Cousins

Our holiday weekend was low key, which, as I get older and more exhausted, is exactly how I prefer them.  On Monday, we went to an indoor BBQ at my dad's, due to the rain, and Leah got to play with two of her favorite people, Matthew and Bella.

Bella is getting so big--she's almost one--and I when I saw her and Leah playing this weekend I got a glimpse of what the future might be like when those two get together.

It included bail money.

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Thoughts

I think of my mom every day and probably will forever. Sometimes it stings and sometimes it doesn’t. I know that they say that if something doesn’t hurt then it no longer means something to you, but I don’t care. I’d rather be able to think of my mom and not have it hurt. I’d rather it just be a thought in my head, along the lines of “buy pull ups” and “dvr Glee.”




Marco, Adriana, and I took my dad out for brunch on Sunday. Afterwards everyone came over to my house to swim. Marco threw everyone in the pool. The family raft was a big hit. Bella fell asleep in the stroller. I made pastina and then ordered pizza. We sat in the shade. Greg kept changing the station. Leah screamed “god bless America” like a mad patriot.



And I didn’t really think of my mom. And it was such a good day.



Yesterday was a good friend’s birthday. Happy Birthday, Gabrielle. Sorry you missed out on your birthday party.

I Have A Dream

The other night I had a dream that I was picking my mom up from the airport.  She had been on vacation for 3.5 years.  She came out of the terminal with a straw hat on, so I guess she was in the Caribbean.

When I got to the airport I texted her to let her know I was there.  And then, when she was coming out of Customs, she texted me that she was almost there. 

When we finally met up, I kissed her on the cheek and asked her about the trip.  Then I nonchalantly told her about everything she had missed since she had been gone: the birth of Leah, Marco's marriage, Bella.  She asked questions about the events and we laughed over what she would have done if she were there.

And then I woke up.  Because my damn alarm clock goes off at 5 freaking a.m.  Instead of shooting the sh*t with my mom after she went on a three and a stinkin half year vacation, I had to wake up and brush my teeth.  Whatever.



**Happy Birthday Marco!!  Hope you have a wonderful day!

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Sibling Revelry

I received a comment on my last post asking why I don't talk about my siblings.  Well, in case it wasn't evidently clear, I'm not exactly what one would call selfless.  Make no mistakes, I like to talk, and I like to talk about me, and clearly about my daughter, as well.  But she's two, and when she is old enough to google her name I can very easily hit delete and make like this blog never existed.  However, my brother and sister can read.  And know about this blog.  And I would venture to think that they enjoy their privacy--neither one even has a facebook account--so it's not really my place to plaster their goings-on all over the Internet.  That being said...

Is this picture not heinous?!  It's from the early 2000s, I'd say.  Adriana looks so young (and pale, no?), Marco is channeling Paulie D., and I have once again hit the trifecta of jackpot gold with the horrendous hair color, ridiculous eye shadow, and Wet n Wild Lip Liner in 666:Brandywine. 

But seriously.  They are doing fine.  We all are.  Marco's got his wife and kids, and Adriana's in the process of buying a condo.  See?  Boring.  Not nearly as interesting as ME!!  Who's got some big things on the horizon.  But I cannot discuss at this time.  You'll will have to wait.  Until then...

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Baby Bedda

That's how Leah pronounces her name.  It's very adorable.  So's baby Bedda.

She's Here!

This is Isabella!

She's my niece!

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Whirlwind Weekend

I had quite a weekend.  It could take a few days to cover it all.  Let's start with Friday, shall we?

My brother Marco and his fiancé Nelly marched on down to City Hall and got themselves married.

It was a joyous occasion, and I wish Marco and Nelly all the best.

Adriana and I were the witnesses, and of course we took our jobs very seriously.

Yes, that's gum in my mouth.

A wedding is not gonna keep this fist from pumping.

Now, this was my first City Hall wedding, and it was a lot like the ones I've seen in movies and on TV.

