Family is how you define it

I have a foster sister whom I love dearly.  She lived with us most of my childhood to age 15.  I was the youngest, my biological sister two years older and Mari three years older than me.  We, all three of us, had been raised very close knit and we remain that way today.  I was in her wedding, she in mine and we talk every week as sisters and as friends. 

As children, Lisa, my biological sister, and I were used to Mari’s comings and goings.  When her Mom was “well”, she lived at home and when she became “ill”, Mari came to our house.  That was our normal.  While she was with us, we behaved as sisters do.  Lisa, as the oldest, would enlist Mari, who was an only child, in torturing me since I was youngest and most fun to persecute.  We would play board games and swimming games and hiding games and girl games together, all three of us.  Mari and I would pretend that we were Mom and Dad and dress up in their clothes.  Lisa would tell us ghost stories and when I fell asleep, Mari and Lisa would usually pull a prank on me. 

The best prank they ever pulled was when I was about eight years old.  They put an old alarm clock in my pajama bottoms and set the alarm for the middle of the night.  The bell went off and I was panicked looking for it; chasing my own tail of course.  They still talk about that one.  I had my revenge, though.  In high school, Mari was always the first one up to primp in our bathroom.  Since she was used to getting up while it was still dark, Lisa and I decided to set her alarm for 10:30pm, just an hour after she went to bed.  She got up and nearly got ready for school; our Mom stopped her and sent her back to bed.  We still talk about that one, too.

But there were things we didn’t talk about.  Partially because Lisa and I were pretty oblivious to WHY Mari would come and go from our house.  We knew and liked her mother and knew that she sometimes became “ill”.  We even knew what it was called.  She was Manic-Depressive, my mother told us.  I took that to be a very serious illness because of the way my mother said it.  She also told us that Mari would tell us what she wanted to tell us and we should not push for more information.  As the youngest, I had no idea what additional information Mari would have but also had no idea that I should be concerned about getting said information.  So, there were no questions unasked due to general childhood oblivion.  

As we grew up, we argued and laughed and hung out just like siblings.  We didn’t dabble into what happened with Mari’s mom.  Mari never seemed overly upset about anything.  Unless Lisa and I fought, that was the only time that Mari acted peculiar.  She would sit on the couch or on the stairs in a little bundle if Lisa and I were gnashing our terrible teeth at each other.  God forbid it become a physical fight, Mari would practically ball herself up in the fetal position.  I remember, I was probably in middle school, when I finally said, “Oh knock it off, we didn’t hurt YOU.”  And Mari went to her room after saying, “Don’t get us in trouble.”  Lisa and I decided Mari didn’t want to be grounded and we thought nothing more of it. 

So, as adults we have talked a little more openly about Mari’s childhood.  Certainly her version of time at our house is fairly consistent with ours.  Although she missed out on most family holidays to be with her Uncle or her Grandma when her mom was sick; her family wanted to have her with them during those times.  Another thing we came to just accept as normal.  But I have learned so much more about what she endured.

She still won’t talk about everything.  She and I are working on that; she wants to get some things out but is afraid of releasing the flood gates. 

One event haunts me, though.  She has told me that one of her earliest memories is when she was probably no more than four years old.  Maybe younger than that.  Her mother had begun a manic episode, and these often were accompanied by a flurry of activity, paranoia and wild accusations or actions.  Often, in her manic episodes, Mari’s mom would marry a random man or run off to another town.  Usually, she had the forethought to drop Mari with my Mom before the episode became too much.  But when Mari was just a pre-schooler, she hadn’t planned ahead.  The memory that Mari has shared with me is that of being in a bar, somewhere in Chicago.  Her mother was screaming at the customers and became such a disturbance that they called the police.  Mari, who was wrestled away from her mother in the struggle, watched as her mother was taken into a police car.  She was left at the bar.  Somehow, someway, she knew her Uncle’s telephone number and the bartender called him.  He picked her up but she doesn’t remember that part of it.  Her memory is just of her mother being driven away, screaming, and of being left behind. 

Now, forty years later, that little girl has grown into an amazing woman.  She has endured things I still cannot fathom and kept her sanity.  I know that the fear that she had of getting in trouble at our house was one rooted in fear of abandonment.  I know that her life’s dream is to feel a sense of security, safety and above all, love.  I didn’t ask her what happened to her when we were kids, but really, none of it mattered because for all the unknowns, I know now what I knew naturally as a child; she is my lifelong friend and sister.  I know that she was and is loved by me and that my family is her family all the days of our lives.

