Timeless Gifts

Every now and then, I like to give my friends gifts to let them know I appreciate them, above and beyond me telling them. 

I picked this up from my Mom, no doubt. She was always giving thoughtful gifts, and nothing was ever ridiculous or overpriced. It was a hand cream, a box of tea, a pen and notepad set: Always a little something to let her friends know she was thinking of them. Sometimes when I see something I know a friend would love, I wrap it up and give it to them. Or at least put it in a nice plastic bag. Hey, sometimes I’m pressed for time. It’s the thought that counts.

I learned that early on from my Mom: It isn’t so much the tangible gift that matters, but the thought behind it that is of true value. Over the years, my mother always bought me little gifts. Sometimes because she thought it was funny, other times because we’d gotten into a fight and she wanted to apologize. Last year I had to part with a snow globe that she’d given me 13 years earlier, because it was moulding on the inside. It killed me to throw it out, because it was a peace offering after a very big argument.

And then yesterday, after seeing something a friend said on Twitter, I remembered the book.

When I was 22 years old, my Mom gave me a children’s book.  At first I thought she was joking, and thought maybe she was implying I needed to “grow up”. She wasn’t always overly subtle.

We were in my bedroom when she gave me the book, sitting together on the edge of my bed. My Mom always made a big deal about presenting us with gifts, watching eagerly to see our excited reactions. With her watching me intently, I un-wrapped the very large and hardcover book: The Velveteen Rabbit.

If you’ve not read this book, please do. It was the quintessential children’s book, about a boy's love for his stuffed toy rabbit.

When I looked at her quizzically, she said: “I forgot to read this to you when you were little, so I want you to have it now.”

And when she left my room, I cried. I cried because sometimes I thought my Mom felt she wasn’t doing a good job of being my Mom.

Her own relationship with her Mother was non-existant, and they stopped talking around the time I was born. I never met that Grandmother. Their relationship was so bad, I think that sometimes my Mom worried she would turn into her, and hurt my brother and I. She had no Mother/Daughter relationship to learn from, so ours was often fiery as we learned how to love each other.

I’m not sure I really ever told her what a great Mother she was. I say it here a lot, but maybe I didn’t say it to her enough. I don’t know. What I do know is that she made me the woman I am today. And that I wouldn’t be able to do half the things I do without having had her as my Mother. If I’m ever blessed with a daughter one day, I hope I’m a Mom just like Judi Miller was.

And if you’re reading over my shoulder, Mom, you were the best. You really really were.

Painting Pictures + Making Soup

Matzo Ball Soup, the cure all.

In the nearly 6 years since my Mom died, I’ve noticed that my absolute lowest moments are when I realize that I can’t share my hugely amazing / horrifyingly bad experiences with her.

She wasn’t there for my wedding, or my divorce.

She wasn’t there for the following months of depression, when I was trying to remember who I was or what I was all about.

And now as I work through a recent break-up and equally recent job loss, she isn’t on the other end of the phone talking me through, and making me laugh at my foibles.

In a thoughtful conversation about loss last month, my father asked me if I was angry with her for leaving me, for dying. For not being around when I need her and even when I don’t.

At first I said no. And then realized that maybe I am a little mad after all. Just not at her.

Although I know my mother can’t be blamed for getting Cancer, I often find myself feeling angry that she isn’t at the other end of the phone, and resentful that she was taken from me. Those feelings are always soon replaced by a gaping sadness, and sometimes tears.

I often wonder if there is something wrong with me, still crying at my loss 6 years later. I tell stories about her and still get that lump in my throat. Part of me wishes that feeling would go away, and the other part embraces that sadness for what it is: A colorful memory, a reminder that I’m human. And an ever present reminder of how much I loved my Mom, and how much she loved me.

Every new happening, every new experience, is a jolting reminder that I have to figure things out on my own. Although my Dad has become my sounding board, and the person on whom I can lean when I need to, it isn’t the same as the Mother/Daughter chemistry. And I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t want to hear about my leg waxes and bad dates, although he feigns interest because he loves me.

