My Mom called me last weekend to tell me that my Grandpa is not doing well. He’s swollen, filled with fluid due to a weak heart. The doctor told him that he doesn’t have much time left and that he’ll most likely die in his sleep. This isn’t the first time I’ve been told he’s very sick and it’s not the first time I’ve tried to mentally prepare for his death. But each time, he’s managed to pull through and keep on ticking. This time though… This time just seems different.
He can’t see anymore and he can’t move around much (except to go to the bathroom and to doctor’s visits). He told me that he sits in his chair all day and thinks about me and all of the memories we’ve had.
“I have such good memories of you, Y.” He said. “I sit here all day and I think about you and all the times we’ve had. I have had a good life, I have a good family.”
I tried to respond to tell him all of the ways that he’s impacted my life and how I couldn’t have survived my teenagers years without him but as I went to say the words, I could feel the lump in my throat and the tears welling up in my eyes. I took a deep breath, fought back the tears and instead of telling him everything that he means to me, I simply told him that I have wonderful memories too and that I love him.
My heart breaks when I think of living in a world in which he no longer exists. And at the same time, my heart breaks when I think of him sitting in that chair all day long, unable to get around, unable to see, laboring for every breath.
I think of him sitting in that chair thinking of me and I break down and weep.

Oh, Sweet Opa, how I love him and how incredibly blessed I’ve been to have him in my life for as long as I have.

There are little things that my family does that really aren’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but they drive me crazy on a day to day basis because HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU THESE THINGS?!
THIS is one of those things. I can not tell you the anger that I feel deep in my soul when I see the toilet paper on top of the holder, or on the bathroom counter. Again, not really a big deal, but when I repeatedly ask people to kindly replace the roll when they are finished and they repeatedly ignore me… WANT!TO!PUNCH!HOLES!IN!WALLS!
Oprah would say, it’s not about replacing the toilet paper.. It’s about something bigger than that. But you know what? It really is about REPLACING THE DAMN TOILET PAPER.
Surely, you can understand my rage. Yes?