Fleeting Moments, Part 1

Time passes so quickly when you are an adult. I remember being a child and thinking that the summer lasted forever, or that it was an eternity until I was in high school, or could drive. Even my 20’s seemed to linger nicely and not rush. I didn’t marry until I was 30 and from that point on the speed of my life took on a rocket booster.

Two children and ten years later, I find myself grasping for more time. That feeling sneaks up on me, unexpected, from the deepest parts of my brain. It happened just last night, in fact. My seven-year-old son came downstairs at bedtime, crying because he was “burning hot” and couldn’t sleep. I dutifully checked his temperature (totally normal) and felt around on him for hot spots. I suggested several solutions to his problem, each one resulting in a return of tears and frustration of not being able to sleep because he was hot. Finally, my husband put him in a cool bath to try to calm him. But back he came to me with tears in his eyes and asking me to “just help”.

I knew what was troubling him, he wasn’t so hot as he was in need of his mother but for whatever reason last night he couldn’t articulate it. Maybe he didn’t want to tell me because lately I have been frustrated and stressed, making me unapproachable. Whatever the reasons, his need for me manifested in a strange way. So, I climbed the stairs after him with the promise that I knew what precisely he needed.

Jake went right to his room where his curious father also waited to find out what this magical cure I had promised would be. I came in with a new top sheet for his bed, telling him that the best cure for hotness was certainly a cool sheet. I removed his blanket and spread out the sheet, singing him a little song. Jake started to yawn. I playfully put the sheet down on him; studying him intently for signs of sickness or fever – none appeared. He liked the sheet idea but what I did next in my two step program was the real cure. I laid down with him. I often lay down with him but last night he didn’t know how to ask me. I stroked his hair and sang him a lullaby and before I was finished with the second song he was asleep. Not more than two minutes after I laid down with him he was sound asleep. But that wasn’t my ‘a-ha’ moment.

These few minutes last night gave me pause. I studied my now-sleeping son. His face now peaceful and at rest had just moments ago been wrenched in distress. His little snore had replaced cries of “just help”. As I looked at him, I noticed how much he still resembles his infant-self; the baby I cradled in my arms just a few years ago. The same little mannerisms were there; his pursed lips as he drifted into a dream, his occasional crinkled nose. I must have studied his face for ten minutes, entranced by this moment of recollection. He is growing so fast, and I feel like I have missed so much. Before I knew it, I felt myself letting go of my crankiness that I’ve had for the past weeks (or is it months?). The crankiness was replaced by tears. Tears started shooting out of my eyes in big, fat drops. My sadness was for the time that had passed for Jake without me there, time spent at work or doing other things, time away from him.

I felt the hot wetness of my crying and tried to reason with myself that I was home every night and spent every possible moment but the tears kept coming because I realize that I only have a few short years of my children being children. Soon they’ll be teenagers and then young adults and while they may feel that time drags for them (as I did in my youth) I know that it passes quickly. I desperately want to keep these moments with my children and I worry endlessly that because I am a working mom, that I am missing that time with them. More to come on these thoughts….

Moon Movies

As a child, my parents owned the house right next door to ours and rented it out. We had different neighbors every couple of years it seemed. When I was around six years old, a family moved in that, like ours, had only daughters. They had two young girls, and one was five years old; a perfect playmate for me. We got along well and my sister and I spent hours with them; they in our house, us in theirs. We explored the ravine behind our houses and ran through sprinklers. We created parades up and down the sidewalk on our bikes while playing recorders or a handmade drum or just simply singing and yelling while our mothers looked on. We danced together in the rain of the summer and embraced each day with open arms and hearts.

Their mother, Fran, was an interesting and influential part of my early life. Fran was not like my mother. My mother was very sweet and was a terrific mom, but she was not like Fran. At Fran’s house we learned about a completely different way of living. First of all, she listened to music, loudly, while she cleaned or cooked or played with us. I remember thinking how cool it was to listen to Steve Miller’s “Fly Like an Eagle” because my parents didn’t listen to a lot of music. Fran had a very bohemian lifestyle compared to my conservative parents.