As a little kid, I would paint pictures or draw at the kitchen table. I would hardly look up from my project, dutifully coloring within the lines, or painting rainbows and houses. And every single time I was done, I would hold it up proudly for my Mother to see, and wait for her to say “That’s beautiful!” or “Good job!” It was that loving validation that made everything worthwhile. I painted for her, I colored for her, and I even brushed my teeth for her:  I only ever wanted to make her proud of me. And now, as an adult, I so miss that validation. I miss hearing my Mother tell me not only that everything will be fine, but that I’m doing a good job.

When you lose a parent, it can feel like you’ve lost your decision-making abilities. You second guess yourself. You can’t make choices without running it by them first, or at least letting them know you’ve done something you’re excited about.

In losing my Mom, I have become my own sounding-board. I do seek opinions and validation from those I love and respect, but at the end of it all the final bang of the gavel is mine. My amazing Dad celebrates my successes and gives me the best advice he can on a regular basis, but I know that I have to be able to stand behind the decisions I make. I am the only person who can really and truly celebrate my accomplishments and learn from my mistakes.

So today as I sit at home with a fever and a sinus infection, I’m making my own damn soup. It’s exactly how she would have made it, but with some tweaks from me.

And it’s really good because I said so.

Difficult Decisions

A constant battle.

As a kid, I got teased at school. Small for my age, with a mop of crazy red hair and a mouth full of big Chiclet teeth, I was taunted and tormented daily. Having picked up on my Mom’s wit fairly early in life, I was sarcastic and snarky and got myself into some pretty unpleasant situations. I was too young for my sense of humor. There were few days when I didn’t come home crying, or with my knees scraped and covered in dirt from having been pushed to the ground. It was pure misery.

When I got off the school bus at the end of my street, I would trudge home with my yellow Cabbage Patch Kid lunchbox in hand, and worry about my Mom being mad at me for ruining my new tights or school uniform. I worried for nothing: There she was, waiting for me at the front door. I would burst out crying the moment I saw her, and she would hug me and reassure me. I am 26 years past the elementary school teasing, and I still feel her arms around me, kissing the top of my head and saying: “You’re a funny little girl, my Amy. The kids at school just don’t understand you yet.”

Even now, at the tail end of my thirties, I still feel like the little girl that no one understands. The difference between the 10 year old me and the 36 year old me (other than phenomenal orthodontic work and boobs), is that I’m okay with not everyone getting my humour or my way of being.

I’m the first to admit I’ve always had a big mouth. As a kid, I was too small to use fists to protect myself: Words were my shield. If you started high-school with braces, a full-time headgear and big frosty pink eyeglasses, you would have your guard up too. *sigh*

My Mom taught me the importance of speaking my pain or anger, rather than punching someone. “Words hurt more”, she said. As I got older, I became more proficient at sharing my frustration and anger with words. I also became a victim of the words of others. I’ve dished it out, and I’ve taken it too. What keeps my shield up are the judgments of those that don’t understand me, and choose to judge my journey before they’ve walked my path.

Mom and I had some very intense fights over the years, and our words were like daggers. A close friend of hers once mused that our verbal battles would seriously wound anyone else, and permanently. It was just how we fought. Our fights were as big and loud as our love for each other. Our harsh words spewed forth, each of us trying to outwit and out-sarcasm the other. Even without my Mom to battle, I will be the first to admit that my lexicon has a large volume of scathing words that I have used to guard myself. It’s what I know. Some people kick-box: I word-battle. And I fully admit that I work extremely hard to not fight that way anymore. It isn’t healthy for anyone to be a bitter fighter.

In this blog I’ve shared how impacted I was not only by the loss of my Mother, but my divorce as well. I have worked very hard to rebuild not only my life, but my relationships. My father and brother are my best friends, and they know I do not take them for granted.  It has been a very long and bumpy journey to get to this place where I am comfortable in my own skin, and at peace with the difficulties I’ve been through.

What I type next, although ill-advised to put in a blog, needs to be shared. I need to get the words out of me and I don’t know any other way to do it other than here. In my own space.  I am sharing this because no matter your journey, no matter your circumstances, it isn’t okay to let other people hurt you. It isn’t okay to let hurt fester and grow. I have been feeling a pretty big hurt that I need to let go of once and for all.

