We Remember

I know there will be many 9/11 tributes out in the blogosphere today, mine probably the least of these. I’m not going to detail where I was, what I was doing, who I was with. I’m not going to chronicle the horror and terror and tears.

People are resilient. We’ve created a new normal for ourselves, a new kind of everyday. Every year the anniversary rolls around and we say, “I can’t believe it’s been another year already. It seems like yesterday.” On those days, it does. But most days of the year, we... don’t forget, exactly. More like it’s a part of that new normal. We are changed because of it. But accepting change is, in the end, a part of our resilience.

So on days like today, when we’re reminded of what we have lost, what we have earned, and what can never, ever be regained, it strikes hard. Today, it really does feel like these past ten years have only been a moment. Today is beautiful, and bitter.


Today, we remember.

We remember the sacrifices; the ones made willingly, and the ones forced on innocent people.

We remember the grief and the anger.

We remember the first responders who looked death in the face, and in doing so, preserved life.

We remember the service men and women who gave their all, and continue to give their all, to protect us.

We remember the families who will never be the same. The fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, the children left fatherless and motherless.

We remember that our nation was born from adversity, born from ashes, and through our weakness, we find new strength.

We remember that in God we DO trust.



Today, we remember, and never forget.

Sisters and Aunts

There are a lot of sisters and aunts on my mom’s side of the family. Many daughters... not many sons. There’s me, and my sister Amber (well, there ARE a lot of sons in my generation). My mom, Kathi, and her sister Pat. Their mom, Elaine, and her sister Elnora. And before that pair of sisters, there was another. Dorothy and Christine, Dot and Teenie for short. They weren’t the only sisters in their generation- there was my great grandmother, Louise, and two more sisters that I never met, Bette and Tilly. Dot was the baby.

Aunt Dot and Aunt Teenie are an institution in our family, always spoken of together, in exactly that way. Never one without the other. Never without the “Aunt” in front. I even had to go back through this whole blog to correct when I left the “Aunt”s off... my mom said she couldn’t read it that way, it was just too weird. They're borderline revered by us all... The last of their generation, the aunts of my grandmother. Great, great aunts. That’s quite a few greats. The most recent count of all their nieces and nephews is over 70.

In her 20’s, as a student nurse, Aunt Teenie contracted polio from a child she was caring for. Aunt Dot, who was about 19 at the time, dropped out of nursing school to take care of her. They stayed together from then on. The first letters I ever wrote had “Aunt Dot and Aunt Teenie” scrawled across them. Aunt Dot loved to paint, so I would send her pictures I drew. Every birthday brought a card with an ironed flat ten dollar bill. When I had kids, I sent them pictures every few months. Aunt Dot always wrote back in a long, thin, spidery cursive. She has beautiful penmanship.

I haven’t seen my aunts since I was a teenager, maybe even a preteen. As the years passed, it just became too hard for them to travel down from Connecticut. Another regret I have... another part of my history and legacy that I never really got to know. The memories I have of them are sweet: hunting Easter eggs in my grandmother’s yard while the aunts sat on the porch swing calling out hints. Tightly spiraled gray curls on heads with soft, wrinkly, pink cheeks. Lots of laughing. And letters, always letters. Boxes of them. They were the most faithful pen pals you could find. A few years ago, I got a padded envelope in the mail from Aunt Dot... when I opened it, I found two paintings, one of a little boy leaning over a dock to play in the water, the other of a little girl playing on the beach. I burst into tears. To have an original “Dot”, when she hadn’t painted in years... the honor I felt can’t be expressed. And the sorrow. It stirred some sort of homesickness in me. I wanted to be with them. I wanted to know them as an adult.

This past Sunday, my Aunt Teenie passed away. She’d been failing for a long time. Every letter I got from Aunt Dot mentioned that her sister was sliding slowly downhill. One thing I loved the most about her letters: she was always honest, but never negative. She would end the reports on Aunt Teenie with, “She still maintains a clear mind, which we are grateful for.” She would tell me how she showed Aunt Teenie the pictures of my kids through a magnifying glass, so she could see them better. She told me how she would take her outside for fresh air. How she sat and read to her. For 70 years, it has been the two of them, always.

I can’t imagine Aunt Dot without Aunt Teenie. The hardest part of my week so far was addressing the card I sent to her. Leaving off the “and Christine” was heartbreaking.

I’ve been sitting here for a few minutes. Rereading the last letter from them. Trying to think of a snappy closing. I’m just... sad. Bereft. But when I think back on their lives, on the lives of all the sisters and aunts in my family, I’m proud to be a part of that thread. And my daughters- they’re part of that long line of sisters, too. They’ll learn their legacy the best that my sister and I can teach them, along with my mother and her sister, and my grandmother and her sister.

Aunt Teenie, sitting on the ground on the right. My grandmother
is the one on the left with the babies on her lap. The naked, tan,
pouty baby is my mom.

We’ll do our best to make the Aunts proud.

Overcoming

I’ve tried so hard to overcome this image I have of myself. The girl who let herself be destroyed by people in her life, people who ended up not even mattering outside of the wounds they inflicted.The stupid girl who got pregnant before marriage. The careless girl who popped out too many kids all at once.

God knows, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to ignore the looks. I’ve tried to forget the comments, the “advice”, the jokes. And then something like today happens.

Some little snide comment sets me all off balance. I feel like I have to explain my mistakes away, make excuses for my choices, bad or otherwise. I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. Even now, after all these years, it hasn’t gone away. I feel like it will always be there, hanging over my head.

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter what other people think of you. God’s accepted you, you need to accept yourself. But the truth is, it does matter. IT. MATTERS. It will probably always matter, regardless of what kind of brave face I try to put on. I will always feel apologetic. I will always feel like I need to explain myself.

