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. 

.

About a Boy

This is Greg.

Greg recently began working with my dad.

So far, it appears to be going well.

I'm a nervous wreck, though, thinking about how the two men in my life now spend over 8 hours a day with each other.

I'm afraid that this might end in my not speaking to one of them.

Or both.

In addition to working with my dad,

which, believe me, I could NEVER do,

Greg is an awesome dad to one Miss Cha Cha.

Who is slightly obsessed with her new "bike."

But this weekend we are going to try to not be too high maintenance,

or demanding, or attention-seeking,

as us girls are sometimes wont to do,

and we are going to do special things for Greggy.

Yes, there will still be biking...

And don't forget looking cute...

But we'll also try to spend some time together as a family and appreciate all that we've got.

And all that's still to come.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

.