A New Day

I was totally fine until the slide show. Chubby babies fading into smiling kids. Poignant music about choosing to dance  playing over the sound system.  Because we need a reminder that time is flying by. Holy cow, teachers. Why must you do this to us? Just once I’d like to see a slide show set to Vanilla Ice or NKOTB- still reminiscent of time gone by, but instead of sniffling and wiping my eyes I could giggle my way through the pictures. 

After getting control of my tears I started thinking. This is a milestone for me too. Come August, for the first time in over a decade, I will be without littles at home. Where’s my slide show?  Where’s my certificate? I have completed one entire season of parenting. I deserve a cookie reception. 

I frequently get asked what I’m going to do next year. I have no idea and I’m completely ok with that.  It doesn’t make sense to immediately jump in to what I was doing before I had my babies.  I’m not the same person I was then. I have different interests and have found new strengths. The one thing I do know is that I want whatever I do to benefit others. I won’t be happy wasting my days away. 

My plan is to be open and be still. God will show me what’s next. While I’m sad that the baby/little kid season of parenthood is over I’m pretty excited to see what’s next. Maybe when I’ve figured it out I’ll make a slide show. And set it to Eminem. 

One year

This day has been looming for weeks. A black cloud moving towards me from the distance. Just like when waiting for a storm I’ve been frantically preparing. I’m not sure there’s anything that could make it easier. Friday makes one year that you’ve been gone. 

My first instinct was to hide away and cocoon, but that doesn’t honor what you meant to me. I don’t want to focus on how much we’ve lost, but instead remember who you were before the dementia and health crisis. I want to smile through tears (which are unavoidable) and spend the day doing something you loved. I’ve decided that I’m going to fill my time with kids. I’m helping to chaperone a fifth grade activity for G and surprising O’s class with our foster kittens. Your entire adult life revolved around children both as a mother and grandmother and as a teacher. Spending my day in a school feels right. 

Mama, you made such an impact on everyone you met. I’ve been thinking a lot about your legacy and what you’ve passed on.  About how I can live in a way that honors the sacrifices you made. You broke so many cycles and set our family on a path free from what could have been. It matters to me that it be recognized and continued. 

If I had to pick one word to describe you it would be giver. I’ve never met someone who gave so freely. Your time and your attention were never truly yours as they were always focused on someone else. You made people feel like they mattered. You remembered small details like where someone grew up or their kids names. You listened. You taught me that listening is one of the greatest gifts you can give. Nothing compares to hearing and remembering someone’s story. 

You made everything beautiful. You took pride in making your home a place that provided sanctuary and peace. Flowers by the bedside, comfort foods waiting, a porch full of rocking chairs. You taught me that little things matter. Creating a space that shows your heart matters. 

I remember you taking over a classroom mid year. The teacher hadn’t been in good health and the room was a disaster. I came in one afternoon to find you organizing a cabinet. When I asked you why you would bother when it wasn’t your room you replied “I like imagining how this teacher will feel having an organized space waiting. It’s like a fresh start. It doesn’t matter that the mess isn’t mine. What matters is leaving it better than I found it.” You extended this to people as well. You were forever building others up. Sure you had your snarky moments (I learned from the best), but you always made sure people left your company feeling better than when they came. As a new mom this saved me so many times. “You were picked to be his mom”, “I’ve never seen a better mama”, and “you know your babies best” were frequent reminders. I hope I can pass on this peace to Laurel when her time comes. You taught me that joy and kindness are easily passed. Never hesitate if a kind word or deed comes to mind. 

Mama, I pray I can live in a way that makes you proud. You mattered. You are remembered. You are loved. 

I love you big as the sky,

Lissy 

Easter

Easter will make one year since I’ve seen you alive. You were carried in to the party. Your frame so weak and frail you could no longer walk. I took one look at you and it was if someone punched me. I pressed my back against the wall and tried to not collapse or worse cry.

After several minutes I made my way to your side.  I remember hugging you and as you reached for me watching your pants fall to the floor. I scooped them up and tried to cover our embarrassment with a joke about how you were taking your diet a little too far. 

How did this happen?

The rest of the day was a blur. I know a plate was made for you and pictures were taken.  I remember feeling myself spinning between a hurt so deep I couldn’t breathe and a rage so firey I scared myself. 

On the way home I relived the day a thousand times. Why did we all act like your appearance was normal? How did we manage to eat? You were so obviously malnourished. Why weren’t we telling you how much you mattered? That to lose you would be to lose our cornerstone? 

How did this happen?

That day was a turning point for me. Up to that time I had vacillated between polite distance- respecting dad’s need for privacy, deferring to his judgment- and being your advocate (albeit an unsuccessful one). That day I became frantic with the need to save you. I hounded dad to get you to a doctor. I scoured the internet for treatments. I cajoled, yelled, encouraged, fumed. 