She was a strict vegetarian and exposed my sister and I to her diet in a laid back and fun way. She made her own applesauce out of freshly picked apples that we helped to peel. She fed us lunches of fruits, vegetables and vegelinks – the vegetarian hotdog. Fran also would sit with us in the backyard and taught us how to make necklaces out of clover and other flowers. She was an active Hindu and she taught us how to meditate, how to be calm and breathe and then look for our spiritual inner eye. I spent such wonderful moments in her meditation room; at her shrine with the scent of spicy incense wafting through the warm room. It was so powerful that 34 years later, I remember it like it was yesterday. At that time in my life, I loved being with Fran, she was like another mother for me.

Though the mediation was powerful for me, another defining experience with Fran and her daughters stays with me to this day. On clear, warm summer nights, Fran would gather all of us girls around her, like our own personal Mother Earth and say, “Grab a blanket, it is time for Moon Movies!”. We would all scamper in to our respective houses and grab a blanket and pillow to then head outside with our parents’ blessing and some snacks. There, Fran would be waiting for us and she would take us on a guided tour of the stars, moon and planets. We would start by simply counting the stars as they appeared in the darkening sky and then begin calling out the constellations of Orion’s belt or the big or little dipper. Fran would explain how they got their names and talk about the movement of the earth and how we’re all tied to it. I relished those moments with Fran, and took them with me into adulthood.

So many years later, I often recollect those times with Fran and I am struck by how many of her lessons I have shared with my own children. We stop outside and look up at the stars and I ask them to find Orion and they know just where he is. They look forward to our nights of star gazing, and will be happy to remind me that we are long overdue for those moments. And when my children are angry or sad, we do deep breathing to calm ourselves; the basics of meditation.

I smile when I look at my parents and my sister, knowing that I am – by a long shot – the most bohemian of all of them. As I have grown and matured, I have come to love that part of me, that connection to the earth and the moon and nature. I know that Fran and her simple teachings had a profound impact on me; one that I carry with me and give to my children. I thank her for that.

Goodbye old friend - Minnie

We brought Minnie home from my Dad’s pet store in March of 2000. She was just eight weeks old, full of puppy energy and the sweetest puggy face you could ever hope for; she was our dog baby and treated as such. She was promptly showered with gifts and love; lots of toys, a new bed, and all the food she could handle. Minnie was driven three days a week to “Doggy Day Care” in her early years. She would be buckled in with her special dog seat belt to the back of my car or my husband’s and dropped with all her friends for a day of fun and frolicking. Then, we would pick her up and she would pant with sheer joy as we were reunited; she would pull us to the car and hop up with glee every time.

When Minnie was two years old, we had our daughter, Emma. Minnie had been saddened when my belly got too large for her to sit on my lap during my pregnancy and when it was gone; she understood that she had to share my lap as I nursed Emma. Pretty soon, she stopped trying to jump on my lap until the baby went to bed for the night. She would save her snuggle time for then. She was an understanding and loyal friend. While Emma grew, Minnie became ever vigilant at her side. I would put the baby down for tummy time on the floor and Minnie would watch over her, not moving from the spot until I picked Emma back up and safely put her in her bouncy seat or crib. And then Minnie would move to that location to stand guard. If I left the room while Emma was rolling around on the floor, Minnie would bark until I returned. I think she was shocked that I would leave my puppy alone and unguarded.

As the years went by, Minnie remained Emma’s faithful guardian; she protected the baby at night until she was too tired and then she would hop up in my bed until Emma woke up in the morning and then it was “time to make the donuts” all over again. Minnie was thrilled every time we said, “Get your coat, we’re going for a walk”. She would prance around in her favorite coat like she was on a runway in Paris. She would pull us throughout the walk, Ron, me, the stroller in tow, exhausting herself but relishing every moment.

When our son, Jacob, came to join our family; Minnie welcomed the new baby with her usual motherly attention. Although, her hands were pretty full with a toddler at that point, she always managed a drive-by lick of Jacob’s face or to clean up whatever cereal or spit up he had around him.

Minnie maintained her matriarchal position over time and was personally offended if we tried to leave her for a weekend with someone else for travel. She once clawed her way out of my in-laws window, jumped out of the house – about a four foot drop and chased after us as we pulled away. We learned to kennel her from then on; feeling that she needed to be protected from her unabashed love of us.