My wedding was more of a Big Fat Italian Affair, and this one was more of an intimate one.  Both so very different but both are just as meaningful to the ones involved.

Congrats, guys.  Keep control of the triggers. 

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Friday Night Highlights

On Friday, my brother, his fiance, and her son Matthew came to visit and have dinner with us.  Matthew is a great kid, and at dinner he asked Greg and I if he could call us Aunt Dana and Uncle Greg.  Greg told him the cost was $50, and they are going to work out the details.  My moniker change was free of charge, so Aunt Dana I became.

I may as well get used to it, since I would have become Aunt Dana in November anyway, with the birth of Marco's baby.

We then decided that Leah should call Matt's mom Aunt Nelly, and, when we asked her to say it, she proudly said, Aunt Smelly, and that's kind of funny, and, well, sorry Nelly, but that's one of those things that's going to stick.  In 20 years when Leah introduces you to her boyfriend, she'll introduce you as Aunt Smelly.  You don't mind, right?

After dinner, because Sparta can't get their head out of their bum, we were informed that the outdoor concert was cancelled for that night, so we decided to head to the Sparta Dairy for some ice cream.

Our favorite ice cream server (barista? coner?) Erin was there, and we all got our faves and had a little rest on the bench out front.

It doesn't surprise me that Leah's mouth is wide open. 

Apparently she couldn't stop eating for the picture.

The apple and the tree.  They are not far from each other.

Our friends Rob and Renee and their two daughters, Faith (l.) and Shannon (r.), or, as Leah calls them--Face and Shanny--met us at the Dairy.  These two are Leah's besties, and Renee and I usually refer to them all as sisters.  I have a feeling that this motley crew is going to get themselves into trouble.  And I know Rob doesn't want to hear it, but I tend to think that some of that trouble is going to involve b-o-y-s. 

Matthew is a fave amongst these girls because he's 1) a good protector, and 2) a huge softie.  Faith was wondering if Matt had brought his Nintendo DS because he's always nice enough to let her borrow it. 

When the kids were done, they screamed "beep that horn" at passers-by while doing the universal horn-beep request with their arm, Marco and fam headed home, and Rob and fam came over to our house for a back yard fire.

Leah! Seriously. Put down the spoon for 5 seconds.

All in all, a pretty nice Friday night, as far as Friday nights go. 

Ok, I'll be honest with you: any occasion that includes me eating ice cream is going to get high marks in my book.
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Hot Day in the City

Hello! How was your weekend? We had a great weekend.



We went to a birthday party for my brother in law on Saturday. I remember saying that I would probably get a bunch of pictures of Leah in the pool at this event, and I was wrong. I got NO pictures! I am not sure why, as I remember walking around with my camera for a good portion of the day. But, when I looked to see what pics I could post I was very surprised to see that I had not snapped one. Great job Dana! A photo journalist you are not!


Anyway, on Saturday night, we slept over my dad’s house. Here is Leah with her pal, Matthew, whom she refers to as Mac. It’s quite catchy, as I called him Mac all weekend too. And, he informed me that while Leah can call him Mac since she can’t say Matthew, he’d prefer that I call him Matt or Matthew. Duly, noted, buddy. Sorry for the confusion.

On Sunday we went to the Bronx Zoo. It was pretty fun! Here is Leah with her dad…I think this is RIGHT before Leah needed a diaper change. If you know what I mean. As if you couldn’t tell by her face.

Leah with Mac…I think he was nervous she would be looking off towards stage left or something.  Not exactly sure why he's holding her face.  It's cute, nonetheless, and Leah doesn't appear to mind. 

And Mac with my brother on a camel. Don’t tell Matt that I am calling him Mac on here; he might not take it well.

And that concludes my in depth picture taking journey for the weekend. The Bronx Zoo was great, though. Highly recommend.



