"It's gonna be a scorcher today." I can still hear her voice as she reminded us to bring a hat. The blazing heat never stopped us from doing we wanted to, and neither did she. But, she would never not remind us. "Bring a hat, it's hot out there!"
Recently, I feel as though I have not thought of you as deeply as I usually do. If I'm being perfectly honest, it's partially because it's painful and I avoid it. It's partially because so much has changed since you left and I am still trying to find my sea legs; trying to find some sense of equilibrium. So much of that vanished after you left and for so many of us, we work hard everyday to get back on track they way you would want us to.
You see, you're all around. In fact, when we need a sunny day for Kennywood, or for a baseball game, or to play on the beach, we pray to you. Thanks, by the way. Mother Nature got nothin' on you. All of my stories from my childhood I share with my own children have you in them. From crunchy Florida grass to the "son of a b&*%$..." dog escaping. From dinners with a party of twenty (or more), to you bringing donuts to any house that you would visit, all the way to your swimming pool where miraculously there was always watermelon cut up in a bowl. You're everywhere and I feel you. You're such a part of me. You are a part of my childhood, my upbringing, my adulthood, and ultimately my motherhood.
What got me was when my Evi wanted to ride the "really fast cars" and the beach boardwalk "amusement park" all alone. This is not your Kennywood, Six Flags, etc...This is one of those that you say a little prayer each time you ride something, hoping that you do not fly into the the night's sky becoming an example of what never to do on vacation. I certainly could not go with her on this one. You would understand why. Forward. Forward. Forward. Backward. Backward. Backward. And all of this, REALLY fast. Deduct twenty-five years and I would be right there, too. So, Evi decided to ride solo so that her brother and her dad could ride together. I looked over at her, my heart pounding. Is she okay in there? Did she fasten her belt tight enough? Did that teenage worker check her? Is she going to get scared on there all ALONE? She looks over. She's caught me red handed. I am sure that she can smell my fear and is going to have a heart, jump off and dive into my arms. And then there it was: The biggest, toothless, happiest smile in all of the world. So happy. So seven. So beautiful. I smiled back, took a breath and moved my attention to my little one, who has grown brave this year.
Last year, my Eli was on one ticket boat rides and motorcycles. This year we are on five ticket rocking pirate ships and the really fast cars. He catches me gazing at him and in thought. He matches me and looks back. And there it is: A triple clap, a cheer, and the sweetest smile. He reaches back quickly for his dad's arm. This is his first time in these really fast cars, don't forget. So excited. So proud. So in the moment. So beautiful.
I think that you really enjoyed your kids. You would chase them and whack them with your shoe when they were misbehaving, but would always crack up telling us the story. You always reminded us that "they're babies or kids". You assured each of us that they would NOT go to kindergarten with their pacifiers-or their "beebeelas", in Greek. You always had awesome cereals and treats on the counter when we would come to spend weeks with you, in rotation, over the summer. You let us bring our friends on vacation or to your house on a regular basis and always treated them as your own. You always wanted the best for us and for us-in every way possible. You would sacrifice your own happiness to assure this. You found the good in everybody, even in people who had trouble finding the good within themselves. You treated everybody equally-all shapes and sizes. all walks of life, in good times and in bad. You were so wise about so many things and recognized truth.
I wanted to tell you that I am enjoying my children and life has been good to me. I'm really lucky and fortunate, and when I feel that sense of calm and admiration and peace, I know that it's you. Because that's what you wanted for me. The truth is that we are all broken in some way (maybe even in many ways), but one thing that you emulated was resiliency. Even though sometimes guarded and private, you were resilient in the most noble of ways.
So this summer, I have given up on limiting popsicles (for the most part) and I bought a box of Lucky Charms while on vacation. You'll be pleased to know that the kids successfully hand picked each marshmallow out as though they were precious rare gems. I've watched my kids play and swim together. I have jumped in waves and got out some of the deepest, darkest ice cream stains you've ever seen. I am talking to my family and asking them questions. You'll be proud to know that I have even calmed down a bit. Like you said, "it was a rough two years, let's be honest." You were right, I needed your reminders on so many things. Thank you. This still makes me laugh every time I think of it.
Being a mom is tough. You had six children. Six! You were amazingly simple and not complicated. You were relaxed in the most important of ways and thorough in the most significant and meaningful ways. You had an endless energy that was like no other. It was as though you sailed into grandmotherhood from motherhood without missing a beat. You were a mother and a grandmother to so many, even those not actually related to you. To you, everybody was family. It was your calling to love and you did. You really did. We all miss you so very much.
I'm so happy that the orange and blue freeze pops on the porch got to me to stop and really, really think of you. You're my best inspiration for writing. I am so happy that you filled me up today and watched over me. I am eternally thankful for the sunny days and for you keeping my children. My nose will always and forever tingle (like it does when I'm going to cry) when I think of you or say "Grammy Jean" when starting one of my many stories about you. But, I will float on heavenly clouds when I hear one of my own children reference you or share something that I have told them about you. I will feel joyous when they tell me about a memory that THEY have with you or ask me something about you. Thank you for giving them real memories with you. I will always share with them my time with you. It was so precious.
I will continue to ask every night for you to come visit me in a dream. If it doesn't happen, that's okay. If you can, please keep doing what you're doing.-your blessings are all around and your family feels them. Thank you for continuing to inspire me and for motivating me. It's amazing the presence you have even when I can't see you.
I miss and love you more than I could ever write, sing, or speak. I wish that I could have five minutes to hug you and hear your laugh. But since I can't, I'll have you know, that if one of my kids misbehave, I'll chase them with a shoe. That should make you crack up, for sure.