When we moved to St. Joe in 2006, we enjoyed taking Minnie to the beach and downtown; she loved to meet new people - little children and babies particularly loved her long tongue and pug-face. Often she was sporting a new sweater or vest, and she clearly felt like the bell of the ball. She was a beauty and kind to all that she met. Even other dogs; she would rush right up to them to say hello and make a friend.

In the winter of 2008, we noticed that Minnie wasn’t jumping very well; she was missing the couch and having to take a couple tries to get up on the furniture; her normal hangout. One night, she was sleeping with Emma as she usually did then and she wasn’t able to get down from the bed. I had to come and get her and realized, too late, that she had needed to go out. We took her to the vet thinking that she just had a small problem that needed attention. That was not the case for our sweet Minnie. She was diagnosed with hip dysplasia and the doctor also found a spinal cord injury, probably from a jump; maybe out of a window perhaps, or from a million jumps on and off the couch?? We asked what we could do to help; the vet told us there was no treatment. She said we could try comfort measures but that this was a degenerative and painful disease. The vet told us there in her office in 2008 that we needed to get our heads around the inevitable. We looked at Minnie and thought, “No way, she’ll be fine; we’ll make her fine”.

Over the nearly three years since her diagnosis, we fought that damn disease. We didn’t want to say good bye to our darling girl. Soon, though, her gait slowed and she couldn’t get up and down stairs without great pain and effort. She could no longer sleep with us because she had become incontinent and had to be crated at night. She was no longer able to take her beloved walks and when we tried strollers, she struggled with the jerking movement. Roles reversed as her illness got worse. Emma and Jacob became Minnie’s guardian; watching over her if people came over or giving her extra love if she was fussed at for making a mess. Often, Jacob would remind us that she couldn’t help it and then he would lean over and tell Minnie that she was a good dog.

All of us nursed her through and tried to make her as comfortable as possible, we gave her cushy dog beds she was able to get on to replace the couch she loved so much. We brought yummy treats to her so she didn’t have to get up for them; we moved her food and water within inches of her bed.

We considered ending her suffering many times but didn’t have the courage to be unselfish. We wanted to be with her and couldn’t bear the thought of her being gone; even in the frustration of cleaning up after her multiple times daily. Soon, she was not able to get around much anymore, only occasionally being able to hop through the house to see us on her really good days. Every time she moved she was clearly in pain, her legs gave out from under her often. Finally, we could bear watching her pain any longer.

With our hearts breaking, we made the long drive to the vet. Even in the last moments, she tried to comfort us. She even gave us an impatient bark to tell us she was ready to go home. I had to say a hasty good-bye, because I knew if I stayed I would stop the vet. I gave her a final kiss and pet and left quickly. My husband stayed until the very end, cooing at her and stroking her head the whole time. We drove home, just the two of us, in near silence. We drove home with crumpled hearts, missing already the sounds, sights and even smell of our girl, Minnie.

And in the short week since her passing, as gut wrenching as it has been, we have been sharing our Minnie stories with each other, remembering the vibrant dog and family member she was and being infinitely grateful for having had her in our lives. She wasn’t here long enough, but I’m sure glad we got each moment with her. I am grateful for the 10 years, 9 months and 20 days that my canine friend, Minnie, was on this earth.

For Vivian

For the first time in awhile, I took my family to church. It was the 2nd Advent Sunday this year and I started by proposing it to my seven-year-old, Emma. Once Emma was on board, I had her work on her Grandmother. Once Grandma was on board, we all influenced the men; my Dad, my husband and son crashed down like dominos and before too long we were sitting in our ‘family pew’.

As I was sitting there, pleased at myself for conspiring to bring our family to church instead of letting yet another lazy Sunday roll by, I was struck by how much I missed my own Grandmother. I looked down the pew at my children, my husband and my parents and I remembered coming to church throughout my life and sitting in that same pew with my Grandmother. That was where I could find her every Sunday. I would come in from the back and see her; her hair in a perfect coif of silver curls. She was tiny, only 4’ 11” tall and yet she was bigger than life to me. As I looked at my family that Sunday, I found the memory of my Grandma overwhelmingly poignant. Christmas was always one of her favorite times of year. I find it fitting to write about her during this time of year.