Hope you all had wonderful weekends, as well.
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Something's Always Wrong

I was trying to think of what to write about today and the usual suspects popped up.

My kid? Been there, done that. Ad infinitum.

Working mommy guilt? Think I’ve touched on that enough for a lifetime.

Running? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

My dead mom? Not everyone needs to cry every day due to the epic writings of my overinflated ego.


Honestly, I think I need psychiatric help. When I think about things, I mean, really think about things, I have a great life. A good marriage, a supportive husband, an intelligent kid, a nice house, great friends, a good family, a secure job. Yet, I am always looking for something to complain about. Always searching for something that might be wrong, or off, or needs improvement.
Rather than focusing on all the good in my life, and just enjoying it, I find myself only able to see the imperfect things, and then I harp on how I can’t fix it, and how hard it is to deal with it, and waaaahhhhhh. Seriously, I don’t know why more people don’t tell me to STFU more often.

A couple of weeks ago my dad told me, in so many words, that maybe it was time to get over my mom’s death and stop being so angry and sad about it. I was all bent out of shape when he said that. I thought, “Well, he’s not in my head! He doesn’t live my life; doesn’t know what I go through! He’s so insensitive!” But, maybe he had a point.

I mean, if I spend all day thinking about how cruddy life is now that my mom is gone, I might miss something important.  Like how GOOD life is despite my mom being gone. If I exert as much energy on trying to enjoy time with my family as I exert on being aware of the absence of my mom, I would probably see that things are not that bad.  Maybe even quite good.
Yes, I miss my mom and wish she could have met and known Leah. Yes, I wish she could have been here for when Marco’s baby is born. And I really wish she could be here for when Adriana gets married.

But I still get to experience those things. Those are really great things that I will get to live with and know. And it’s okay to be happy for the fact that I get to have those experiences even though she doesn’t.

Maybe it is time to stop dwelling on something that I can’t change. Something that will affect me forever and that I’ll never forget. But, it doesn’t have to negatively impact every other aspect of my life. My mom’s death doesn’t have to ruin my future.

Quit your bitching and go make this leaf into some rhubarb pie!

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Big E

If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that my dad is crazy. He was born in Italy in 1949, came to America in 1969, married my mom in 1974, and became a dad in 1976. And again in 1980. And one more time in 1982.

And god help us all if that list ever continues.


I’m not sure what made my dad crazy exactly, but it could be a mix of his heritage, his upbringing, and good old fashion love. At least, that’s what my dad claims. He loves us all so much, that his children and their antics are responsible for making him nuts.

My mom would work a few nights a week when we were young. I will never forget the way my dad would sing “We’re Off to See the Wizard” pulling both my sister and I on each arm up the steps on our way to bed. You know how kids sometimes laugh so hard they can’t even control their body and they fall to the ground? THAT’S what would happen to Adriana and I when he would sing that song.

I’ve written before that my dad was quite strict with me, and I wasn’t permitted to do much on my own growing up. I went to ONE high school party where alcohol was served, and when I was caught, I got in trouble. I wasn’t permitted to go down the shore for Memorial Day weekend my senior year of high school with the rest of my class. When I returned home after college I was expected to follow his strict curfew rules that hadn’t really changed much since high school, and it caused a LOT of problems between us. So much so, I moved out when I was 22 and got my own apartment.



Since it’s been quite some time, I think I can say this, which I’ve been holding in for a long time. Dad, when I moved back home after graduation you expected me to be home by midnight on most nights. This in itself was tough because I had just spent four years living in Boston making my own curfew rules. I had graduated with honors and all of my limbs still intact. I thought I had sufficiently proved to everyone that I was a pretty good judge of being my own boss with regards to returning home at night. HOWEVER, what made following the curfew rule so difficult was that Marco was sneaking out of the house every single night and taking the bus to NYC to skateboard and, when I caught him leaving one night, he asked me not to tell you and I promised to keep his secret. So, while I was expected to be home and asleep by midnight, Marco was gathering his quarters and taping his sneakers, or whatever stupid things skaters did, preparing for his night out.


