Just started calling you Dad

My father-in-law passed away last weekend.

I have known him for about seven years.  I have actually seen him five times.  It is hard to have a connection with your in-laws...hard for most...especially when they are so far away.  We took a trip last April to visit my in-laws in Tennessee.  This was a trip we were all a little excited about.

Chief and his dad have been working on a car together.  This was a life-long dream the two of them had.  The car is a Cobra kit car.  A year ago, Chief had it shipped to his dad in a zillion pieces.  By the time we got there in April, he had already done a ton of the work. This trip was exciting because Little Man was going to get to be part of a third-generation car build.  I was really more along for the ride than anything.  Except it ended up being much more for me.  This was the first time I felt connected to this man.  We were all out in his shop working on the car (Chief, Dad, and I).  Dad was looking for a tool and was frantically searching around the car for it.  He didn’t see it, and headed over to his one-of-many toolboxes.  Only he didn’t quite make it.  His foot caught on the corner of one of his shop rugs.  He fell.  In that moment, he was my dad.  He was no longer just Chief’s dad.  He was also my dad.  My heart jumped as I ran to his side.  Being the tough guy he is, he got up, brushed himself off, and assessed the damage.  He was bleeding in a couple spots...but seemed to be okay.  His response, “Well, that will probably hurt later.”  He shrugged and got back to work.  I was shaken seeing the fall.  I wanted to follow him, to protect him from falling again.  When someone you love hurts, you hurt.  This was the first time I hurt for this man.  I loved him and it scared me to see him fall.

They spent every waking hour in the shop that week.  I would go down from time to time to be part of what they were doing.  I am not a huge fan of cars, but I wanted to be with the two of them.  I wanted to break into that bond and have a piece of it to take with me.  Then the moment came...a moment that I am proud to say I was a part of.  They were starting the motor in the Cobra for the first time.  Dad gave me the honors of starting the vehicle.  He handed me the key and told me to put it into the ignition, which at the time was dangling from the dashboard.  Then he told me to put my phone down while I was doing it.  I hit record and got the whole thing on tape.  Chief was standing at the back of the car (near the battery) while dad was standing at the front (bent over the hood).  I had the best view.  Dad’s face.  All of the work boiled down to this special moment.  The moment that we would start the motor, that Dad built, in the car, that Dad assembled.  I fired that car up.  It was loud.  But the sound didn’t matter; all I could see was his face.  The excitement stretched across his face was priceless.  This man worked hundreds of hours for this one moment....and I was there to see it.  He was proud.  Proud of what he built from the ground up.  He had every right.  There aren’t many people that have that gift.

We said our goodbyes on Sunday, and headed back home.  Had I known this was my last time seeing him, I would have held him a little longer...a little tighter.

I haven’t known Dad for that long, I know.  But I do know he gave me a gift.  If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have my husband.  Many years ago, Dad took the responsibly of raising two boys.  There aren’t many men who step up to the plate to raise boys on their own.  Dad did.  Not only that, but he encouraged them.  He never missed a wrestling tournament.  He expected excellence...  He didn’t handhold like us parents do now.  He raised respectful, successful men.  And he was proud of them.

Three weeks ago, the car was complete.  Chief flew to Tennessee.  The plan was for him and Dad to drive it back to Connecticut.  He was going to stay with us for a couple weeks, and take a look at my corvette...possibly build another motor for it.  This was a trip Chief had been looking forward too.  They were finally going to get to show off what they had done.  They were going to make stops along the way and show people they knew.  While Chief was there, the day before they were planning to leave, something happened with the clutch.  They knew at that moment, it was not something that would be repaired in time for them to leave the next day on their road trip.  Chief ended up flying back home and they scheduled to make the trip at the end of the month instead (after the clutch got fixed).

Now I know why the clutch broke.  Dad was never meant to make that trip.  God had a different plan.  Less than two weeks later, he was in the hospital with a machine breathing for him.  He was done.  He had accomplished what he wanted to.  He knew the moment Chief got there, that he wasn’t going to make that trip.  He knew his time was up.  He had done everything he wanted to do.  He had said his goodbyes.  He had finished his business.  There was nothing left for him.  I believe his body held out as long as he wanted it to...and no more.

