What's here + What's gone = Confused

It was June 2012 this last happened. I can remember it hitting me then the same way it hits me this weekend: so much fullness and so much goneness that the only way for them both to exist is to be confused.

People always ask if her birthday brings me sadness. That's an easy one to answer: Nope, it's my mom's death anniversary that gets me. It's the same for my dad - his death anniversary is when I mourn - but usually Father's Day gives me a run for my money, too, especially when it falls the day after Mom's death anniversary.

And that's the way it feels now. Mom died eleven years ago today; tomorrow is the seventh Father's Dad I'll experience without one by my side.

Like six years ago when they were back-to-back, What. A. Weekend.

But it almost seems that there would be sad beauty to the synchronicity, IF I were able to lock myself in my room for the entirety of the weekend and cry or drink from a vodka bottle or take long baths or watch sad movies where loved ones die before their time or journal or all. of. these. things. at. once. Now THAT would be depressingly delectable.

But, no, I can't do that.

I don't want to do that.

Well, maybe I do a little bit, but mostly I can't.

Cuz I have this powerhouse husband who is also a fully kick ass dad to our children. And tomorrow, Father's Dad, is about him, too. There's so much fullness in observing our four darlings spill coffee all over the counter and up the steps in an effort to serve him in bed, in their handmade cards and juicy kisses, in his smiles and misty eyes at the lives he gets to mold and mush around as best he can. I observe all of this with such gratitude and I can hardly believe that I'm missing the other half of Father's Day. I smile. I cry. I smile. I cry.

And today: My mom's death anniversary, one I spent at the pool with my little brood - smearing sunscreen, propelling tooshes upwards that eventuate into cannonball splashes, wrapping a shivering body in a towel for a lap sit, Dairy Queen blizzards at outdoor tables on the way home. Living. Motherhood. Like. A. Boss. And experiencing all the love and irritability and sentiment and short-fusedness and moment-relishing and doubt and warmth that come with living like a mom who cares her ass off. I observe all of this with such gratitude and I can hardly believe that I'm missing my own mother. I smile. I cry. I smile. I cry.

Surely it makes sense that holing up this weekend with my loss, fully honoring that which is gone, would be easier on my mind... I could be singularly unconfused.

But by now I've learned life is rather not-singular. In fact, it almost always overlaps and vacillates and blends and doubles up. It's never This-then-That, rarely Arrival, Departure, Next Arrival. It's almost always, "Here ya go," pouncing you with lots of both fresh and spoiled groceries with no bag and little time to sort the two out so that you are doing a little crazed juggling dance to keep it all in your arms.

I've decided to experience the spoil and the bounty simultaneously.

Which is why today I played at the pool and tomorrow I will spoil my husband. And why today I tear up writing this piece. And why tomorrow I'll record in my Dad journal and eat a BLT, his favorite.

Confusing? Yes. Impossible? No.

I can dance with all of it.

(But a bag to hold it all would be nice.)

I Don't Hate my Mother in Law

Preamble: I know lots of women. Most of them are sane. Most of those have mother-in-laws in their lives. A solid majority of those have beef with this person. I listen in to their examples, and I am annoyed from the outside. I always walk away from these moments baffled by the reality: Most women currently in the mother-in-law role have or at one point had an irritating mother-in-law of their own - one they commiserated about over bake sales and neighborhood barbecues of their day, then thirty years later incarnated.  And here's the most frightening baffle: Is that our fate? If they didn't stop the cycle, will my generation?

I stand out amongst my peeps, because my mother-in-law is not a monster. Far from it, she is not even mildly out of step. She attributes her skills in this department from her years as a minister and the work she did with premarital and marital counseling. You guessed it: People talk about their mother-in-laws as they relate to personal and marriage wellbeing from Day One.

