funny. If the ridiculousness could have more order, we'd be in great shape. 

Ridiculousness

As I move into 2016 and consider goals, I see myself at the base of a very steep mountain. I’m not going to lie, it’s intimidating…in a pull-down-the-shades-and-pretend-no-one’s-home kind of way. But there’s nowhere to go but forward. No way to climb but up. My goal is to stay in it. 

As my friend Bruce likes to say, “Something will happen. It always does.”

Dear Daughter,

Dear Daughter, 

It’s the night before kindergarten. Technically, it’s the morning of kindergarten. 1:19 a.m. to be exact. You and I spent the day together. We dropped your brother off at daycare and went to the state fair in our long sleeves. It was a cool and glorious morning. Thankfully, I talked you out of the skirt you had on at home or you would have been chilly.

We had a blast going on rides and eating greasy foods. We rode the tilt-a-whirl together and it made Mommy very nauseous! Then you went on a bunch more rides by yourself. You’re such a big girl now! After the fair, we biked to the playground by Lake Harriet and played together on the rope ladders and slides. Then on the way home, we stopped at the Siri park and played even more! We ended our day with a quick fishing trip and you even caught a fish!

I cherished our time together today. The weather was gorgeous today and we made the most of it, spending almost all of it outside. I loved when you asked me to hold your things so that you could skip. At age five, you love skipping almost more than life.

Today was as much about me as it was about you. I needed the happy memories of spending this last day before kindergarten with you. Tomorrow is a big day and you’ll be a big girl. Kindergarten is the start of the rest of your life. From now on, it will be school, school, school until you leave us. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love school. Daddy has other feelings about it, but I love it and I know you’ll love it too. It’s just that I’m missing your little days. The days when we went to ECFE, went to music class, went to gym class, went to the Children’s Museum, stayed home and played, stayed home and watched movies, all the things we could do when you weren’t tied down to the rigidity of school. Your transition to kindergarten has been a big deal to me. I wasn’t expecting it, but it’s been emotional and I’ve cried about it more than a few times. You are my first baby and I’m a little hesitant to let you go. My girl is growing up. How can my baby girl be starting kindergarten? It seems like a minute ago, you were in the hospital bassinet.

Thank you for the gift of today’s memories: holding your hand while we walked, laughing together on rides, having deep and not-so-deep conversations, smiling at each other over and over again. It’s been a perfect day. You’re going to love kindergarten. I’m so excited for you. You will do great and I’m going to be happy for you. I can’t wait to hear all about your first day.

Love, 

Mom

Raising a Girl

I found out I was going to be the mother of a girl on the day of her birth in the summer of 2009.  Chris delivered the news to me while I lay on the operating table.  I was already queasy from being awake during surgery, but this news brought more uneasiness.  Girls are complicated, dramatic, and sensitive.  How on earth was I going to raise a daughter having not yet mastered the girly skills myself? 

As you can expect, I fell in love with my daughter immediately.  She was perfect and I was so excited to be her mom.  I loved cuddling her and dressing her in cute outfits.  We’d go for walks in the neighborhood and everyone would smile at us.  She was a happy girl and seemed to embrace life as a very young child. 

Now, at the age of four, I am still excited to be her mom.  She is brilliant, mischievous, curious, and beautiful.  Also at the age of four, her mental capacity is exploding.  What I wouldn’t give to see how her mind works!  She puzzles things out, like easy words.  She seems to understand death now, though she didn’t earlier this year when she attended her first funeral.  She is also becoming receptive to social influences.  She’s picking up a lot of behaviors from her peers, both good, bad, and ridiculous.  “G, why did you wear your winter coat and hat all day at Pre-K?”  “Because Jojo did.”  Sure.  That makes sense. 

My daughter is fast-approaching an age when it’s hard to be a girl.  I know.  I’ve lived it.  And it’s not pretty.  Right now, she’ll wrap herself in blankets and say she’s a princess.  She’ll beam because in her own eyes, she’s gorgeous.  Not too far from now, though, doubt will creep in.  Her confidence will wane as she spends even more time with her peers.  The thought of this causes me grief.  

I wish my daughter could keep the confidence of early youth always.  I hope she always knows that she’s smart and beautiful, caring and fun.  The best way I know to teach her confidence is to model it.  It’s not always genuine for me, but I’m sure trying. 

I would love to hear your ideas of how to teach or inspire confidence.   

Two Days til Chicago

In preparation for the marathon, I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember everything I can about running these ridiculous races.  Sure, I’ve done a few of these monsters before, but not recently.  I haven’t run any shorter races in quite a while, actually.  I opted not to run the Urban Wildland Half this summer because my heart wasn’t in it.  I didn’t have the fire back then that I do now.   But here we are, two days out, and this is what I know:

·         I will not sleep on Saturday night.  That’s a given.

·         Chris will be at my side from the expo on Saturday until he drops me off at the start corral on Sunday.  He will diffuse much of my crazy and he will smile the whole way through.   

·         My nerves are going to peak at about the time I leave the hotel on Sunday morning. 

·         Affirmations in the mirror go a long way, even if it’s in the porta-potty.  I now swear by this. 

·         My emotions, whatever they are, will explode in the minutes before the start.  They will then run the gamut over the following four hours. 