I am so sad this man is gone.  I am sad for my husband.  He talked to Dad almost every Sunday.  I will miss hearing the excitement in Dad’s voice as he talked about the newest obstacle with the Cobra.  I am also happy.  I am happy he no longer lives with daily pain.  I believe he was in much more pain then he ever let anyone believe.  That was his pride hard at work.  He didn’t want people worrying, or making a fuss.  I have to believe he is in a better place now.  A place where he can hop in any car he wants and take it for a spin.  A place where there are no speed limits, but the car is big enough that
he doesn’t feel claustrophobic.  I think he is in a place where he can eat whatever he wants and he can have his Fox news on in the background.  He is in a happier place.  A place where he feels no pain and has no worries.  

You did good, Dad.  Thank you for giving me a great man.  Thank you for letting me be part of starting that car that day.  Thank you for explaining to me why you put this piece here, or that piece there.  Thank you for letting me help you put those wires in that plastic tube...for making me feel needed.  Thank you for taking the cover off of the filter to show me what was inside.  Thank you for allowing my son to be part of that build....even if he spent more time driving around your golf cart then bent over the car.  Thank you for leaving my husband with wonderful memories of your last year with us.  He will be able to hang on to those for forever.  That was a wonderful gift you made just for him.  I am grateful for your life and the time I got to spend with you.  You will be missed.

Love,
Your daughter-in-law that had just started calling you Dad

Queasy

I get really weird anxiety about really weird things.  One of those things is the grocery store self-checkout line.  I typically don’t choose this line.  Sunday I had to make a run to the store...I quickly realized it was the same day every one else had to make the same quick run to the store.  The lines were wicked long, and you know how impatient I am.  I decided to challenge my anxiety issues and try the self-checkout.  I wait patiently for my turn.  I have about 20 items total, so when it is my turn, I start.  I scan and drop on the belt, scan and drop.  I am halfway through my groceries when it tells me I need to go bag what I have because the belt is too full to continue.  This has never happened to me before.  So do I leave my purse and run to the end of the conveyor belt?  There are people waiting behind me.  I panic.  I quickly stop scanning (only because it won’t let me go further) and run and bag some of the groceries.  Where do I put them? My cart still has stuff in it, and there isn’t a place to set the groceries I have already scanned.  Stupid technology.  Stupid grocery store.  I keep glancing at my cart watching my purse closely, prepared to tackle the 79 year old woman standing next in line.  Knowing old people can be thief's too, I am in full panic mode throwing all groceries in one bag.  I lift the bag to set it on the floor.  Of course.  The bottom rips.  My groceries come crashing to the floor.  Awesome.  Freaking awesome.  Of course.  Damn this stupid line.  I KNEW this was going to be too much for me to handle.  There is a reason God puts grocery baggers on this planet.  They know how to do this crazy complicated job.  I don’t...clearly.  I half debate grabbing my purse and making a mad dash for the door.  I must be strong.  I quickly scramble to pick up my cereal and eight cans that I shoved in one bag.  I re-bag them, not taking my eye off my purse.  I leave them on the floor and run back to the line to scan the rest of my things.  Awesome.  My screen is blinking: Wait for cashier assistance.  Never.  Again.  I wait for her to come over and push some buttons.  I finish scanning my things trying to hold my tears back as my line multiplies by the minute.  I pay and rush to the end of the belt to load the rest of my things.  Screw the bag.  I throw the rest of my stuff in the cart and run to the door.  I take a deep breath as I reach my car.  This is why I don’t cook.  I can’t handle self-checkout...it makes me feel queasy.  My new excuse, Chief.  I just can’t handle the stress of getting food at the store.  It is much easier to pull into a restaurant.  Love you, Babe.  

Porta Potty

Like most people...if I have to pee, and a porta potty is the only option, I all of a sudden can hold it much longer.  I have stepped into a porta potty less than five times in my entire lifetime.  One of those was less than a year ago.  I can’t remember where we were, I do however, remember that it wasn’t an option.  I had 18 gallons of pressure bouncing up and down on my bladder.  I had no choice.  I had to go.  I waited patiently in the line of desperate faces.  The anticipation was killing me.  I was trying to keep a positive mind.  This was going to be an adventure.  I could do this.  I could make friends with the flies and persuade the spiders to keep their distance because I was willing to bite back.  My turn came.