There. I feel better.


The aftermath of me moving out and years and years of strife could possibly have been avoided if I had ratted my brother out. But I didn’t.  Ah, who am I kidding.  I still would have moved out and Marco would have gotten in trouble.  It wasn't worth it.


Anyway, once I moved out, the relationship between my dad and I had its ups and downs. It was a tough few years where I was upset for being kicked out and he was upset for feeling that I abandoned him.


Suffice to say, we had a time.


But time heals, and today, I am proud to say that we have a good relationship. I mean, I still think he’s nuts, and I am sure he thinks I’m a pain in the butt, but we have been through a lot together and we’re in it for the long haul. And now, I’ve got Leah. And it’s important to me for both of them to be in each other’s life.


So, on Sunday, I’m going to spend some time with my dad and show him how much I love him and appreciate him. He’s a good dad and he provided for us in every possible way.

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Welcome To The Black Parade

Every time I think that I am getting over this, every time I think that I am okay with the cards I’ve been dealt and the loss that I’ve endured, something-whether big and bold or tiny and insignificant-hits me. And it can be the teensiest thing: a sentence, an event, a stranger, a revelation. But it’s enough to throw me back to November 10, 2007, the morning it all started.

It was a Saturday. Greg and I had woken up early and were cleaning up breakfast. I remember the TV was on—a show on TLC called “Kids By The Dozen.”

I had to go to the bathroom. That day marked my 20th week of pregnancy; I was officially half way there. On my way to the bathroom I heard the phone ring. Greg looked at the caller id and told me it was my dad. I told him to tell him to either wait a minute until I finished or I’d call him right back, as I closed the bathroom door behind me.

My father has an Italian accent and speaks loudly. It must be a gut reaction, but when people speak to him, they too speak loudly. As I walked to the sink to wash my hands I noticed that I hadn’t heard Greg talking to my dad. I had heard him say, “Hello,” but then he didn’t say anything else. I didn’t hear the the tell tale loud-speak that comes when one speaks to my dad on the phone.

As I stood there in front of the sink I knew right then and there something had happened.

I slowly opened the door and walked down the hallway. Greg met me at the end of the hallway. He said, “I have to tell you something.”

It was then that I took a mental snapshot of my life. I wanted to remember life, and how good it was, at that very moment. I knew that what he was going to tell me was going to be devastating. I tried to hold it off for as long as I could.

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”


“I have to tell you.”


“No, I don’t want to know. Oh god! Ok, let me guess. It’s my grandmother.”


“No.”


“Oh no, oh no! It’s Marco. It’s him! Is it a car accident? Is someone dead? Just tell me, is someone dead?!”


“No.”


“Ok. Who is it?”


“It’s your mom. She had a heart attack.”  At that moment I fell to my knees.


“They are just waiting for her to wake up. Go and take a shower, and get dressed and we’ll drive to St. Joe’s and wait for her to wake up.”


I don’t know if my father told Greg that they were just waiting for her to wake up or if that was something that Greg made up for me. I will probably never ask Greg or my dad, so I will never know. I mean, it was not the truth, not at all. So, I’m not sure who decided to go with that.

I remember my shower taking so long because I would start crying over and over. I remember it started to snow once we got on the highway. I remember the tire pressure light came on and Greg insisted on pulling into a gas station to fill the tire.

At that point, for the first time in my entire pregnancy, I wanted time to stand still. I didn’t want the next five months to go by so that I could meet my daughter. The last thing I wanted at that very moment was to know what her name would be.

You see, Greg and I had a difficult time choosing a name for Leah. I remember going through page after page of the baby-name book praying that one would just leap out at me. I had a wish that I could just have a tiny glance into the future and find out what her name was. To save us the time and effort it was costing us to agree on one.