So here we go.

When I was 15, I was overly sarcastic towards a boy in my English class. He retaliated by drawing a big black swastika across 80% of my desk. My teacher did nothing about it, other than let me switch desks.  When I got home from school, I told my mother what had happened, and she called the school to complain about my teacher’s lack of appropriate action.  She said: “Amy is the grand-daughter of Holocaust survivors. How dare you insinuate that my child should forgive and forget this?” I stood there while she paced the floor, phone in hand, tearing a strip off of the Principal of my high school.  She finally slammed down the phone. I had never seen her like this.

After sitting quietly for what seemed like an hour, I asked if I should do what they said, and just forgive and forget what the kid had done. She poured herself a cup of tea, sat across from me and said thoughtfully: “Amy, you know what’s right and wrong. You decide if this is something you can forgive and forget. You choose.”

And so I chose. I chose to forgive the kid, and forget what he had done because he was 15 and didn’t know better.

I am once again in a situation where I have to make that same choice. I have to decide if I can forgive and forget what has been said and done to me.

In this case, however, the hurtful circumstances were imposed by grown and trusted adults: My family.

In May of 2011, I found myself at a family event surrounded by hundreds of teens/pre-teens on Blackberries and iPhones. An avid Twitter user, I posted some fairly sarcastic social commentary about “kids these days”. I tweeted what I felt and submitted my posts into the abyss of the Twitterverse. I got a few giggles from friends, and that was that.  No harm was meant.

When the family members in question happened upon what I had said on Twitter, they opted to publicly shame and humiliate me instead of calling me to tell me they were angry or hurt. They chose to vilify me in a single email, instead of talking it through with me, like adults.

They tore me apart. Their words were sharp and mean, and I admit that they have scarred me permanently. They questioned my love for my father, my brother, and they talked about my dead Mother in this vengeful email.  They said that they never liked me, and that I am a bad person, ruined forever by my Mother’s death. They indicated I should be more careful with my words and implied that my lot in life was due to the fact that I’m a waste of space.  You have to dig really deep to put that kind of ugly hatred in an email. They accomplished what they had intended. I was shredded.

To further intensify this horrible email, they sent it to my entire extended family, including my father and brother. They intentionally hurt my father and brother just to get to me. By that alone, I cannot abide. Ever.

In my heart and mind, the words in that email are unforgivable and unforgettable.  And so I choose to leave those people in my past, and move on.

To those family members (who don’t read this blog, having deemed it “crap”), I quote Winston Churchill:

“We are masters of the unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out.”

I am not a slave to your words for one second longer.

Le Nouvel An

 

Well, here we are in 2012. 

Another year filled with resolutions and promises to do better and be better.

My Mom always told me to make resolutions I plan on keeping, otherwise it isn’t much worth it. She never kept her resolutions, but that’s because they were always something ridiculous like “Eat less chocolate.” Who was she kidding?

With her resolution proviso in mind, I only have two resolutions for 2012. They are the umbrellas under which most everything else falls.

In 2012, I resolve to:

1. Try and put myself first. I’ve a horrible knack for worrying about everyone else and not myself, so I’m going to try and put my heart and my health on the priority list. I have always wanted to be a runner. I have asked a few "runner friends" to help me get there. I hope to one day post about a marathon I’ve run.   

2. Stop trying to fix everyone. I need to remember that just because I’ve been through losing my mother and getting divorced, I cannot protect my friends and loved ones from going through the same things. I cannot stop people from feeling the pain I have gone through. Healing requires pain in the first place, and I need to be cognizant that I cannot stop people from feeling sad or scared: I can only support them when they do. I am a friend: Not a mechanic.

I wish I could say I will be 100% successful at achieving my two resolutions, but what’s most important is that I actually put the effort in. 

So many people resolve to hit the gym, eat better, or cut certain things out of their lives completely. There’s no stability in extreme changes.

If I learned anything from my mother, it was balance. And she didn’t even know she was teaching me. She made time for herself and time for her family, and no one ever felt slighted. She painted, sketched and wrote poems in the most beautiful calligraphy you can imagine. It was her “Judi” time, and she took it very seriously.