As I was swinging Gabby in the swing that Tony hung from the tree in the front yard, I started to think about how much I’m going to miss that tree.
So many happy memories revolve around that tree.
Sitting under the cool shade it provided while eating ice cream on warm, Sunday afternoons.
Playing hide and seek with my kids.
Blowing bubbles with my daughter.
Raking up leaves into big piles so the kids could jump into them.
Watching my kids have fun with water in the summer time.
Sitting underneath it while watching my boys shoot hoops.
SO many wonderful memories have been made around that big, beautiful tree.
I started to cry.
I’ve cried a lot since finding out we’d have to move from this house and it has nothing to do with the house itself and everything to do with the memories that have been made inside of these walls.
Ethan’s just as upset as I am, if not more so, because of the very same reasons. This morning when he was finished brushing his teeth as he was getting ready for school, he came out of the bathroom with tears in his eyes.
“This is the last time I’ll brush my teeth before school in this bathroom, Mom.”
And then he broke down and sobbed like a baby.
I hugged him as tight as I could and I told him that I know how he feels.
Because I feel the same way.
I didn’t realize how deeply it would hurt to tear the kid’s bedrooms apart. With each picture that I took off of the wall, a little piece of my heart was yanked from my chest because someone else is going to be sleeping in their rooms and the thought of that makes me so sick that I could puke.
When I see my youngest son so upset about not living here anymore, when he cries because he’s “never going to sleep in his bedroom ever again” I am reminded of when my Grandparents sold their house and how devastated that I was.
I loved my Grandparents house. It was just down the street from my mom’s house and it was like a second home to me. I spent almost every weekend there. It’s funny, all of these years later, I still can close my eyes and remember exactly how that house looked, and how it smelled and how happy I felt when I was there.
I was in high school when they decided to sell it. I couldn’t believe it, I couldn’t understand the idea of NEVER being able to go there again. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that I’d never be able to swim in her pool again, that I’d never be able to bake with my Grandma in that kitchen, that I’d never sit on the porch swing ever again.
Oh, and I couldn’t bear the thought of some stranger living in that house. I cried for days.
The day that my Grandparents moved out was one of the saddest days of my life.
I was there, helping them pack and clean and I cried the entire time.
I remember sitting on the coach and picking up a piece of paper and a pen. I began to write a letter to the new owners of the house.
“I love this house so much, I’ve had so many great memories here, please, take very good care of it because I love it so much and am so sad that I can’t ever spend the night here again.”
I taped notes like that all over the house. It helped me so much to write my feelings out and to tell the people who would be moving in how deeply I loved that house.
I feel compelled to do the same thing here, before we leave for good tomorrow.
“Hi,
I know this house is old and ugly, trust me, I’ve hated it for a long time, but this is the place where we’ve raised our family for the past 10 years. When we moved in, our first born son was only 4 years old and I was pregnant with our second son.
You see that window right there in the living room? When we first moved in there, my little 4 year old would stand there, barely able to see out and he’d watch the neighbor kids ride their bikes. He wanted so badly to play with them, but he was so little, I was afraid he’d not fit in with the kids.
But he did and one of those little boys, Mikey, became his very best friend and every single day, they sit on that wall right there and talk.
Are you a Laker fan? I hope so, because I sure would hate to know that you’re going to paint over that purple and gold stripe that my husband spent hours on. That was Ethan’s room. He loved that room more than he loves the Lakers, and that’s a whole damn lot. I spent a lot of nights sitting at the foot of his bed right there, rubbing his little head to feet to help him fall asleep when he was having a bad dream. Sometimes, I’d fall asleep there next to him and in the morning, he’d wake up and thank me for making him feel safe.
That purple room was our daughter’s room. We spent so much time and money on that room, because we wanted it to be perfect for our unexpected joy. I imagine you’re going to tear the pretty border off of the walls. A lot of work went into putting that border up. My husband would wet it and I’d follow behind him with a blow dryer to make sure it dried quick and stuck to the wall just the way it was supposed to. We would talk about our little girl and what we thought she’d look like and how we still couldn’t believe we were having a daughter seven years after we swore we were done having kids. My little girl loved that room so much and when we had taken all of her furniture out, she cried so hard and said “But I NEED my dresser, daddy, please! Put it back! I need it so bad.” And I cried, and she cried, because no matter how many times I tried telling her that we were moving to a new house, she just didn’t understand.
The master bedroom, that was our room. Our daughter was conceived in that room, on the floor, in front of the bathroom.
Oh, that bathroom. We used to play hide and seek with our boys when they were little and we’d always hide in the tub in there. It was so funny, because they’d get so freaked out when they couldn’t find us, and my oldest son would beg his little brother to “go look first” because he was too scared. Me and my husband would laugh so hard, because it was cute. I guess you had to be there.
There was a lot of love in this house. So much love that as I’m writing this letter, I feel as though my heart might explode because MY GOD, there’s so much love in this house and I hope you feel it and I hope you appreciate just how many wonderful, amazing, sometimes heartbreaking, but mostly beautiful memories were made in this house.

Last night my parents watched the kids at our house while we went out with some friends. I woke up this morning with a bit of a hangover and found some NOT so subliminal messages from Pastor Dad.
I wonder if it was really a “mistake” that he “accidently” used “permenant” marker instead of the dry erase marker?
I love my dad