·         People make all the difference in the world.  They are life-lines in the game of running.  I’m thinking of Bruce and Victor waiting for me at the bus stop in Ashland, so we could all ride up to the start together.  I’m thinking of Mitch and his horn blaring at mile 17 of Twin Cities, pulling me in and pushing me onward.  I’m thinking of that woman who got me through a lot of early and middle miles at Whistlestop.  I never did get her name, but I owe her a lot.  I’m thinking of Taya and Alina who kept me company on a 15-miler when I missed the Club’s long run. I’m thinking of Susan, my pace buddy, who helped me get my speed back.  I’m thinking of Coach Red and his rambling emails of support.  He may be more invested in my success than I am.  I’m thinking of all the runners and supporters on Facebook who have provided me endless encouragement and entertainment.  I know some phenomenal people.  I bet I’ll meet even more in the next few days.

·         Conserving every bit of energy makes a difference over 26 miles.  Carrying gloves instead of wearing them spends too much.  Waving at spectators spends too much. 

·         At some point in the high teens, I will want to quit.  Something is going to hurt bad and maybe even make me hobble.  I will work through this. 

·         My mental state will break down more quickly than my physical state.  This amazes me at every race.  I always start out excited and ambitious, ready to take on the world.  Eventually, the tired takes over.  It renders me incapable of figuring out splits or any level of higher order thinking.  It turns me into a zombie.  Often, it makes me hate everything and everyone.  This is when it’s critical to have a positive mantra to repeat. 

·         It is possible to run one second faster per mile.  I will do this. 

·         I will cross the finish line and, if I left everything on the course, I will feel very sick.  At the same time, I will be distracted by my medal and my pride.  I will be grateful to be done. 

·         Chris will be waiting for me at the finish line, eager to take care of me. 

·         When the nausea fades, I will relish the marathon soreness I will feel.  It’s a soreness that’s earned and even appreciated.  It’s a badge of honor.

·         Sometime on Sunday evening, I will decide which race will be my Boston qualifier next year.      

Four Days til Chicago

I’m sitting in Kenosha with an entire day ahead of me.   In my regular life of Go! Go! Go!, it’s a bit unsettling to have this much time and nowhere to be.  Nothing to think about but marathon:  What will the weather be like?  What pace should I try?  Will the crowd be awe-inspiring or claustrophobic?  Is it possible to perform well in an enormous field?  How will I handle the hours of pre-race waiting in Grant Park?

I’ve been thinking about the race two different ways.  On one hand, it’s just a race.  I will run Chicago and I will finish it.  And much of it will be fun.  Getting to this point has been no small feat.  The training season has been packed full of emotion for me.  I can’t tell you how many Monday night runs this spring and summer were met with crippling guilt.  Or how many post-run highs were deflated by not seeing Baby before he went to sleep.  In the end, I know I made the right choices.  I have no regrets.  Still, this has been a new layer of training that I haven’t dealt with before.  And in light of that, a finish would be a big win. 

On the other hand, I feel like I have something to prove.  I managed to step away from the drama in the last several weeks and my training took off.  The peak of which was a steamy Monday night in mid-September.  Susan and I ran 5 miles at sub-marathon pace in 95 degree heat and 150 percent humidity.  We. Nailed. It.  I felt like a warrior after that.  Completely invincible.  I can do anything now.  I can run half mile repeats and continue to cross that line at the exact right second.  What a rush!

Admittedly, I’m chasing the ghost of my 32-year old self, a version of me that had 2 non-stop years of top-quality training behind her.  My 34-year old self has been training sporadically, sleeping a lot less, and juggling a lot more.  It’s not a fair fight by any means.  But I still have the same drive.  I still have the same ultimate goal.  And I know the difference a few seconds can make.

Bring it, Chicago.  I’ll be the underdog. 

The Still Point

I heard an interview of writer Emily Rapp on the radio back in March.  She was talking about her book, The Still Point of the Turning World.  You can read a review of it here.  The book was about her son, Ronan, who at nine months was diagnosed with Tay Sachs disease.  Tay Sachs is a fatal genetic disorder and its victims usually don’t live past the age of three.  As a mother of an eight-month old at the time, I was drawn to this story.  I immediately requested the book from the library and greedily dove in when I finally got my hands on it. 

Turns out I didn’t care much for the book.  I desperately wanted to hear about this mother’s personal accounts.  What did her son’s regression look like?  How did she care for her child while carrying such a heavy load of grief?  How did their world change?  She wrote about that minimally.  More often, she applied the situation to pieces of literature, like Shelley’s Frankenstein and other works by C.S. Lewis.  Even her title is taken from a T.S. Eliot poem.  The book reminded me of an advanced college essay.  I’m sure it was beautifully written for those who appreciate comparative literature.  I, however, am not a literary type.  I write stream-of-consciousness blogs and say things like “Turns out.”  So I struggled with the book, staring at it as it sat on my nightstand while overdue fines compounded. 

I gave up the battle and returned the book to the library unfinished.  Still, not a day goes by when I don’t think about that story.  Not for the book itself, but for the experience it represented.  The point that forced me to open my mind was how future-oriented parenting is.  Everything we do as parents is for the betterment of our children’s future.  Everything.  We water down their juice so they don’t go crazy in 15 minutes, or so they don’t get cavities, or so they don’t get fat.  We read to them every day to improve their academic achievement.  We limit their screen time so they don’t become zombies.  Ronan wasn’t ever going to go to school.  He would never learn to read.  Everything he did gave him instant gratification and nothing more.  He lived in the moment.  He played blocks not to improve his visual-spatial skills, but because it’s fun as hell to play blocks when you’re a baby. 

I think about this idea a lot.  The idea of now instead of years from now.  It’s really hard to get my head around parenting without considering the future.  When I watch cartoons with my daughter at bedtime instead of reading books to her, the guilt threatens.  But I’ve decided that it’s okay.  It’s how we live in the moment.  And it’s fun as hell to watch cartoons curled up in a blanket with my little girl.