We should all carve out time for ourselves, to reset, refresh, and relax. If you’re going to make any resolutions to “be better”, start with being better to yourself. Trust me. It will be so worth it. 

This post would be longer, but I’ve scheduled in some “Amy” time for today, and I have to go out into the sun and walk my dog. And sing the Littlest Hobo theme song to her, because she seems to like it.

Lily Von Shtupp

I had wanted to post this on May 11^th, 2011, the five year anniversary of my Mom’s passing. Not sure what happened, but here it is:

Today marks five years that my Mom has been gone.

I woke up with a broken heart, feeling like I did so many years ago. The emptiness and loss felt so fresh, and I surprised myself with how low I felt after so long without her. The truth is that the pain and heartbreak never go away. That will never change. I will miss my Mom until the end of time.

It has been five whole years since I have hugged her, and smelled her signature vanilla, cookie and lavender smell. When I hugged her, I used to bury my face in her neck and inhale. After she died, I kept some of her clothing unwashed, so that I could sleep with it and smell her smell. The clothing is stored away now, and the smell has faded. My memories of her perfume are still as sharp.

It has been five whole years since I have heard her voice, telling me how much she loved me, holding my hand in hers as I read to her in the hospital. She looked at me intently, studying my face as though counting the freckles and trying to remember everything about me. I was doing the same thing, committing her freckles and brown eyes to memory. I can still see the lines around her eyes, created by years of laughter.

I was so moved that my close friends texted me, called me, or emailed me to let me know they were thinking about me and that they knew today would be hard. I have some pretty spectacular friends, and am so thankful for them daily.

One fantastic friend in particular helped me turn today, May 11^th, into a new anniversary. A happy one.

She picked me up and drove me in horrible traffic to pick-up a wee puppy that needed a home. *Lily Von Shtupp, named for my Mother’s favorite movie character, was adopted at 6:30pm from a dog rescue. Small and shaking with fear, I scooped her up in my arms walked with her to the car to head home. I whispered in her floppy ear: "Life is going to be good for you, I promise."

I'm pretty sure Lily rescued me: Instead of sadness, I am filled with happiness and love. She's just 18lbs, but her meaning is huge. We're moving forward together. I hope she likes it here.

May 12, 2011: Lily doesn't mind my messy hair.

*If you haven’t seen Mel Brooks’ movie Blazing Saddles, go watch it immediately. It completely embodies my Mom’s sense of humor.

Sorry About That

Recently I’ve had more than a few people tell me they’ve read though this blog, and that it made them cry. And instinctively, I apologize. I’m not sure why I do this. Maybe because I don’t expect that my words will actually cause people to feel my hurt and my loss. Almost as though I feel like I’ve inconvenienced them into feeling something.

It made me think of how often people apologize for things, and how often they don’t when they should.

When I was 16, my mother let me read her copy of Erich Segal’s novel “Love Story”.

Given to her by my father in 1971, it bore the tag line “Love means not ever having to say you’re sorry.” My mother had underlined it with a pencil. The underlining fades as the pages age, but I can see how important that statement was to her. The indent where she pressed the pencil firmly into the page is still there. She was 21 years old. Her boyfriend had given her this book as a symbol of his love for her, and she took it very seriously.

It is one of the many books that shaped my life, but unique in that it was my Mom’s way of teaching me about loving and respecting others. She wanted me to know that love takes work, patience, and sometimes forgiveness. When I was done reading it, I told her: “Mom, I think sometimes we need to apologize. Because how else will someone know you’re sorry?”

Part of apologizing when you’ve hurt or offended someone is knowing you’ve done wrong, and having the humility to admit to it. I can be extremely stubborn and opinionated (I can totally see my father/brother/boyfriend/best friend nodding vehemently at that statement), but I do make it a practice to acknowledge my wrongdoings in order to grow as a person. It’s safe to say that no matter your age or life experience, not everyone has the kind of self-knowledge required to know when to say “I’m sorry”.

I’ve always been a big believer in the power of the apology. In my mind, the most sincere apologies carry a lot of weight, and there is a very small window in which apologies can be offered in order for them to be considered truly genuine.