I approached the door, closed my eyes and walked in.  I was taken back at how different they were than how I remembered them.  I looked around and didn’t see any spiders or flies.  This wasn’t going to be so bad!  I noticed a little shelf for my purse and set it down...how nice.  I finished, used the antibacterial soap and made my way out.  I went and found Chief and gushed about how nice they were!

Me: Babe!  That was the nicest porta potty I have ever seen!

Chief: Really?

Me: Yeah!  It was clean and it didn’t smell bad at all!!

Chief: Wow! Well I am happy you were impressed.

Me: It even had a purse holder!

Chief: What?

Me: They had a little shelf for my purse!

Chief: The shelf on the left?

Me: Yep.  They are getting really fancy.  Those must be designed by women.

Chief: Or men.

Me: No way, men aren’t that considerate.

Chief: They think of themselves.

Me: Exactly. 

Chief: Which is how I know it was designed by a man.

Me: A man would not put a purse holder in a bathroom.

Chief: No, but they would put a urinal in there.

Me: Hugh?

Chief: Your purse holder, is a urinal.

Me: No, it was definitely a purse holder. 

Chief: Purse holders don’t have a hole in the bottom of them.

Me: Please tell me you are kidding.  It was too low to be a urinal.

Chief: Not everyone is six feet tall.

Me: No way.

Chief: You stuck your purse in a urinal.

Me: No way.

Chief: No, I am just kidding.

Me: Really?

Chief: No, I am totally serious.

Me: OMG! That is freaking disgusting!

Chief: How the hell did you not know that?

Me: I don’t know, I don’t spend a lot of time in those! Why do they need their own place to pee!  They have a freaking huge hole to pee in!!

Chief: Then you will have urine on the seats when the men don’t lift them.

Me: I’m gonna barf.

Chief: Make sure you set your purse on the shelf when you do, so it is out of your way.

Me: Stop talking.

Ouch!

Male Student #1: Mrs. J, what is an anagram?

Male Student #2: Dude, that is when they smash a woman’s boob like a pancake to check for cancer.

Female Student: THAT’S A MAMMOGRAM NOT AN ANAGRAM YOU DOOF!!

Male Student #2: Oh, sorry.  I bet an anagram is a lot less painful...

  

Male Student #1: I’m so glad I don’t have boobs.  

Me: Aren’t we all.

Male Student #1: So what is it?

Me: It is when you rearrange letters of your word to make a new word.  Act.  Act can be rearranged to cat.  You have to use all of your original letters.  It's a type of word play. Pea.  What can pea be?....Ape.  Looped...what can looped also be?....Poodle!  Do you understand?

Male Student #2: I take back what I said, anagrams sound more painful.

Name Brand

There are certain things that you don’t go cheap-o on.  I think in some areas, you MUST by the name brand.  

1. Cereal.  When you want Cheerios don’t buy Joe-Os.  Here’s the deal.  Joe doesn’t care about you.  When you eat Joe, you eat crow.
2. Mac & Cheese.  Kraft is the only way to go...the other stuff is disgusting.  Yes, I have tried it.  Kraft is one of our main meals.  Kraft is what I cook best.  Sad...but true.
3. Water.  Water is very tricky for me.  I refuse to buy the store brand water.  To me, it taste like it was dug out of the ground.  I just can’t do it.  If I had a choice, I would choose Smart Water.  I think it is the most wonderful tasting water.  It almost taste sweet to me.
4. Underwear.  You MUST not buy underwear from the dollar store.  It doesn’t work.  The elastic doesn’t last.  Learned lesson...another blog at a later date.
5. Diapers.  One small package when Little Man was six months. Never. Again. Poop on walls, poop on floors, poop on the crib.  Poop poop everywhere, poop poop in his hair!! On the ceiling on the floor.  Generic diapers are no more!
6. Cleaning products.  I don’t cook.  I do clean.  Cleaning products is one thing I DO NOT go generic on.  There is a reason Lysol, Clorox, Pledge, and Swiffer have made a name for themselves.  They are good and they work.  They smell wonderful, and it makes me feel a sense of accomplishment. 

Things that don’t matter if you have generic or brand?

1. Canned foods.  They all taste the same to me.
2. Ummm...that’s it.

Okay, I am a snob.

Mail

How nice is it getting mail?  I don’t mean email, or junk mail...I mean REAL mail.  It isn’t very often that I get something in my mail that has my name handwritten across the envelope.  My heart STILL skips a beat when something is for me.  