And, as I sat in the car, watching the snow fall on the windshield, cursing Greg for stopping to fill the tire at a time like this, I realized that if I could have been given the opportunity to know my future daughter’s name at that moment, I would have passed.



That morning is so vivid in my mind. The rest of the week, and the following week, I remember in snippets. Being told by the hospital front desk that I wasn’t permitted to go up to see my mother, trying to remain calm when asking her to look into it but not being able to finish the sentence, the look on her face when she was told we were permitted to go up. (That’s when I knew my mother was going to die, that they weren’t just waiting for her to wake up.)

Being left alone with my mom soon after arriving while Greg drove my dad home to change. Asking Gwen the nurse how good her chances were of waking up and being told, “slim to none.” Asking if it was true that people with strong personalities have more of a chance of pulling through. Being told no. Being thankful for that.

The Code Blue alarms that went off three times that night. The way we’d jump up out of our seats when the alarm would go off and run out of her room into the waiting room and all sit there holding each other's hands so tightly…waiting for the foot steps to come down the hall to tell us it was over.

Hearing each time that she had pulled through, again.

Signing the DNR.

Speaking with doctor after doctor. Her one doctor telling my dad that I should be concerned about my weight and my dad having to inform him that I was pregnant.

Gwen returning on day 2 in a horrible mood.

Physically not being able to eat for the first time in my life.

Deciding it was time.

The woman who tried to convince us that we didn’t need a full autopsy. Me telling her that in 23 years I was going to be my mother’s age and I owed it to my unborn child to make sure that I didn’t die.

The grueling three and a half days she continued to live.

The song “I hope you dance” playing on a friend’s myspace page when I received the phone call that she had finally died.

And five months later, having to return to that hospital to give birth to Leah Patricia.

Named for Patricia Ellen Grieco.



I live with these memories and on most days I am able to keep them inside. And not let them affect my life. But then something small happens—to me. Or to Leah. Mostly to Leah. And I go back and think about how life was before. How much Leah had been through before she was even born. How much I have to tell her in the future. How much she’s going to miss.

We'll carry on, we'll carry on

And though you're dead and gone, believe me

Your memory will carry on, we'll carry on

And in my heart I can't contain it

The anthem won't explain it

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I Dreamed a Dream

I try to make this blog positive and not dwell on the negative, but there are times that it's difficult for me to remain that way.  There are circumstances and happenings that occur in which her absence is painfully obvious, and I get agitated.  I really try to pretend that I'm not longing for her, or that I don't need her, but, sometimes?  I really do.  And usually I just get sad.  But there are times that I get mad.  

I'm pissed at my mom. 

There.  I said it.

You can slice it and dice it any way you'd like, but she's not here any longer because of her desire to be thin.  And, not only her desire to be thin--NO--her desire to achieve her goal via a shortcut.  She didn't die because of some freak exercising accident, or as a result of a diet gone wrong.  She died because she needed to be thin quick and easy.  And THAT is why I'm pissed.

Hey, guess what, mom?  I would love to be thin too.  But rather than undergo some elective surgery that someone with a heart condition probably shouldn't have had in the first place, I spend three days a week running.  Yes, my large butt puts on tight pants and a sports bra and an ugly t-shirt and a headband that is so hideous, my two-year old laughs at it.  But, it's better than sweating in my eyes.  Which, BE TEE DOUBLE-U, I DID FOR THE FIRST TWO RUNS.  Because I forgot to bring a headband. 
And then, I drag my already-worked-an-entire-day-plus-a-3-hour-commute-haven't-seen-my-daughter-yet-today-butt outside, and I run.  There are times that I am sure the oncoming vehicle doesn't see me and I'm going to have to slide into the nearest lawn.  There are instances where I can actually feel my butt jiggle.  And, the other day?  I'm pretty sure the mailman laughed at me.  But still, I press on. 

