three hundred words a day. april 3. you can't take it back.

In Arizona, when you file for divorce and there are children involved, the state requires that you attend a six hour parenting class. Prior to going, it seemed like a ridiculous formality to me since my children were in their late teens at that point and I felt certain that regardless of whatever else I had failed at, parenting was probably not up there in the top five.

I signed up for the class, and even picked a location as far from my house as I could - hoping that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. Which backfired, of course since I ended up taking class with someone I knew who was doing the very same thing - trying to get as far away from the reality of their situation as possible.

The first few hours went by and we kept hearing terms that I never dreamed would ever pertain to me - co-parenting, child support, custody - and as I looked around, I kept asking myself how the hell I even got here. I was mad. Maybe mad is not descriptive enough here, but in the interest of not going on a tangent about all the feelings you feel during divorce right now, I'm going to keep it at mad.

There was also a little part of me that wanted Big J to hurt because I was hurting. I wanted the littles with me, only with me. I was in blame mode and punish mode and in my early-divorce mind, Big J should have to shoulder that hurt. In hindsight and after much work, I realize that our divorce was equally our faults and that we were equally to blame, but remember, this was early on.

Images and scenarios flitted through my head as the videos droned on and on and I tried to keep focused. And then I heard what I believe to be one of the most profound statements ever made about divorce and children.

Never demean the character of your ex-spouse to or in front of your children. Remember, they are half you, but they are also - half your spouse.

You couldn't have hit me any harder over the head if you'd tried. And while I had not made it a practice to belittle their father, I am fairly certain that the littles knew I was in pain and knew that their father was as well.

Words spoken in anger are generally the ones we wish we could take back, and while I have had my share of nasty moments, I made a promise to myself that day that I would never put either of my littles in a position of having to chose which parent to love.

It has been a long road, in fact there were some super rocky times during the whole process where I was burning up the airwaves between my heart and heaven on a more than frequent basis. But never to my littles, and as the healing for all of us continues, I am thankful that at least they won't have to deal with having to un-hear words spoken in anger that I wished could be taken back.

xxo.

three hundred words a day. april 1.

Eleven years ago today, my father in law died. At the time, that day, April 1, ranked right up there with the day my mother passed away for the title of worst day ever. It was unimaginable really, in the span of just a few short years, I lost both my best friend and the man that next to my own father, was the most influential man in my life.

He was larger than life, always. In a world where most people can count their true friends on the fingers of one hand – I believe he would have had to use his toes and perhaps a borrowed digit or two. I loved him more than I can express and there is no doubt in my mind that he loved me, too. And although there could be times now and then when he could be grumpy and maybe just a bit gruff, somehow he understood me, and with me – he was always gentle, always patient, always kind.

I went to yoga this morning, my heart and head were filled with him, with memories both good and sad, and I sensed I needed the stillness that yoga often provides me. Midway through, Billy Joel’s Only the Good Die Young began to play, and as the tears streamed unchecked down my face, I smiled and I knew - beyond a shadow of a doubt - that he saw my grief and the best he could, in a way he knew I would understand, he was letting me know it was ok.

Anniversaries can be funny things sometimes. We want to remember the easy ones - the birth days, the weddings, the graduations and promotions. And yet, for me it is the difficult ones, the deaths, the losses, the dissolutions, that seem to carry the most weight. They help me to remember, and to an extent – they are helping my grief because it seems that it is that remembering that is allowing me to heal.

thirty days with a grateful heart. day sixteen.

day sixteen.  talking 'bout my guy.

Last year, during my thirty days, I wrote about my dad. 

I wrote about what an incredible father he has been to me, what an incredible husband and grandfather and patriot and friend.

I wrote about how much I love him and how proud I am, every day, to be his daughter.

I wrote about the lessons he has taught me, about love and commitment.  And about the values he instilled in me, like honesty and integrity and kindness and loyalty.

I wrote about the way he loved my mother, with his entire heart and soul.  And about how he cared for her when she was dying, with gentleness and patience and gratitude for her presence in his life.