Why is it that getting mail makes people feel good?  The day before Mother’s Day, I got a box with my name on it!!  Chief said he didn’t order anything for me, so the box was a mystery.  It didn’t have a return address on it, but it still looked legit.  I took my time opening it, trying to savor every second of anticipation.  There it was...a cookie bouquet from Blond BFF.  I was so excited!

It takes time out of your day to sit and handwrite a note to a friend...I realize that, which is why I don’t do it that often.  I think I do it more than your average bear, but I still don’t do it as much as I should.  It is much easier to shoot someone an email, but it is also less personal.  Back to the Thank You notes, they are important.  It is important to convey the message that you are humble and greatful.  This world doesn’t have a lot of kindness, so the kindness it does have needs to be recognized.  You need to be appreciative and make sure they know that you know their kind gesture is appreciated.  

I challenge you to sit down and handwrite four short letters to people (you have until Friday).  Stick a stamp on them, and mail them (in the little box at the end of your driveway).  Your letter doesn’t have to be about anything in particular, it just needs to be a letter.  Write and tell someone how much you appreciate their friendship...or you can tell them about a funny memory you had of them.  It doesn’t have to be important because I assure you, the fact that you took the time will be enough appreciated.  I know I am not the only one who likes to get mail.  Make someone else’s day.  Make FOUR people’s day.

Love her...

Today is a special day.  A special day directed towards a certain group of people...mothers.  Being a mother is a job for only a certain group of people.    Anyone can be a parent, but it takes a special person to be a mother.  A mother puts her children before herself.  She sacrifices things she may want so her children can have more than what she had.  

My mother is an amazing woman.  She raised two girls to be successful loving women.  In this day, that isn’t as easy as it sounds.  My mother worked just a little harder so that I could go to a private school.  When I came home from my first day of high school, I told her I couldn’t do it.  I told her I didn’t want to go back.  I told her in my math class there was a girl that was eight months pregnant.  I told her that the boy that sat next to me in science had gages in his ears and he pulled down his pants and mooned the teacher in the first ten minutes of class.  You know what my mom did?  She put me into a private school.  She didn’t make me go back to that public school.  She worked a little harder so that I could be in a school that I felt safe in.  She taught me that I didn’t need to conform to something I didn’t believe in.

My mom also started me in piano lessons.  It was something I begged her to do, and she finally agreed.  And when I wanted to quit?  She wouldn’t let me.  She didn’t want me to quit something because she knew it was something I would regret quitting.  She taught me that it was important to follow through with something I started.  She taught me to reach, not to quit.

My mom always packed my lunch.  When other kids had twinkies and chips, I had apples and carrots.  I would try each day to convince other kids to trade...that was quite the challenge.  I usually ended up eating my carrots and apples.  She taught me my health was important.  

My mom always made me sit down after receiving a gift, and write a Thank You Letter.  I hated doing this.  I thought it was time consuming and figured the gift giver wouldn’t care either way.  I did as I was told, because that is how I was raised.  She taught me to be a grateful, respectful woman.

My mom worked hard every day.  She got up and went to work, came home and fixed our family dinner, did the laundry, and still had time to love us.  She never missed work.  Never lost her job.  She never came home and said she was too tired to help me with my homework.  She taught me responsibility and work ethic.

My mom held my hand through three of my four births.  She brushed my hair off my face as I cried out with pain shooting through my body.  She looked me in the eyes and told me how proud I was making her.  She told me that I could do this.  I was strong, and I wasn’t going to quit.  I knew she was right.  I trusted her.  If she thought I could do it, then I could.  She taught me strength.

She took me to church at a very young age.  She made sure I was involved in the youth group and paid for me to go to camps to help others.  When I needed help she directed me to the bible.  She told me to pray harder and ask Him for guidance.  She taught me to love the Lord and trust that His plan is the right plan.

My mom gave her time and love to others.  She taught Sunday school for years.  At Christmas she was generous to those in need.  She welcomed and loved my friends.  She helped others who looked to her for advice.  My mother taught me compassion.

My mother is straight as an arrow.  She never abused drugs, never abused alcohol, and always did what was right.  She loved her girls, and would do anything for us.  She held me when I cried, and encouraged me when I was falling.  She sings hard and laughs lovingly.  She keeps her mind healthy and her heart happy.  She taught me love, strength, compassion, responsibility, and respect.  She is a mother.  She is MY mother.