When you're the Mother in Law

Behave like you learned how to in Kindergarten. The difference here is that, unless your son has married someone old enough to have birthed him, you are not peers with your playmate. You've got some years under your belt more than the years under hers and this sets you up to think that you don't have to play nicely or share fairly or play by any of the other kindergarten rules designed for peer interactions. You. Aren't. Peers, you may think. And you'd be right. But you have to strip off the layers of I-earned-this pedestal-sitting that comes with your age and play Kindergarten-style nonetheless. Neither of you hold more power, here. You are not peers but that does not stop you from being equals in the game of figuring-this-in-law-relationship-out. As soon as she feels you are playing with a perceived upper hand, you've lost the Kindergartener in you.

How would you like to do brunch this Saturday? Oh... at Wendy's you say? [Choke back: "I had my famous homemade quiche in mind and have already laid out the tablecloth we got as a family from Italy when Joey was in middle school! We ALWAYS do Saturday brunch with savory butter-saturated yumminess and lace-edged linens!"]. Wendy's it is!"

I was thinking I might grab fill-in-grandbaby's-name on Wednesday morning for a doughnut run [Omit: Because my own grandmother's love language was doughnuts and that was a way I felt connected to her so I'd like to do the same for my grand babies]. How does that work with your schedule? Oh, you'd prefer him to stay away from sweets for breakfast? Got it. Hmmm, help me think... what else would he think was special for breakfast?

You'd like me to come to the amusement park? [I hate roller coasters and large crowds].

So, you guys get to spend a week this summer on a trip to our house! I sort of thought we could do some hiking one day. Let me know what you think. And maybe one day we could go out to the pond to show the kids how to skip rocks. Oh, so I didn't realize your allergies kick into high gear then. I'll have the air conditioning pumped and primed for when you come! Check out which indoor spots might sound interesting.

So, you would like to travel to your parents' house for Christmas this year? That sounds so fun. Is everyone excited for the trip? How can we celebrate the holiday with your family?

When your son marries - a woman to make my case - things change. If you think that they won't or shouldn't, then you are fooling yourself.

Here's what happens: You take the back seat.

Simply put, you are no longer the most important woman in his life. Like it or not.

What's wild is that by recognizing this very healthy boundary (role of wife & role of mom), you are doing two things: A) Rather than minimizing your importance in his life, you are revealing the maximum awesomeness that is you... the mamma who raised a man to think and screw up and grow and choose and love for himself. You are patting yourself on your back. You are fist punching to the stars. You are raising a drink, toasting you son - yes - but also toasting you. You aren't suffering by cutting the chord. You are being rewarded.  B) You are reverse psychologizing like a B... By encouraging the wife to take the lead and not wedging your way in any chance you can get, you'll end up being invited to more shit. But this only works if you're not actually intentionally reverse psychologizing... passive aggressive manipulation always flops. If your son and his wife know you're playing games, there goes your invitation to meet up for lunch or witness the first haircut.

If you're thinking that this is way-wise and easier-said-than-done, you're right. My mother-in-law worked in ministry for years before I wed her [only] son. She conducted marriage counseling session after marriage counseling session... she knew first handedly how overbearing was NOT a winner adjective to describe the mother of the groom/husband/father of her grand babies.

When you're the Daughter in Law

You keep your mouth shut, keep your eyes silent, and use poker-face body language when in relationship with her house. She is CO-BOSS in her house and your son is the other co-boss and that's enough bosses; you have no role whatsoever... Well, maybe bus-girl, but even then only if She likes that. She might be younger and she may have no clue, but she gets to do her laundry and her decorations and her forks prong up/prong down in the dishwasher just any way she wants to - or doesn't - want to. And you follow the damn suit when you are there, as though her mode of operation - or lack thereof - is about the more brilliant damn mode there is.

Thank you, mother-in-law.

Five Good Reasons Easter Is My Least Favorite

5) I am all done buying my kids shit. OVER. IT. Christmas, Valentine's Day, and now EASTER?? They're gonna start expecting presents for Every. Stinkin. Day. Off. School. Parent Teacher Conference day? Martin Luther King Day? Guess what, little humans? It's not ABOUT you. Jesus's birth. Jesus's death. Jesus's resurrection. Teachers meeting with parents during work hours. Martin Luther King leading a civil rights revolution. Nope. Not. About. You.