All those things are no less true today than they were last year.  If anything, the feelings and emotions I have for my father have been magnified by his gentle presence by my side these last few months.

Because even at this age, I am still learning new lessons from him.  Lessons about love.  About family.  About parenting.  And patience. 

I cannot even begin to express how grateful I am for him and for his belief in me - especially lately when there have been more than a few moments when I haven't really had much faith in myself.

Thank you, daddy.  You are my heart.

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day fifteen.

day fifteen.  angels we have heard on high.

 

 

Every year, my mother would purchase three Christmas ornaments.  They were always angels and there were always three of them.  I don't believe my sisters and I put two and two together, at least I know I did not, until my father decorated his Christmas tree for the first time after she passed away.

 

He pulled the angels out, divided them up, and gave each of my sisters and me a box. 

 

She'd been buying them for us. 

 

One for each of us. 

 

Every single year.

 

We do that, you know.  Mommas.  We do... things for our children that they never even realize we are doing.  Some big, some small.  Some obvious.  Some not so.  My momma's angels were one of those things.

 

Without really discussing it, my sisters and I have continued the tradition.  One year, Teresa bought them. A few years, Crista.  Last year I bought ceramic angels for the three of us - with hair painted the color of each of our own.  We never discuss whose turn it is.  We never even really talk about it, but every single year, there are always three new angels.

This year, I didn't forget, exactly.  I thought about them.  I thought as the oldest, I should buy them this year, it might make me feel better.  I even went as far as to put three angels into my cart from a store online.  I just... never completed the purchase. 

I don't know why exactly.  Maybe I figured it wasn't so bad if we skipped a year.  Maybe I figured we all had so much going on that they might forget this year too, and that would be ok, I mean - its not like this year is all that... normal, you know?

But, my sisters?  They didn't forget.  No, they wouldn't forget. 

So thankful.  So grateful, for this beautiful angel that came in the mail when I needed her most, but even more so today for those other angels my momma left me, my sisters. 

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day four.

day four.  cloth napkins.

When I still lived at home, family dinner was a non-negotiable.  At least five days a week, my family gathered around the kitchen table to something my momma home cooked.  We ate and we caught up.  Looking back, I realize now that it wasn't the meal that was the important piece - it was the time together.  It was generally the only time the five of us were together, that we had a chance to catch up, to talk about our days, to reconnect - as a family.

Johnny's family, being Italian and all, was the very much the same but with probably a little better food because trust me, his mom can really cook.  When we first were married, we lived with Johnny's parents for about six months while our home was being completed and never fail, at least five nights a week,  the four of us would sit down to Jeri's cooking and enjoy dinnertime together.  We'd eat, there'd be wine, we'd talk and laugh.  But there was always one caveat to the meal - Papa had to have cloth napkins.

New bride that I was, I asked my mother-in-law one day what she really thought of that.  Whether it was a pain, having to wash the napkins every single day and she said something along the lines of, no -  you get used to it, and my husband likes it - so I do it for him.

I liked that.  It somehow made dinner time, not just a meal, but something special, something to be looked forward to.  An event.  And so, as we had children and as we implemented the tradition of family dinner in our own home, we too used cloth napkins. 

As the littles got older, and more active in sports and all the myriad of things that kids do these days, finding that time to sit down together, to share a meal, to talk, got more and more difficult.  But we continued, whenever we could find a free evening, because both Johnny and I feel it is important.

Last weekend, after being out with his friends in the evening, Little J brought a few back to the house.  One of the young girls was hungry.  I offered to make her something eat and after a few, no, really, its ok, i'm fines, we settled on grilled cheese and I set about making her a few.

As she sat at the kitchen table and devoured her sandwich, I cleaned up and eavesdropped a bit on the conversation between her and her friend.