Whenever I fought with my Mom, we always said I’m sorry at the same time. We had the same stewing temperature. It usually was within 4 hours of whatever argument had taken place. We were fairly predictable.

My general rule is this: If you’ve done something wrong and you haven’t apologized in 72 hours, I’m kind of done with you. Yes, it’s a pretty strict time frame. Yes, it is harsh. But when you care about someone’s feelings and know you’ve screwed up, an apology should be forthcoming. And fast. It's that simple.

In the last year, I’ve had some major disappointments where apologies were due, and none came. Those disappointments were also fairly clarifying, in that they showed me who I was dealing with. When I thought about what I would tell my Mom about those people, I could hear her answer in my head. She had said it to me once before, when I was in my early 20s and had gotten into a fight with a friend who had hurt me deeply: “Amy, not everyone gets it. The ones that never apologize for hurting you or others are not worth keeping in your life because they will never see beyond themselves.”

Since my mother died, and as I continue to evolve as a person, I try my best to say I'm sorry and mean it. That's how my Mom was, and that's how I want to be: True and honest.

As this blog changes and grows with me, there will be posts like this. Posts where I pontificate and proliferate. There are so many moments in life when apologies are due, and none are offered or received. I suppose I just think that opportunities for honesty and truthfulness abound, and so few of them are seized.

"An apology is the superglue of life.  It can repair just about anything."  -Lynn Johnston

Turkeys and Thanks

Meticulous Turkey Basting 2009

It has been some time since I posted, and it hasn’t been for lack of interest. Or lack of sadness for that matter. 

It just seems like in the last few months, I’ve been feeling pretty good. The reasons aren’t bountiful, but they’re meaningful to me. I haven’t won the lottery (my Mom played the same numbers for years without winning more than $50, so I’m saving my toonies), nor have I climbed Everest: I’ve simply come to a level plateau of feeling GOOD. Certainly, there will be further mountains to climb, and valleys of sad times, but for the most part I’m feeling at peace.

It seemed foreign to me so long ago, that feeling of inner peace. I remember when something as simple as Thanksgiving dinner made me feel cynical and angry. At a time of thanks and blessing-counting, I was thankful for nothing. My mother had died, and it felt like being thankful for anything was hypocritical and without merit.

And here I am, finally able to be thankful with my whole heart. It is a strange place to be, but I like it here.

I am celebrating my 6^th Thanksgiving dinner without my Mom. At first, I didn't even want to attempt making a family dinner, hurting at the thought of doing it without her. I was her sous-chef.  

Over the last couple of years, however, I have hustled and bustled in the kitchen with my Dad, making a serious turkey (my father basting every 30 minutes like clockwork). The stuffing we make is moist and savory, the mashed potatoes creamy and delicious. The baked apples steam when you stick your fork in them, coated with vanilla ice cream. Just the way my Mom used to do it. And maybe even a little better. *wink wink* I have tried to do my Mother’s crafty side justice by collecting the ruby and gold leaves that have fallen to the ground, and placing them on the table as decoration. The perfect display of Fall’s bounty. 

Turkey prep methods? Agree to disagree.

I think my Mom would be proud of how far we’ve come not just in the kitchen, but as individuals. As a family. We have put our well-being on the table and talked about it. Picked it apart. Put it back together. My brother, my father and I: We are whole together. There will always be a part of my heart that hurts and longs for my best-friend, but I think life without her is slowly starting to evolve into something meaningful too. It has to. Change is inevitable.

So on this Thanksgiving, I am so very thankful for my Dad, my Brother, and those that I love very much. I am thankful for the friends that love me for my past and my present, and the friends that give me wings for my future. My heart has mended because of all of you. I laugh more, I feel more, and I am more.

For those of you basting turkeys and celebrating your blessings in life: Happy Thanksgiving. I raise my glass to you, your families, and your Moms. Make sure she sits down to eat tonight, because it’s a safe bet she’s hovering over you making sure your helping of stuffing was big enough. 

This is far from my last post about Judi, although I know it sounds like it will be the last. 

Simply put, I suspect that future posts might be more upbeat: Remembering what made me laugh about her. And I hope if you’re reading this you’re okay with that. Because I finally am.