To say that my grandmother was a large part of my life would be like saying that Mount Everest is a nice little hill. She was there for me throughout my life; from the moment I was born until the moment she died. I have so many memories of her. When I was a child, my grandparents were with us nearly constantly. Through thick and thin, she was with me; with us – her family. She cared for me when I was ill because my mother was a new teacher and because my Grandmother never would have wanted it any other way. She would take me to after-school events or pick me up from church activities or go with me anywhere I needed to go. She was like my third parent.

My sister and I stayed nearly every weekend with my grandparents when we were little, because they wanted it so and we loved being there. I remember watching Saturday Morning Cartoons while the sounds and smells of my Grandmother’s cooking would fill the house. For our birthdays, my Grandmother would take us, separately, to the toy store and say, “Pick out whatever you want”. She never said no to anything we asked for on our special shopping trip. We went camping with my grandparents all the time in the summer; we would take golf cart rides around the campground, make Jiffy Pop and wish to never return to our regular lives from camping.

When my Grandfather died rather suddenly, it was my Grandmother that consoled me. I came in from school and found the whole house crying quietly, in a very somber mood. I have always been the most emotional of my family and when my mother told me of my Grandfather’s passing, I wailed and ran to my room. My grandmother quietly climbed the stairs and sat on my bed with me while I let out anguished cries for my Grandfather. She stroked my back and told me it would be ok. This woman, this little rock, she had just lost her husband of 45 years and she was consoling her 9-year-old granddaughter.

Our relationship really evolved as I matured and I looked forward to seeing her but I don’t believe I ever matched her enthusiasm. When I looked at my Grandmother, I saw absolute love looking back at me. She looked at me like I had dropped out of heaven into her lap. She lived just down the block from my parents and would literally come to our house within five minutes of my arrival as an adult coming in for a weekend visit. She was always brimming over with excitement to see me and hear the latest from my life.

When I was 25 years old, and she was 83, we discovered that she was in the middle stages of Alzheimers Disease. I had no idea what would take place after that diagnosis. I had never been exposed to this devastating disease; and I had no clue what to expect. Selfishly, I was engrossed in my own life at the time; something that I regret now more than anything. I didn’t visit her as much as I should have; I didn’t do as much as she would have done if the roles had been reversed. I spent time with her, I cherished our conversations and our relationship, but not with the passion that she did; I was too busy with me to think about her as much. I regret that my children didn’t meet her, that my husband never really knew her; she was too ill to speak when he met her. We lost so much time with her; she lived six years after her diagnosis but she was gone long before that. Only in the years since her death have I come to appreciate how much she meant to me and what an influence she was on my life.

And now, so many years later, I remember all the fun we had at the holidays. My grandmother loved singing Christmas hymns; I love singing them just as much but she knew each one by heart and would hum them or sing them as she worked around the house. She could play the piano only by ear and would sing Christmas carols at our house every year, plunking away at the keys and my sister and I would join in. She always cooked Christmas dinner; either at her house or later at ours; no matter what time we started the cooking, she was there to help with all of it, from beginning until the last fork was put back away. And then there was church; where she was a constant image sitting in that pew, six or seven from the back, right in the aisle so she could see clearly. She would be there, saving seats for us, smelling like Wind Song, Oil of Olay and other wonderful Grandma smells. She would sit with her arm around me or holding my hand and I felt completely loved.

And as I looked at my daughter and my son, two weeks ago, sitting in that same pew; I know that I look at them the way my Grandmother looked at me and I thank her for that in my prayers. I hope that she knows, wherever she is now, that she has lived on in me and that I am cherishing each Christmas as she did; with my family around me.

October Spooky Assignment

As the church bells were ringing in 4 o’clock in the afternoon, Tessa and Camille were just finishing up their girls afternoon of antique shopping. “Pull in there,” Tessa said quickly to Camille. Camille pulled her Jeep Cherokee into one of several slots open at the small store marked, “Aunt Ellie’s Antiques and Fineries”.
While her eyes adjusted to the claustrophobic darkness of the small, crowded shop, Tessa followed a ray of sunlight beaming in from the windows to a dusty and neglected ladies vanity. The mirror was aged and pitted, the table in need of a good dusting and possibly a coat of varnish, but otherwise in great shape. As she approached the small elderly woman reading a Reader’s Digest behind the counter, she called out, “Excuse me, ma’am?”. The woman looked up and replied, “Yes, dear. What can I do for you?”.