This is really good, my mom doesn't make anything that isn't out of a box.
My mom hasn't cooked since I was in the fourth grade.
We always eat off paper plates with paper towels.
We all eat in front of the tv at different, never at the table.
I don't think my mom even likes cooking for us.

I could not believe it, and to be honest, it made me both a little sad and a whole lot grateful.  Sad for the sweet girls sitting at my counter who were so crazy appreciative of a simple grilled cheese - well and the banana bread which is to die for, imho - and incredibly grateful that Johnny and I have always made family dinner a priority. 

We have so little time to reconnect with our growing and busy kids these days.  In the blink of an eye, they'll be in college, then off to create lives of their own.  A meal.  Once a day.  How difficult can that be?  What greater reward for a parent could there possibly be than a little time, with your littles?

My greatest hope is that when my littles do go, when they are off in the world with homes and spouses and littles of their own, that they too will see how special it is, how important, really, to sit down, enjoy a nice dinner, to talk and laugh and catch up with each other...  all with cloth napkins, of course.

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day one. a new normal.

As much as I'd like to begin my thirty days with a curl your toes, feel good all over story of extreme gratefulness, I am afraid this first one is not going to be quite that.  So, please let this stand as fair warning - if you're looking for warm fuzzies or unicorns and rainbows, you probably won't find any of that here today.  Take a little breather and come on back tomorrow and I promise we'll get back on track.

So, here goes...

I'm certain I am not telling you anything you didn't already know but, bottom line, sometimes life sucks. 

Sometimes you put your heart and soul, everything you feel you have to give, into something, someone, you try and they try and then you both try some more, and it just doesn't work out.  Some days its your fault, as hard a pill as that is to swallow, but some days its not.  Some days its nobody's fault.  Some days, it just is what it is.

And in the end, it doesn't really matter who is to blame, anyway, does it?  The damage has been done.  The hurt too big.  The gap too wide.  The final chapter written. And at that point, the only thing you can do is to try to gather as many of the scattered pieces as you can and move forward.  One foot in front of the other.  One very slow step at a time.  Creating, as Big J has begun calling it... a new normal.

thirty days of gratitude - day one - a new normal

Wait. 

Don't react.  Step back, take a breath and listen for a moment.

Before you go getting your bad self all in a huff and start messaging Big J with...  Did you see what she said?  Can you believe she said she was grateful?  wtf?  Let me try to see if I can explain.

Bottom line?

Divorce... sucks.  For everybody.  Breaking up a family that has been together over eighteen years... sucks.  For everybody. Splitting time with your littles, dividing up stuff, choosing who goes where, wondering what the holidays will bring, hoping your friends don't think they can catch the dreaded d-disease, facing loneliness, realizing that your world is changing, sleeping alone... sucks.  For everybody.

Life sometimes sucks.

But. 

And you know with me, there is always a but... 

Through it all - through the anger and the depression and the confusion, through the sadness and the hurt - through it all... I suddenly find myself - grateful.

Yes, grateful.

I am grateful for all those who have reached out to us both during this time - for the emails, the phone calls, the texts and the shoulders to cry on when we needed them most.  You will never know how much those simple gestures can mean.

I am grateful for all that I have learned the past eighteen years about life, about love, about growth.  I am beyond grateful when I look at our littles and the incredible young people they have become and I realize what good parents Big J and I have been.  Really great parents, actually.

I am grateful because each day brings new hope that the friendship we shared might not be completely lost.  I'm grateful each and and every time I think about and speak to my family and friends, because they reinforce that I would never have become the woman I am today, the mother I am today, the person I am today, had Big J not been part of my life.

Yes, I am grateful.  And as much as life sometimes sucks, and as much as divorce sucks, because believe me it really, truly does suck, being grateful makes it suck just a teensy bit less today.

Grateful.

xoxo,
momo

three hundred words a day. july 3.

I absolutely love the new Keifer Sutherland show, Touch.  I recorded the series and just recently watched the episodes in succession, a few at a time, over the span of a couple of weeks. The young boy at the center of the series narrates the opening scenes, alluding to the theme of that particular episode.