And I keep telling myself, Oh, my mother could NEVER run...she could NEVER do a 5K.  You know what?  That's BS.  Because you could have run, if you had ever tried.  If doing things the long way, or the right way, or the hard way was of interest to you.  But apparently it wasn't.

And so, I get to attend a BBQ where I watch a little boy's grandmother follow him around, doting on his every move.  And I get to watch my brother practice changing Leah's diaper for when his daughter his born.  And I witness some of Leah's more unsavory behavioral traits wondering what the hell I am doing wrong, and I'm pissed.  I'm pissed off that Leah doesn't have what that little boy has.  And that Marco won't have you to help.  And I can't ask you for advice.  And that our lives must go on without you and you could have prevented your death.  You didn't have to die. 

Don't get me wrong, if you showed up tomorrow claiming you had to fake your death to escape the Armenian mob due to gambling debts, I'd welcome you with open arms and delete this post immediately.  But I know you're not living in the Caribbean, working the docks in a fishing village, answering to the name Bernice.  I know you're gone.  And I know that you didn't have to be. 

My life, and the lives of everyone in my family, are forever changed in a horrible way because you died.

And today I'm pissed off about that.

And still I dream she'll come to me,
that we will live the years together. 

 

 But there are dreams that cannot be,
and there are storms we cannot weather.

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The Healing Corner: Dana's Story

November 24th, 2007

Patricia E. Grieco

Eulogy

Mom,


I wish I could turn back time and keep you here just a little longer. I wish I had just one more day with you. I’d settle for an hour, or even a phone call. I’d give anything just to hear your voice, or to see you at the kitchen table as I walked into your house.

I wish I could listen to you talk about “Dancing with the Stars”, or have you lick your finger and wipe my face, or hear you call me “Dana Ann!” one more time, or smile while you and Daddy showed us your newest dance step, or was able to call you up and tell you when the baby kicked.

But I know that I can’t, and I’ll be okay with that. The pain of losing you will never go away, but hopefully each day it will lessen, until all I think about are the good times and the great memories. I’ll miss you more than anything in this world, and I’d give anything to still have you here, but I want you to know that we’ll be okay. Daddy, Marco, Adriana, and I will take care of each other, and your passing will bring us closer together. We’ll be sure to call each other daily, and ask about each other’s days. We’ll say “I love you” to each other, and spend as much time together as we can.

We’ll think of you whenever we are together, and especially when we are alone. We’ll remember your smile and your laugh and your kindness and your love. We’ll know that you will be watching us, guiding us, helping us get through the tough times. But you’ll also be with us during the good times. You’ll be there when my baby is born. You’ll be there when Marco makes his millions and when Adriana walks down the aisle. You’ll be there when Daddy goes back to dance class. You’ll always be there.

And when we least expect it, we’ll feel your presence. We’ll know that you’re with us, and we’ll be thankful that we had so many good years with you, and so many good memories to remember you by, and a future that we all look forward to living, with you standing right next to each one of us.

We love you so much, and we hope we do you proud.
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Family of Four

Since I was five and a half, I've always been part of a Family of Five.

Being a family of five had its difficulties at times. 

Someone always had to sleep on the cot in hotel rooms while on vacation.

Someone had to sit in the dreaded middle seat in the back of the car.

Someone had to ride solo on roller coasters.

But, I can honestly say that the good outweighed the bad.

There was always a majority vote...no Mexican standoffs in our house.

There was always a choice in who to hang out with. 

I was able to hone my big sister skills twice.

And now, we are a Family of Four.

I'm still searching for the good qualities.

For the record, I despise this picture. 

I feel like Quasi Modo standing next to those aliens on V.

**There's one more day to enter the Giveaway.  Winner announced tomorrow.**

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First Memory

I have a brother.  I've alluded to him here, and I've mentioned him here.  One day, when I have more time and some Xanax, I'll go into more detail about him.  Because he drives me crazy.

I was 3 1/2 when he was born.  I don't remember anything before that point, but my first memory is of holding my brother.