Nothing changed except for you. You became even smaller. You retreated into yourself even further. You talked and cried to yourself. You stopped responding with anything close to appropriateness. We lost you for good two weeks later. 

When I look back on that time all I see is my failure.  Instead of fighting I should have been holding. Instead of searching I should have been comforting. I made so many wrong choices. 

I’m sorry, mama. I’m just so so sorry. 

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was mama’s favorite holiday. Before she got sick she loved hosting the whole family and would spend hours planning the meal and making her shopping lists. She took such pride in setting a beautiful table and in making sure family traditions were upheld. 

Mama’s beloved grandmother loved spiced peaches. She made them from scratch and were a staple at every holiday she hosted. Even after she died mama made sure there was a dish of the peaches at every Thanksgiving table. Hardly anyone ever ate them, but mama didn’t care. They held  space for her grandmother and brought her comfort on a day where her grandmother would be sorely missed. 

This year I’m including spiced peaches on my table in hopes they bring me comfort just as they did mama. A tiny remembrance for the women who came before me. A symbol of my commitment to hold onto the traditions that they valued and established. 

Happy Thanksgiving! 

Needing

It’s been five months since you left. It’s not gotten any easier, it’s just become different. There’s this nagging feeling that something isn’t right. That there’s a piece of me slightly askew and no matter what I do I can’t make it fit back in place. Most of the time I can handle it. I grit my teeth, put my head down, and just deal. But  there are moments I just can’t. I’m in the midst of a time where all I want is you. I still need you. 

One of my sweet boys is struggling. I am particularly protective over this child. He has the same ability I do to plaster a smile on his face and plow through the day. Once he steps off the bus the facade falls and all his insecurities come rushing out. I am working with the school to remedy the situation, but the careful discussion and calculated words spoken at our meetings have left me bruised and lonely. I desperately need to hear the words that I’m making the right choices. That I’m correct in what I’m thinking.  I need your experience as both a teacher and a mother. I still need you. 

I’m fostering a litter of high needs kittens. They are battling a congenital issue that makes it hard for them to keep food down and absorb nutrients. One of them has to be held upright for 20 minutes after every feeding. Despite all my effort and research they still aren’t thriving and I feel like we are constantly teetering on the edge. I so badly want them to make it. I need your rescuers intuition. I still need you. 

The twins must be in the midst of a developmental leap. They aren’t sleeping well and are frustrated by the tiniest things. Rhodes has taken to bursting into tears while clenching his fists and screaming at the top of his voice. Laurel has discovered stomping off and slamming doors. My nerves are frayed and I completely lost my cool yesterday. I feel so inadequate. How do I mother these five little hearts when my own still hasn’t completely recovered?  I need your words of encouragement. I need to hear stories about how I frustrated you at their age. I need to hear that I’m a good mom even if I yell sometimes. I still need you. 

You left us too soon, mama. I wasn’t ready. I’m still not. I still need you. 

Birthday

Today Tana reminded me that my birthday is on Saturday. I had completely forgotten. In the back of my mind I knew it was coming, but only two days away??? It will be my first one without you. 

I’ve been thinking about past birthdays. The ones you made so special... Trips to the circus, brand new digital watches, white cakes with pink flowers. After I lived on my own you and daddy would call early in the morning and sing me awake with a laughter filled version of Happy Birthday. We’d talk about my plans for the day and you’d remind me that I wasn’t really a year older until the time of my birth: 9:30 am. 

After I became a mother I learned how different those birthdays must have been for you. Every one so bittersweet. Spending the day remembering every stage of labor and reliving the sweet relief of finally having your baby in your arms. I learned that those morning calls were as much for you as they were for me. They were your way of reconnecting with the baby girl grown up. 

Last year my birthday was a disaster. A cancelled dinner and a hurried visit tainted the taste of a store bought cake. I scolded myself at the time: “You’re turning 42. You don’t need your mama to celebrate with you.” But I did. And I still do. I’m turning 43 and I need my mama to celebrate with me. 

I wish I could have a do over of last year. I’d throw my arms around you and thank you for the cake. I’d be thankful for the short visit instead of wishing for more. I’d ask you to tell me the story of my birth one more time. We’d laugh about daddy talking cars with the nurse during your contractions. We’d compare labors and reminisce about you being there for Will’s birth. I’d make you take a birthday picture with me ignoring your pleas to put the camera down. We’d light my clown candle -the one you saved from my first birthday and lit every single birthday after that. I’d savor every single second I had with you. 

 I imagine Saturday will be a day full of mixed emotions. Celebrating with my babies but missing you. That seems to be the way of things right now. Being truly happy in the moment, but always having a nagging feeling that a piece of me is missing.  I have my clown candle and I’ll be sure to light it.  It hasn’t missed a birthday yet.  And even though I know wishes are silly, I’ll be thinking of you when I blow it out. 