One day as I was watching, a seemingly simple statement the boy made stuck with me. 

Human beings crave connection.

Think about it for a moment.  Such a simple statement.  Such a huge truth. 

Human beings crave connection.  With families, friends and loved ones, with the stranger whose path we cross in our daily commute.  We need to touch, to be touched.  We need to speak, to be heard.

We crave... connection. 

Why is that, I wonder?  Perhaps it is self preservation, we crave it because our bodies require it.  Like they require air to breathe.  We crave it because our minds need it, the stimulation, the interaction in order to learn, to expand, to grow.  And our hearts?  Oh, our hearts need it.  Maybe even most of all.

And yet, how often do we withhold creating those connections with others?  How often do we glance down as we pass a person on the street?  How often do forget, neglect, to interact with the very ones we say we love?  How often do we bypass the hug, the touch, the physical - too busy, not right, no need?

As our world has become virtual, technological, and our interactions computerized, impersonal, it has become increasingly difficult to create those connections we need most.  Working from home, isolated from others daily, I live this truth more than I care to admit.  But we must seek them out.  I must seek them out. 

We crave... I crave... connection.

thirty days with a grateful heart - day twenty four

day twenty four - to grandmother's house we go

Because my father was in the Air Force, when I was little, we moved around.  A lot.  Between each move and for almost every summer vacation I can remember when were were stationed in the states, my dad would pack my mom, my sisters and me up in the station wagon and we would make the two or three day drive to Indiana to visit our family.  My parents were the only siblings on both sides of our family that had moved away from Indiana at the time, so the homecoming was always joyous and very, very loud.

I loved this time.  

I loved seeing all our family.  I loved that everyone made time to get together whenever we visited.  I loved the sleep-overs with my cousins and playing dress up in my grandmothers' clothes.  I loved going to church where everyone remembered my parents from when they were small.  I loved the stories and especially the tall tales.  I loved the pillow fights with my grandfather in the living room and learning about yiayia and papou's courtship in the old country.  I loved the kibee and the spanakopita and the bread, oh, how I loved the homemade bread!

There are so many memories, but what I realize most when I look back is how incredibly special these times were.  How lucky I was to have so many cousins, so many aunts and uncles, and that our families were so close even though we lived so far away.   

How lucky I was that even though we lived far away, my parents valued family and made sure that we knew ours.   How lucky I was that all of my grandparents lived for so very long.

But mostly, how lucky I was as a child to be surrounded by so much... love. 

thirty days with a grateful heart - day eighteen

day eighteen - bonus family

When Big J and I first got married, the holidays were a crazy fun time.  On Thanksgiving and again on Christmas day, both sides of our families - our parents, our siblings and whoever they wanted to bring along, special friends, and oftentimes aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents -  would gather together to celebrate and have dinner together.  There were always people milling around everywhere and when you put Italians and Greeks at the same table for dinner, well, you can imagine - not only was it a happy time, it was also always fairly loud and periodically heated. 

The first couple of years after my mom died, celebrating the holidays was, well, different.  Not only were we mourning the loss of my mother, but within short succession, we also lost Big J's grandma Penny, our beloved Aunt Judy (who was only 57) and then Papa.  And as the family shrunk, so it seems, did our holidays, because by Christmas 2006, we could all sit around my dining room table - no leafs required.

And then my dad met Liz.  And with Liz, came Denise and her family and Mike and his family and before we had a chance to blink an eye - the holidays were, well - the holidays were boisterous again.  There were kids running around and laughter and wine flowing and the kind of teasing that happens between siblings and the two extra leafs in the dining room table still wouldn't seat us all. 

Last year my dad and Liz made it official and got married and believe me when I say I could not be happier.  I tease Liz and call her my wicked step mother, but the truth is - there is not a wicked bone in her body.  She brings happiness to our family and especially to my dad and I have no doubt whatsoever that my mother would be pleased at how Liz loves my dad, but even more so, how she loves his girls.