“This vanity over here, do you know when it was made? And how much are you asking for it?”, Tessa asked her. “That vanity, let me see.”, the woman came around to the area the vanity was stored and touched the item with thoughtfulness. “Why, this is one of the last items from my family actually. I started this business because of the number of antiques I had accumulated in my storage barn. This was my great-Aunt Rose’s vanity. Her husband bought it for her as a wedding gift or an anniversary I believe around 1912. She would have only been about 20 years old then, so that seems about right.” She paused to consider her long lost relative, or to gauge Tessa’s interest or to set a price in her head. Finally, after a moment, she said, “I think $100 should be a fair price; it does need some work”.

Tessa quickly calculated the price along with the dimensions of the space she was considering for this piece. She was thinking this would be an excellent vanity for her guest room and the shabby chic theme she had started in that area. “Camille, do we have room in your Jeep for one more large item?”, Tessa called out to her friend. Camille absently replied, “Sure, I think we can or I’ll strap you to the top; either way, we’re good.” With some team work, and $100 lighter, Tessa and Camille headed out with the vanity.

Later that night, after Camille had left, Tessa began to place her newly purchased antiques around the house. She placed a new old watering can near her arrangement of houseplants; a silver brush/comb set went on her guest bathroom counter, a wrought iron magazine holder in the master bathroom and the new old area rug in the foyer. The vanity sat in her garage until she could get some varnish. Satisfied with her day’s work, Tessa headed to bed around 11pm.

Distantly she heard the tinkle of a glass chandelier in the wind or maybe wind chimes. Then quickly following that she heard music. Faintly at first, then a bit louder, muffled yet distinctly music. Tessa’s eyes opened from her dream. She looked over at the clock which told her it was 3:06 am. Darkness shrouded her vision as she tried to figure out what woke her. Oddly, she heard the soft music again. Assuming that she was hearing a version of her ring-tone on her cell phone, Tessa forced herself out of her bed. It wasn’t until she arrived at the hallway between her bedroom and the living room that she realized the music was not coming from her cell phone. She stopped and listened and then the music was joined by a quick laugh or giggle. The hair rose on the back of her neck as she felt with certainty that she was not alone in the house. She pressed her back to the hallway wall and listened to the sound of her own breathing for several seconds trying to decide what to do. The soft, muffled music continued. Tessa tried to pinpoint the location of where the music and that one burst of laughter had come from. She strained to listen to the music, not able to place it. It was that moment that she realized the music was coming from her garage. Quickly, she ran to her kitchen and grabbed her Mag-Lite flashlight and her telephone.

Approaching her garage for a better listen, her eyes darting around her house, the music softened rather than getting louder. She was now listening as closely as she could but her own breathing was deafening compared to the faintness of the music. She began to wonder if she was hearing things or if she had somehow left something on in the garage. She remembered the vanity and thought maybe there was something inside it causing the noise. Convinced that she had overlooked something in the new item, she cautiously opened the garage door; peering inside the darkness for signs of either the mysterious musical source or, at the worst, someone’s presence.
Tessa’s heart was racing as she craned her neck around the garage for a better listen and look. The music abruptly stopped as she looked in the direction of the vanity. She walked nearer, now convinced that there had to be an item in the vanity; a music box perhaps. She sat down at the stool of the vanity and searched the contents of the drawers. Empty. She bent over and looked underneath the top of the vanity, nothing. Defeated and feeling a little silly, Tessa turned on the Mag-Lite and swept the flashlight beam around the garage, just for reassurance. She was, indeed, alone. Sighing, she got up to go back to bed.

Re-entering her house, she turned to look at the garage one last time; all was in order. She chuckled at herself as she shut the garage door and when she chuckled, a delightful giggle brushed past her ear and tinkling music began to sound from the garage again. Startled, she looked at the vanity only to see a beautiful young lady in the mirror smiling at herself as she sat in front of it. In the instant that she saw the glimpse of the woman, the garage door thumped shut on Tessa like the wind had shut it the rest of the way for her.