Help

Yesterday I shared some pictures of how we celebrated the Fourth of July. We had a fun day and it felt really good to smile and laugh with our friends and my dad. Mama was mentioned several times, but I never felt overly sad. It was, for the most part, an easy, happy day. 

There was one portion of our day that I didn’t share in my happy Facebook/Instagram posts. It wasn’t included because I feel like it deserves more attention than what I can give in a social media post. 

Most of my friends know that I foster kittens for the City of Georgetown Animal Shelter. I chose this shelter because I read an article in the Williamson County Sun about their need for fosters. Over the years I’ve realized how lucky I was to have stumbled upon this particular shelter. It’s an amazing place full of people that genuinely love the animals in their care. They work hard to provide their charges with enrichment and stimulation (this is so important in preventing behavior problems and depression). They seek out training opportunities for both their employees and their volunteers. They evaluate each and every animal multiple times and council potential adopters about animals they feel will best fit their home and family. It’s these reasons and so many more that I continue to put so much of my heart into working with this one shelter. 

The animal rescue community is a tight knit group. The people are passionate about their mission and love to talk about their experiences. News of the Williamson County Animal Shelter’s plan to turn a livestock arena into temporary animal housing traveled fast. The county is expanding and remodeling their shelter and in order to speed up construction (thus saving tax payers money) they needed to move ALL of their dogs out of their current spot. At first there was much excitement about the creativity and ingenuity the county was using to save money and fix the problem of where to place their dogs. The Canine Corral seemed to be a quirky solution to a logistical mess. Then the Corral was opened and the tone of the discussions changed. There were rumblings of concern about cleanliness and disease containment, about temperature control, about stress on the animals. Where talk was once positive and enthusiastic it was now disgusted and concerned. 

As we were leaving the Fourth of July festivities we had to pass right by the Corral to get to our car. I decided to take the opportunity to see what all the fuss was about. Surely it couldn’t be as bad as I was hearing. The kids are always up for window shopping for puppies so off we went. 

* The next section contains pictures that I took. There were several signs saying pictures and video aren’t allowed. My concern for the dogs housed there was greater than my need to follow their rule. Please be aware that you may want to scroll past them if you are squeamish. 

The first thing we noticed was the noise. Rhodes immediately covered his ears and commented that it was LOUD. It was more than loud. It was painful. The whirring from huge industrial fans, blaring patriotic music, and the barks and shrieks from the dogs combined to create a hurricane of sound that was both overwhelming and agitating. A shelter employee tried to explain to the kids that they weren’t allowed to put their fingers in the kennels. We had to resort to gestures and charades to finally understand the rule because it was impossible to hear her. It was THAT loud. 

Then there was the smell. A horrid combination of urine, feces, and bleach. A different employee was walking around pouring straight bleach on random spots on the concrete floor. At the time I assumed the spots were urine. As we continued our tour I realized it could have been blood she was treating. I took this picture of one of the places where we found blood splattered on the ground. I never saw what caused the blood. A dog fight? Was someone bit? 

The humidity and heat were stifling.  The bleach fumes and the temperature caused Will start wheezing. This thermometer was attached to one of the kennels. 

There were huge industrial fans placed sporadically among the kennels. They did help get the air moving, but did little to cool things down. 

Most of the dogs looked healthy, but there were several that should have been removed from the adoption floor. This poor pup was obviously sick. There was vomit on his kennel floor and all over his bed. He was pacing between his bed and the door to his kennel in what looked like distress. This should have been noticed and cleaned in the time we were there. It wasn’t. 

We left soon after seeing that dog. The kids were getting upset and I was worried about Will. 

We have all felt the growing pains our community is currently experiencing: traffic is bad, the wait time for a table in our favorite restaurant has increased, lines at the grocery store are awful. These are all minor inconveniences and we deal with them because we know good things are coming (Yay for Zoe’s Kitchen and Jason’s Deli).  While The Williamson County Animal Shelter is noble in its quest to grow with the community, I can’t help but think it’s at the expense of the animals currently in their care.  The treatment of these dogs shouldn’t be considered a growing pain. It isn’t an inconvenience that they can’t breathe due to bleach fumes. They shouldn’t be subjected to noise pollution so intense it made one of my children cry. They aren’t sacrifices to be made for the greater good. 

One way to start improving the conditions for these animals is to get people talking. Our community cares. It is full of compassionate people who I have to believe wouldn’t condone this mistreatment if they knew it was happening. 

Here are several ways you can spread the word:

Call or email The Williamson County Sun.

512 930 4824 Ask them to do a story about The Canine Corral. 

Write a letter to the editor of The Williamson County Sun 

Letters@wilcosun.com

Call Department of State Health Services, PHR7

Phone: 254-778-6744 

Call Williamson County Animal Control 

512 864 8282 

Ask to speak to a supervisor and make a complaint.