Today I am beyond grateful for Liz, and for all the bonus family she's brought to me with her.  Our family has grown again, our holidays are happy, and that is something I am incredibly thankful for.

thirty days with a grateful heart - day eleven

day eleven - daddy's girl

This week my therapist wanted to talk a little about my family life growing up, which made me realize that I have written ad infinitum about my momma on this blog, but I have not written very much at all about my dad. 

I've never told you how special a man he truly is.  How loyal, how faithful, how simply... good he is.  The honest to God truth is that my dad is as good a man as the day is long - he really, really, really is - there is just no other way to put it.

I've never told you how he has protected our country or how for years, and through three tours to Vietnam, he has fought, without reservation, for the basic freedoms I take for granted each and every day.

I've never told you how my dad was supposed to be deployed before I was born, or how he made the doctor induced me so that he could see me and hold me, at least once, before he had to go. 

I've never told you how he has supported me.  How he has listened to me.  Or how patient he is.   How he sat through every cheerleader ready-set-ok I ever wanted to show him without rolling an eye. 

I've never told you how I get my love of Indycar, of blackjack, of crosswords and of just about everything football from him.  How we share the same love of church and oh, the same hate for conflict.

I've never told you how much I've learned from him, about kindness and humility.  About how much his respect and love for me has influenced the woman I have become today.


I've never told you about how deeply he loved my mother.  So much so I find it difficult to put into words.  Or, about how incredibly he took care of her once she became ill.  How he would have sold his soul to protect her, to shelter her, from what she had to endure. 

I've never told you about his gentleness when he speaks to me, the sparkle in his eyes when he sees me, or the way that he hugs me that makes me certain I will forever be safe. 

I've never told you how much I love him.  How much I adore him.  How deeply grateful I am that I am his and he is mine.

No, I had never told you any of those things.   Maybe, just maybe, because I didn't need to.  

I'm pretty sure my daddy knows.

thirty days with a grateful heart - day two

day two - my littles

I'd heard stories about what it was like to have children. You know those stories, the ones about how you will love them so much, how you would do anything in your power to protect them, to care for them, to grow them.  I had heard them all and I remember thinking, absolutely, I will love them.  Of course, I will love them.  But, I have to be honest with you, I don't think I completely understood the depth or breadth, the sheer and utter magnitude, of that kind of love until the very moment I held Little J in my arms for the first time.

I have loved people in my life.  I mean, really, really loved them.  I love Big J, more than I think he will ever know.  I love my parents, my family, my friends.  We all have people in our lives that we say we love, truly, madly, deeply, but as I looked down at Little J, and again at Frankie on the day she was born, in those moments, the meaning of mother's love became clear.  Very simply, my heart was no longer my own.  It belonged to them, to my littles, wholly and completely, and it will until the day I take my very last breath. 

God made me, exactly how he made me, so that I could be their mother.  He made me to care for them, to cherish and hold them, to teach them and guide them and grow them up in this world.  He made me specifically to love them.  He knew just exactly what they would need.  He knew that they would need me and that only I would do. 

And yet, for as much as they needed me and only me, He knew just exactly what I needed as well.  He knew that I would need littles that would challenge me, that would make me think, that would question me, listen to me, exasperate me to no end and make me swell with pride, oftentimes in the very same instant.  He knew that I needed littles who would hug me and allow me to hug them, in private, in public, no matter when or where the mood strikes.  He knew I needed littles who could tell me they were sorry, who would hold my hand, who would make me laugh out loud, who would sing with me, pray with me, listen to me, walk with me, share with me, break my heart and mend it back up again, littles who would love... me.

God knew. 

He knew I needed Little J, exactly as he is.  He knew I needed Frankie, precisely as she is.  Deep down, I know He knew because He knows everything, and yet, each day I cannot help but marvel at the absolute perfectness of it all. 

He knew. 

And today, for that, and for them, for my littles, I am so very, very grateful.  Especially today.