Recently, I feel as though I have not thought of you as deeply as I usually do. If I'm being perfectly honest, it's partially because it's painful and I avoid it. It's partially because so much has changed since you left and I am still trying to find my sea legs; trying to find some sense of equilibrium. So much of that vanished after you left and for so many of us, we work hard everyday to get back on track they way you would want us to.
You see, you're all around. In fact, when we need a sunny day for Kennywood, or for a baseball game, or to play on the beach, we pray to you. Thanks, by the way. Mother Nature got nothin' on you. All of my stories from my childhood I share with my own children have you in them. From crunchy Florida grass to the "son of a b&*%$..." dog escaping. From dinners with a party of twenty (or more), to you bringing donuts to any house that you would visit, all the way to your swimming pool where miraculously there was always watermelon cut up in a bowl. You're everywhere and I feel you. You're such a part of me. You are a part of my childhood, my upbringing, my adulthood, and ultimately my motherhood.
What got me was when my Evi wanted to ride the "really fast cars" and the beach boardwalk "amusement park" all alone. This is not your Kennywood, Six Flags, etc...This is one of those that you say a little prayer each time you ride something, hoping that you do not fly into the the night's sky becoming an example of what never to do on vacation. I certainly could not go with her on this one. You would understand why. Forward. Forward. Forward. Backward. Backward. Backward. And all of this, REALLY fast. Deduct twenty-five years and I would be right there, too. So, Evi decided to ride solo so that her brother and her dad could ride together. I looked over at her, my heart pounding. Is she okay in there? Did she fasten her belt tight enough? Did that teenage worker check her? Is she going to get scared on there all ALONE? She looks over. She's caught me red handed. I am sure that she can smell my fear and is going to have a heart, jump off and dive into my arms. And then there it was: The biggest, toothless, happiest smile in all of the world. So happy. So seven. So beautiful. I smiled back, took a breath and moved my attention to my little one, who has grown brave this year.
Last year, my Eli was on one ticket boat rides and motorcycles. This year we are on five ticket rocking pirate ships and the really fast cars. He catches me gazing at him and in thought. He matches me and looks back. And there it is: A triple clap, a cheer, and the sweetest smile. He reaches back quickly for his dad's arm. This is his first time in these really fast cars, don't forget. So excited. So proud. So in the moment. So beautiful.
I think that you really enjoyed your kids. You would chase them and whack them with your shoe when they were misbehaving, but would always crack up telling us the story. You always reminded us that "they're babies or kids". You assured each of us that they would NOT go to kindergarten with their pacifiers-or their "beebeelas", in Greek. You always had awesome cereals and treats on the counter when we would come to spend weeks with you, in rotation, over the summer. You let us bring our friends on vacation or to your house on a regular basis and always treated them as your own. You always wanted the best for us and for us-in every way possible. You would sacrifice your own happiness to assure this. You found the good in everybody, even in people who had trouble finding the good within themselves. You treated everybody equally-all shapes and sizes. all walks of life, in good times and in bad. You were so wise about so many things and recognized truth.
I wanted to tell you that I am enjoying my children and life has been good to me. I'm really lucky and fortunate, and when I feel that sense of calm and admiration and peace, I know that it's you. Because that's what you wanted for me. The truth is that we are all broken in some way (maybe even in many ways), but one thing that you emulated was resiliency. Even though sometimes guarded and private, you were resilient in the most noble of ways.
So this summer, I have given up on limiting popsicles (for the most part) and I bought a box of Lucky Charms while on vacation. You'll be pleased to know that the kids successfully hand picked each marshmallow out as though they were precious rare gems. I've watched my kids play and swim together. I have jumped in waves and got out some of the deepest, darkest ice cream stains you've ever seen. I am talking to my family and asking them questions. You'll be proud to know that I have even calmed down a bit. Like you said, "it was a rough two years, let's be honest." You were right, I needed your reminders on so many things. Thank you. This still makes me laugh every time I think of it.
Being a mom is tough. You had six children. Six! You were amazingly simple and not complicated. You were relaxed in the most important of ways and thorough in the most significant and meaningful ways. You had an endless energy that was like no other. It was as though you sailed into grandmotherhood from motherhood without missing a beat. You were a mother and a grandmother to so many, even those not actually related to you. To you, everybody was family. It was your calling to love and you did. You really did. We all miss you so very much.
I'm so happy that the orange and blue freeze pops on the porch got to me to stop and really, really think of you. You're my best inspiration for writing. I am so happy that you filled me up today and watched over me. I am eternally thankful for the sunny days and for you keeping my children. My nose will always and forever tingle (like it does when I'm going to cry) when I think of you or say "Grammy Jean" when starting one of my many stories about you. But, I will float on heavenly clouds when I hear one of my own children reference you or share something that I have told them about you. I will feel joyous when they tell me about a memory that THEY have with you or ask me something about you. Thank you for giving them real memories with you. I will always share with them my time with you. It was so precious.
I will continue to ask every night for you to come visit me in a dream. If it doesn't happen, that's okay. If you can, please keep doing what you're doing.-your blessings are all around and your family feels them. Thank you for continuing to inspire me and for motivating me. It's amazing the presence you have even when I can't see you.
I miss and love you more than I could ever write, sing, or speak. I wish that I could have five minutes to hug you and hear your laugh. But since I can't, I'll have you know, that if one of my kids misbehave, I'll chase them with a shoe. That should make you crack up, for sure.