He started crying the minute I held him, and I remember my mom saying that he could feel the small hands and he preferred larger ones and that's why he was crying.

Really, Ma?  The *small hands*?  That's what you're going with?

Luckily he got over the small hands thing and we had a pretty good childhood together.  I taught him to write.  We would sit on the couch every afternoon with a Star Wars notebook and I would write letters on the page and make him do the same. 

He didn't end up at Harvard or anything, so I'm not able to claim credit for very much, but I pride myself in the fact that I liked sitting with my brother when we were younger and doing something together that seemed remotely productive.

I also used to dress him in my old clothes and make him prance around the house in a sun dress and a straw hat with me.

The fact that I'm not posting that picture shows how much I care.

He's a quiet one, Marco, so I'm not sure what's always going on in his head.  He was at the house with my dad the night my mom had her attack, and he witnessed the police and paramedics working on her.  He doesn't deal with death and loss the way that my dad and I do, (which would be in the non-stop, no shutty, talk all day and night about the subject way) but I cut him some slack because he saw things that night that I am very grateful for having missed.

I can't always tell him how I feel, and I have a hard time talking about him on my website too.  So, I'll just leave it at that.

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Dear Mom...

Leah turned two last week, and we had a small family party for her over the weekend.  You were definately missed, but I have to admit it's getting easier to handle parties and holidays.  Soon after you died, get-togethers were difficult.  We found ourselves just standing there staring at each other physically missing the void you left. 

When it would come time to clear the table, we'd still wait for your direction on who should do what.  When it came time to make the coffee, we'd forget that you were no longer there and someone had to pick up the slack. 

And pick up the slack is what we've done.

Daddy is now the only parent we have, and he must do the job of mom and dad.  He is the only grandparent of Leah's that lives in NJ, so he must fill those shoes, too.

Adriana and I now take care of making sure the table is set, the food is served, the dishes are washed, and the coffee is served.  Gone are the days of being waited on; we now automatically make sure it happens.

And Marco?  You'll be happy to know that he is still the impatient, lazy PITA that he was when you were here.  How proud you must be!

So, I hope this doesn't upset you, Ma, but we are doing a lot better when we are all together.  It's no longer a pity party, where we all feel bad for ourselves and are reminded at every turn that you are no longer here. 

We've picked up the pieces, and, although we drop a few occasionally, we are managing.  And we are doing well.  Very well. 



SO WELL, THAT YOU'RE GOING TO BE A GRANDMOTHER AGAIN! MARCO IS HAVING A BABY!

So, there, internet.  That is my news.  You can re-direct your "Congratulations on the new baby" cards from me to Marco.  Unless the card states, "Congratulations on the new baby, AUNT DANA."






















Mom and Dad-2007.

Haha, totally kidding. It was the 70's, as if you couldn't tell.
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News

I got some news tonight, and I'm not ready to share it just yet, but it's something that would have made my mom really happy.  I had a hard time hearing the news, because my mom is not here to hear it, and I keep going through this bi-polar craze where I am happy for the news one minute and then devastated because my mom's not here to share it the next. 

I have a feeling that this is how good news is going to feel for a long time.  Or at least for a while.  Until it no longer feels this way.  Which I wish would come soon, but then that means that I am somehow forgetting my mom, and I don't want that to happen...so I'm thankful that good news makes me sad?  But that doesn't sound right.  So, clearly I'm confused.

If I am lucky to live to be 62, then I will have not had my mom in my life for as long as I did have her.  My sister has to only live to be 50 for that to occur for her. 

Today is emotional day.  1) The news, 2) Two years ago today my contractions began (more on that tomorrow) and 3) There are days where I don't do well.  I'm just gonna lay my cards on the table and be honest with you all.  There are days where I think about my mom, myself, my life, my job, my home, my everything, and the bad seems to outweigh the good. 

Even when I hear good news.
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