After a restless remainder of the night, Tessa nervously returned to Aunt Ellie’s the next morning, vanity in hand. “Ma’am, I have to return this to you.”, Tessa said. Armed with reasons of more logical basis, Tessa set the vanity back in it’s original location. With a knowing look, the woman, said, “Oh no, you met Aunt Rose didn’t you? I keep telling her to stay here but sometimes she likes to follow her things.” The little woman moved over to the vanity, running her hands over the top of it while she clucked at the item saying, “Tsk, tsk, Rose. I’ve told you people don’t like it when you just show up uninvited like that.” She looked up and smiled at Tessa in a way that said she’d had this conversation a few times before.

The Beast Within

There is a girl I know who is simply amazing. My daughter, Emma, is an incredible person. All parents say that, I realize, and we are all correct. Emma is incredible in many ways; as an example, she is hilariously funny. At two years old, she used to not just wave “bye bye” but instead would blow a kiss and say “Ciao!”. She did it once and got some giggles and it stuck for nearly a year. At eight years old, she has perfected her comic timing so that very unexpectedly, she can bring us all to laughter. She also puts on shows for us, lip syncing every Taylor Swift song and acting out the lyrics in an interpretive dance. Another example is that Emma is a voracious reader; I actually didn’t believe her when she read her first chapter book in less than three days. I made her do a verbal book report to prove she had read it. And she had. That was two years ago.

But Emma is not all sugar and spice. She and I continually work on what we call “Taming the Beast” within her. Emma, in spite of her calm and sweet demeanor most of the time; loving and kind to all who know her, has a wicked temper. Particularly when it is time for school or if she wants a pajama day on a weekend, Emma can turn into a Tasmanian devil; hissing and biting at all who come into contact with her. During those times, her father and I feel like lion tamers with a whip in one hand and a chair in another. I have actually said to my son, her younger brother, “Stay away from her! She’s going to hurt you!” And then, when the temper passes, she crumples into tears and sobs of “I’m sorry” and “I love you”.
The beast within Emma, I have told her, is absolutely genetic. The same beast lives within me; dormant for many years now, only coming out on rare occasions and usually around housecleaning. I have told Emma, one of the things to remember is that she has to learn to tame her beast; to breathe deeply and calm herself before she lashes out. This is nearly impossible at her age, but she is trying to manage it. Often, in the moments after a temper flare she will say, “The monster just got out. I couldn’t keep it in” and it reminds me of scenes from the ‘Incredible Hulk’. This temper of ours, it truly is a beast within; and comes out for no real reason at all. This beast of Emma’s, it really just wants love and to have its’ own way. The fact that she feels so badly about it breaks my heart, a mother’s heart who cannot take that sting away for her daughter. And to know that she, like me, will have to learn to calm herself because the good part of Emma, the angel side, is so much larger and she should not allow herself to be defined by her temper.

Luckily, she really only shows the beast within to her immediate family; and I know that is because we are her most cherished and loved. At times, it is difficult to remember that during the temper tantrums of “I hate you. You are the worst mother ever. You are stupid.” But I know that when the storm passes, she will feel terrible and take back all the hateful words and we will be able to get to the root of what is bothering her. She, like me, has to guard against being overwhelmed by her emotions. She, like me, will cry when she sees other people’s pain. She is a tremendous friend, who will fight any injustice leveled at her crew, and she wants to be loved by all who know her. She feels all of it immensely and it is that feeling; that giant heart that Emma has that ultimately makes her so incredible.
Both the good and bad parts of having such emotions make her a joy to have as a child. Most of the time, Emma is nothing but pure love; she is freakishly strong when she hugs me as I come in from work. She asks me how my day was as I ask her the same. She makes up secret girlfriend handshakes and includes me in them with her friends. She picks up her brother, no small feat, and carries him around when her love for him becomes overpowering or she will kiss his cheek until he cries “no more death by kisses!!” And her love for her father spills over onto the floor; she has made up special sayings for them like, “Hers loves hims” and will cry when I sing “Bye Baby Bunting” to her because the song is about a daddy leaving to find a blanket for his baby.

I am comforted in this journey with Emma because I know she has the right stuff to tame the beast within her sweet soul; because she has an infinite palette of emotions. As she ages and matures, I am excited to see what she will paint with that palette in her mural of life. She is an incredible child, and I treasure every experience with her; including the beast within.