Tag Archives: memories

The Last of the Firsts

My first birthday

For me, May 18 is the last of the firsts. It is my birthday. Twelve days from now, it will be May 30, the first anniversary of the death of my father. It is my first birthday without my Dad.

This is a milestone all of my other family members have already reached — including my husband, whose first birthday without my Dad after my Dad’s death was the day before his funeral. While my birthday is a happy day, it — just like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter all before this day — will feel a little hollow this year.

Thirty-five years ago, my Daddy became a dad.

Through personal experience, I realize Moms become Moms over the course of their pregnancy, more so than actually birthing the baby: you realize your additional responsibility to eat healthfully, exercise and reduce stress; you feel the flutterings and movements and hiccups and rib-shots which cause you to already appreciate the life you are growing (and shaping and molding, to eventually set free). You already worry about baby’s future, you over-research and over-analyze every decision: from BPA-free bottles, to crib mattresses to car seats. Becoming a mother is a gradual, but definite, process. The birth is “just” the curtain-call, if you will.

This isn’t to say expectant Dads don’t have concerns or worries, or that they don’t plan for the future and try (as best one can, as an expectant parent) to realize what the future entails. They do. It is just to say that becoming a parent, from my perspective, is more active for the pregnant mama than it is for the “pregnant” daddy.

Even though expectant Dads can feel the baby’s kicks by touching their partner’s swollen belly, or see baby’s foot move across Mom’s belly in response to Dad’s voice … Dads don’t really “become” Dads until the baby arrives. Until the baby looks like him. After Dad cuts the cord, holds the baby, changes the first diaper, spends his first sleepless night, and then drives home from the hospital with his baby and his wife sitting in the backseat, that is when the reality of becoming a father hits.

I have heard my Mom’s side of my birth story many, many times. I would love to hear my Dad’s side of my birth story, or “when he knew” he was a Dad just one more time. (Who am I kidding? Thousands of times.) Though I know his rendition would probably be shorter than the paragraph I just typed.

I was a C-section, and I know in the 70s, Dads weren’t allowed in the OR. Even my Dad (she says possessively and proudly) as an EMT and firefighter, had to wait for the news second-hand. (I remember thinking at a young age: That is ridiculous!)

I wonder what he was thinking, 35 years ago today. Was he worried? Did he secretly yearn for a boy, an heir to his name? Did he ruminate about “being ready” to be a Daddy? Did he hope I’d follow in the family tradition and join the fire department? Was he excited to one day teach me to sail? What were his dreams for me? His hopes? His fears?

My first boat ride?

In truth, he was probably quietly and calmly waiting: smoking his Salem regulars, drinking a few Pepsi-colas. Maybe the Reds were playing. Maybe not.

In the end, I am certain I lived up to some of his expectations. I am quite certain I surpassed others, those he couldn’t possibly have foreseen. (By that, I mean the tattoo, the piercings, and taking nearly a dozen years to earn my bachelor’s degree. Sorry, Dad!)

My Dad didn’t offer unsolicited advice. He didn’t scold, lecture, or try to talk you (me) out of doing something stupid. Perhaps because he grew up with four sisters, three daughters (and later, three grand-daughters) he knew not to engage in a losing battle.

But he was a quiet, calming force. His praise was infrequent, but solid. His sense of humor was predictable, yet alarming. His hugs were awkward, but … they are sorely missed.

I have tried (and failed) to live this year without regretting the past. I miss him more than I ever thought possible. Losing him at such a young age, and to such a ferocious disease, has forced me to look hard at the decisions I make and how they impact my family, particularly my husband and our daughters.

Matt and I met almost by chance. He didn’t have to move to Cincinnati. I didn’t have to introduce myself at the company Red’s game. Considering we had never met during the previous four months of working for the same company, it’s unusual that the very next morning, we (almost literally) ran into each other walking into work. (He swears he didn’t plan it. I know I didn’t — I am far from punctual.)