4) I don't know how to hard boil eggs. I look online every year. Last year, with newfangled Amazon assistance, I asked Alexa. Apparently, I cannot seem to manage this basic thing; Scott takes over every time. He barely manages grilled cheese sandwiches and yet he kills hard boiled eggs.

The following is a separate thing, but it feels right to include it in #4: I have no idea how to dye eggs with four young-ish kids. I know elementary school art teachers live and dye (intended) by the rule "don't mix colors. keep your colors separate!" but how does that apply with the double dye dipping scenario? Best yet, how do you place 4 different-colored cups of magic in front of a three-year-old and then expect her to hold a dense object on a toothpick-wide piece of metal for three agonizing minutes to get results when she can barely SIT IN A CHAIR for three minutes?

3) I don't know how to say this without sounding like a creep. But I hate the Easter Bunny.

I just do.

Santa in the mall somehow sets well with me. He represents generosity. You can see his eyes. You know its gender. He is a human being. Red and white are respectable colors.

The Easter Bunny is a whole different beast. There's NO indication of what is behind those mesh eye holes... boy? Girl? Maniac? Not-employable video-gaming-basement-dweller? And the PASTELS... Life-sized bunny rabbit sits on a throne of baby pinks and baby yellows and baby blues. LIKE. THOSE. ARE. REAL. COLORS. The only time those colors ever make it to paint are for nurseries. And there are fully formed non-baby children lining up to see this plush guy/gal mascot surrounded by pastels that aren't even represented in nature's true Spring. Find me a pastel yellow dandelion, would ya? But wait... here's the clincher: I love Santa, because in addition to all things lovable about the jolly dude, he is a modern-day representation of flesh-and-blood St. Nicholas, who lived and breathed, and gave, and witnessed his care for little ones during his time on this earth. Mall Easter Bunny descended from NoBunny.

In short, I just don't dig the dang bunny.

2) I'm gonna get real with y'all on this one. The story of Easter is just intensely difficult to experience or honor with any degree of justice.

You probably thought I meant in our relaying it to our kids.

But I actually meant MYSELF.

I try. I make it to Mandy Thursday services. And Good Friday services. And then, of course, to Easter services. And the heaviness of Jesus's crucifixion is a strong cornerstone to the story of our Chris's full-picture grace to humankind. I mean. I think I get it. And I know I'm supposed to hang tight until Sunday, because that's what makes the story complete and "you can't have a resurrection unless you have a crucifixion" but dang if I don't always feel that this reasoning resonates with me.

But, crucifixion/resurrection talk aside, one of my issues is that I feel like Easter should capture so much meaning in my faith life but often I just can’t seem to conjure it up. Additionally, I think I get pissy about Easter morning's show woman ship (cuz - let's just be real - the outfit ensembles are the work of mostly women in the family). The day is emotion-laden if taken seriously. Mysterious, Awe-filled. Surprising. Weird. Scary. Hard-to-Believe. And yes, these many years later, Celebratory. Life over death. Light over Darkness. Right over Wrong. Good over Evil. Things of the Sprit over Things of The World. This, for me, is in many ways the crux of my faith, so I ought to be cheerleading my way to church on Sunday morning.

But instead I feel a little like we are all mainly excited to get a really good picture.

I know!!! I'm so darn cynical. But #2 is #2 and I'm being honest and it's actually a real problem for me, so go easy. And, please be in touch to offer your help, if you have any.

Oh, and also part of #2, I have no idea how to frame the Easter story for my kids. I'm too busy dealing with ME.

1) The plastic eggs and the green straw. Every year I save them. Every year I tell myself that, since I've done such a kick-butt job conserving the batch from that particular year  and since I have an impeccably labeled tote storage system in my basement, I will save myself the trip to the Dollar Tree the following year. But every year I cannot bare to open the tote containing passed-down batch of mismatched  plastic eggs and hand-me-down jelly-bean-stickified straw that has been restlessly awaiting its debut. I would rather pay $3.85 for a fresh batch. This means that I now have thirty eight totes I never open in my basement.

But at least they are tidily labeled "EASTER - DON'T OPEN!"