I will always, always be trying to overcome this.

Post Irene

So, we survived Irene. More than survived... our street was barely affected. We didn't lose power. We didn't flood. All in all, to us, it felt like a really long, boring rainstorm. It seems like it was a waste of my hard earned energy, spent on fear, stress, arguments on whether we should leave or not, and batteries we didn't use (Walgreens will be getting those suckers back). I know it wasn't like that everywhere. My heart hurts for the people who lost family members, homes, property, even those who "only" lost electricity. I am so, so grateful that we were mostly just bored and antsy.

On that note, taking into account our bored-ness and antsy-ness, here's a list of things I learned during Irene:

- It takes 17 bobby pins and 1 hair tie to create a suitable "hurricane" hairstyle out of my short, layered hair. Meaning, it's washed and pinned up in a manner that can stay that way for a day or two before it starts to look unwashed. In case I wasn't able to shower.

- I hated losing cell reception more than I would have hated losing electricity. Sad but true story.

- Living on a lesser hub of a "big city" sucks for the lesser hub. Every news channel was covering exclusively in the "big city". Guess what, news anchors? People who live 30 minutes outside of Norfolk are in the middle of a hurricane too.

- My kids are hurricane pros. A must have character trait on the East Coast.

- I'm not going to say that all pine trees over two stories tall should be cut down, but... well. Maybe they should be.

- I don't like not being able to get in contact with my family.

- Just because you live in a "low-lying" area, and your family doesn't, doesn't imply that they are safer than you. Mine all lost power, and ended up at my house the next day just for air conditioner and hot food.

- Low Country Boil, meatball subs, sleepovers, and Apples to Apples with my family are probably the most fun anyone could ever have since the Garden of Eden closed for business.



How did you all fare through Irene? What are your hurricane stories and lessons?

Calm

The air is stifling. Hot, muggy. Like a wet woolen sweater that gets stuck when you try to pull it over your head. Stepping outside makes my sandals condensate and my ribs ache from breathing in.

It’s calm. The warm breeze is riffling through the leaves, dry and whispering secrets that they won’t tell me. It’s all a trick, a false serenity to lull us before the storm.

And the storm is coming. I feel it, like I’m at the top of a roller coaster, peeking down in that split second before chaos happens. That second where you think, "I changed my mind--!" The second right before the drop.

I’m waiting for the drop, trying not to fear. Trying not to freak out for my kids’ sake, who are watching me. Trying to ignore that there’s a mandatory evacuation for my city. Trying to stay calm, to breathe it in and not out, to hold onto it.

“...I know Whom I have believed, and am convinced that He is able to guard what I have entrusted to Him...”

I’ve entrusted Him my children.

I've entrusted Him my family.

I’ve entrusted Him my home.

I’ve entrusted Him my fears.

And in return, He gives me calm, before the storm.

Buckling Down

Irene is coming. Are we prepared? Nope. Am I scared? Yep. I had about 6 different dreams last night, all involving dire consequences of the storm... flooding... month long power outages... my house being looted and someone stealing all my books... my kids screaming in terror as our windows shattered.

So this morning I went and did what every sensible person on the East Coast is doing: I bought batteries.

I bought Ds, and AAAs and AAs. And I bought a pack of mini LED flashlights for my kids.

And it all cost me $55. For batteries.

But at least now I'm prepared, right? 


What are you doing to prepare for Irene?

Princess Syndrome

Someone asked me recently how I felt about Chloe starting school. Was it bittersweet? Did I think I would cry? I thought about that for a few minutes, and then gave my honest answer:

“Chloe is a middle child. While that doesn’t make her any less special, it does somehow deaden the milestones. I cried when Ashton started kindergarten. He was my first. And I know I’ll cry when Atleigh starts. She’ll be my last. But Chloe is... well, middle. I’ve done that. I’ll do it again.”

Wrong answer, apparently. I was immediately submitted to a barrage of uneasy chuckles and gasps of outrage. And then came the advice: Don’t ever let her hear you say that, make sure she always feels special, middle children can tend towards acting out if you don’t make sure you take time for them, etc, etc, ad nauseam.

Chloe has answered to a great many nicknames in her short life. Chlo-Chlo, the Chlo-ster, Chloe-Bug, Chloe Noey (A derivative of her middle name, Noelle)... but the name she answers to the most, and the most willingly, at that, is Princess. When I was pregnant with her, Jeremy and I decided we would never call any daughter of ours “Princess”. It was cliche, obnoxious, gave off the impression of spoiled brattiness. Well. We took one look at her, 2 minutes old, and cried, “She’s such a little Princess!!!” The name stuck, obviously.

Chloe is my easiest child. She slept through the night at 3 days old. You read that right. 3 days. She’s my helper. She makes her own bed, folds her clothes, puts her shoes away. Almost always puts her dishes in the sink. Of course, she’s far from perfect. Her squeal could shatter glass, and she’d rather tattle on someone and have them get in trouble than deal with the issue herself. She can be manipulative. But she’s... soft. Sweet. Genuine.  She is so, so special.

She also knows that she knows that she knows that she is a Princess. There’s never been a doubt in her mind. If anyone ever tried to convince her otherwise, they’d have a healthy argument on their hands. She walks like she owns the earth: shoulders back, head held high. I’ve raised her to understand and believe her value. I hope I have. And I hope that my referring to her as “a middle child” won’t undo that value in her mind.

I mean, honestly. Does this look the like the face of a girl struggling with middle child syndrome?

 

 

And, in case you were wondering, I proved myself (and my advice givers) wrong: I am not a soulless monster with a wicked stepmother complex. I definitely, definitely cried yesterday.