But my Dad died of cancer almost certainly by choice. Or, rather, a series of choices.

I have spent many of the last 353 days talking to our daughters about making smart decisions. It seems that’s the only ability we have: to make informed, smart decisions about the things we can control. And then leave the rest to chance.

If you knew my Dad and you have a few moments, my birthday wish is for you to share a happy memory you have of him. And my wish for you, is that you live your life understanding your decisions impact those who love you most.

I’ll start. In my parents’ room hangs a cross-stitch, that says something like this:

Any man can be a father; It takes someone special to be a Daddy.

I never doubted that my sisters and I were some of the lucky ones. And I don’t doubt it for my children, either.

I love you, Daddy. Happy Becoming-a-Daddy-Day.

And Mom — none of this is to discredit you or the amazing job you have done. Thank you for everything, from morning sickness, to C-section and beyond. Happy Becoming-a-Mommy-Day, too. I love you.

“Daddy and his girls” — though the subjects differed as time went on.

Daddy’s Girls: We were pretty darned cute, if I do say so, myself.

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What DO I do?

What DO I do?

I prepare. I plan. I cook. I pour. I grab utensils. I feed. I nurse. I explore and adapt new and healthy recipes. I clean up. I wash dishes.
I teach. I entertain. I play. I listen. I speak. I read. I sign. I observe. I read out loud. I repeat. I encourage. I explain. I question. I ask questions I already know the answers to.
I do laundry. I fold clothes. I put clothes away. I retain single socks hoping their missing mate will one day reappear.
I dress baby. I dress toddler. I watch toddler put the outfit on the floor and pick out her own clothes instead. I comb hair. I sometimes attempt to comb hair but then give up. (It is clean, and I am not perfect.)
Sometimes I shower.
I grab all the hats, mittens, coats and boots I can haul around in one diaper bag.
Or, I pack all the swimsuits, towels, goggles, noodles, flip-flops and pool toys I can attach anywhere on my body along with my two kids.
I grocery shop. I look for good deals. I clip coupons. I sigh every time the cashier rings us out.
I change diapers. I potty train. I wipe little butts. I wipe noses. I suck out boogies (with an aspirator, of course!) I clean up big messes.
I chauffeur. I bribe. I plead. I barter. I pack snacks. Lots of snacks. I drive a messy car.
I have become an amateur-expert guide at the Zoo, the museums, the YMCA, the libraries, and most of the local parks.
I schedule play-dates. I make doctors’ and dentists’ appointments. I take them to said appointments and then report back to all the powers-that-be (The Grandmas) within a reasonable amount of time.
I clean our home. I brush/feed/walk and clean up after our dog.
I pick up or clean up endless streams of 5-second toy/food/poop explosions.
I drink lots of coffee. And tea. And hot chocolate. And sometimes wine.
I allow frustration to get the better of me. I cry. I sometimes raise my voice. I regret. I worry. I fear. I wonder. I doubt. I speculate. I compare. (I admit it.)

But I also smile. A lot. I laugh out loud, many times a day. I dance. I act silly. I run around. I get dizzy. I sing. I get creative. I make strange noises or pretend to fall down simply to get a laugh. I carry. I hold. I hug. I kiss. I make memories.
I love my job.

And here’s what I don’t do:
I don’t sleep much anymore. And I don’t get much time to myself. And we don’t go on luxurious vacations, not right now.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

(An important sidebar: I should mention here how much respect I have for those parents who do all of what I mentioned above either a) on top of a 40-hour work week, or b) by yourself. My hat goes off to you. Seriously.)

I am a mother. I am a mama. I am a (middle of the night) “Mawww-aahhhhhhm??”
I am a woman. I am a wife. I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am also a grand-daughter, a niece, a cousin, a daughter-in-law, a sister-in-law.
I am a friend. I am a neighbor. I am a former roommate. I am a former classmate. I am a former co-worker.

In short: I am a full-time mom, and a part-time, well … a part-time “everything else.”