While I'm At Work

On Mondays and Fridays Leah spends the day at home with Greg.  I don't know exactly what they do when I'm not around, but periodically I'll get a pic to let me know that the house is still erected and they are both still breathing. 

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Leah's Gonna Flip Out...

...when she sees who her father knows.

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Our Weekend

On July 4th, we decided to have a BBQ.  Leah is very patriotic, so she dressed accordingly.  Here she is waiting for the party to start.

Once the guests arrived, it was time for fun. It was hot that day, so it felt refreshing to go for a swim. 

At night, Leah went to see fireworks for the first time.  She is still on the fence about how she feels about them. 

On Monday, we took Leah to Space Farms Zoo and Museum. 

 

This was the first time she had ever gone to a zoo, so it was a very big deal. 

She was excited to see most of the animals...

And loved the ones that she could feed.

It was really hot, so we took a lot of drink breaks.

She was such a good girl, and we let her walk on her own for most of the day.

We just told her that if she was naughty, she'd end up in jail!

And, this little car seemed like a lot of fun...

Until I did the unthinkable and put a quarter in it.  Ahhhh!  Bad mommy!

So, we'll just stick with zoos for now.

Oh, and playgrounds too.

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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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Dear Mom...

Sorry I got mad at you a couple of weeks for dying. I know that if you knew you were going to die, you never would have had the surgery. It’s not your fault.

This weekend Leah spent some time with her Grandpa Enzo. They did a lot of climbing and jumping—you know, fun stuff. She was excited to go and see him, and then, once we got there, she refused to kiss him hello or go near him. Typical Leah. Once I left, she was back to her friendly self, of course.


I’ve been hearing a lot about how her behavior is different when I’m around verses when I’m gone. If I leave her with someone, she is a little princess angel. I come into the picture and we’ve got a WMD on our hands.

I am told this is normal, so I’m not going to worry.


Much.


Leah was supposed to get a bike yesterday. But then she spit at her dad. And then she spit again in time out. So, today, there are no pictures of Leah on her new bike…since she didn’t get one.


However, here a couple of pictures right before she hit the tennis courts.

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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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Just, Sit Back...

Lately, Leah has been showing some personality traits that very closely resemble her father's.  While she already has many of his interests, like the outdoors and gardening, she is now portraying qualities like stubborness, impatience, and moodiness, which Greg seems to ALSO portray. 

Now, don't get me wrong; I too can occassionally be those things, but Greg seems to be them a lot more than me.  And, when it comes to our family unit and family matters, I feel that I am much more relaxed and open to opposing opinions and suggestions than my husband.  And my daughter.

And, please don't think that I am only focusing on the unsavory qualities, it's just that these seem to outshine the pleasant qualities that she shares with her father, like, uh, hmm, I'll have to get back to you.  I'm sure there are lots, though.

So, while she may look more like me, she appears to have taken up his personality.  And, I'm fine with that.  I obviously love his personality, since I put a ring on it three years ago.

However, there are some of my traits that come through at times.  For instance, you would be hard pressed to find a picture of Greg during his cheerleading days.  Because they did not exist.

But, she must get her mad cheerleading skillz from someone, right??!!

Ah, now I see.

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A Little Girl and Her Daddy

Greg and Leah have a good relationship.  They spend a lot of time together and do a lot together.  Greg spends several days a week with Leah, and they enjoy swimming, gardening, and yard work.  He likes to take her on errands and she knows a lot of people at Lowes.

I feel bad that I don't get to spend every day with Leah, but I'm happy that she gets to spend that time with her daddy.  Not many dads get the chance to work a flexible schedule that allows them to be home with their children during the day. 

And they have a great relationship.  They understand each other and communicate well with each other.  They enjoy watching tv together.  They like having their picture taken with each other.

There are times that Greg and I talk about having a second child, and we discuss our reservations.  Although he never says it, I think he's afraid that he won't be able to love and care for a another child as much as he does for Leah.  I know that's not true, but when you see them together, you can see why he might feel that way.

He's a good dad.

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