1972, in my Grandpa’s arms

2006, my daughter, neslted safely in the arms of my Grandpa
Isn’t life beautiful? It is so beautiful.
Grandpa’s doing better. So much better, they sent him home. I just called Grandma and she said he “ok” but she’s pretty sure that “he’s on his way out.” She thinks he’ll “stick around for Christmas” but won’t be around long after that.
Have I ever told you that my Grandma is the strongest, most blunt and MOST HILARIOUS Grandma to have ever lived? She doesn’t mince words, which can be VERY EMBARASSING when out in the general public with her, but my God, she’s funny.
I’ll never forget the story she told me of when she went back to Germany to visit her family. She attended a very large church while visiting and decided to get up and speak to the congregation. She told the people of how hard life was when she was young, how hard they had to work for every little bit they had and then, she proceeded to GO OFF on “those young, unappreciative brats.”
“When I was a young girl, WE WOULD SCOOP WATER OUT OF THE GUTTERS WHEN WE WERE THIRSTY and you young’ins walk around with your fancy, expensive water bottles, thinking your life is so hard. YOU PEOPLE DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO SUFFER.”
God, I wish I had been there.
The best stories EVER are from when her and Grandpa worked at “The Camp” with “The Koreans.” Oh, how Grandma loved the Koreans.
As funny as it is to me to hear the stories, I can promise you that it was NOT fun for the people who worked there because from what I can gather, my Grandma was slightly verbally abusive. Especially to “the young’ins” because “the young’ins” did NOT KNOW HOW TO STIR THE SOUP, MAN.
Grandma is very religious, very Nazerene. (Is The Nazerine still a religion? Or is my Grandma the Last Naz Standing? I do not know much about The Nazerine faith, but I do remember that dancing is (was?) FORBIDDEN.) She loves to watch Catholic TV, but only to laugh at how misguided those poor Catholics are. (She does not, however, like to watch basketball, because “those basketball players are tatted out, overpaid thugs who sexually assault women and smoke Marijuana.”)
I called her right now to ask her if she needs help with Grandpa. “No, I can manage him just fine, I don’t need any help.”
That’s how she is. She’ll NEVER admit to needing help. She’s strong, probably the toughest woman I’ve ever known, but I can’t help but think at almost 90 years old, she may truly need help but is unable to accept it.
Sigh.
The good news is that Gramps is getting better. Thanks for the well wishes and prayers for him. Now, maybe you can say a little prayer for Grandma Wilma. She’s going to need them, taking care of that grumpy old man.

When I was in Kindergarten, my Grandpa would pick me up from school every Wednesday to take me somewhere fun. Usually, we’d go miniature golfing, or to the trampolines. Sometimes, he’d take me to the donut shop next door to where he worked, or sometimes, to the bar where all of his buddies hung out.
I remember driving in his station wagon, standing in the backseat, my arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “I love you, Grandpa.” I’d say. “I love you too.” He’d say back.
My Grandpa used to drink a lot and from what I’ve heard, he was a mean drunk. My Grandpa hasn’t had a drink in over 30 years because of his love for me. He says that he stopped drinking because I didn’t like the smell of beer. I once asked him if he loved Jesus and if so, why did he drink beer? He stopped drinking beer that day and hasn’t had a drink of any kind since.
My Grandpa always used to tell me that I was his favorite grandchild, because I was his first grandchild. I’ve always known that I had a special place in his heart. I can’t tell you how much that’s meant to me over the years, knowing that my Grandpa thinks so highly of me.
One year, for Christmas, I asked my Grandparents not to buy me any presents, but instead, to fill out a “memory” book that I had bought for each of them. They agreed and on Christmas morning, I could barely stand the excitement. I wanted to read what they had to say, how they felt about me, how they met and fell in love, what their favorite childhood memories were.
To this day, those books are the best present I’ve ever received. I sobbed like a baby as I read through both of them. One thing in particular that my Grandpa wrote still makes me cry every time I read it. Even more so today, as he lay in a hospital bed with a blood infection, IV’s pumping medication through his tired, old body.

“The first time I held you in my arms… I felt like life was finally worth living”

.
There I go with the crying again.
My Grandma called me to tell me he’s not doing well and that he keeps asking for me. I was going to go see him this morning, but Tony and the boys want to go, so I’m going to wait until they get home from school/work. I don’t want to see him hooked up to IV’s and in pain, but I know I HAVE to see him.
The year I got engaged, the doctors didn’t think he’d live longer than a year. I was sick with worry that he wouldn’t see me get married.
Not only did he live to see me get married, he’s lived to see all three of my children and oh, how he loves them. My God, he loves them. He especially loves Gabby. Perhaps because she reminds him of the little girl who loved nothing more than cruising with him in his station wagon, singing songs about Jesus while wrapping her arms tightly around his neck because she loved him more than anything in the whole wide world.
I still do and I always will. I just pray to God that he gets better, because I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet. Selfish? Of course it is. But he’s the only Grandpa that I’ve ever really known and I can’t even begin to imagine my life without him in it.

This is not the greatest picture I’ve ever taken. The lighting is bad, there isn’t any beautiful scenery. Most people wouldn’t even give it a second look, I’m sure. And yet to me? It’s probably one of the most beautiful pictures of my family that I’ve ever seen.
I love it. Love. Love. Love. I love it for so many reasons.
The look on Ethan’s face. I’ve seen that look many times. That annoyed, disapproving look. I can only imagine that as I was snapping the shot, he was saying something like “MOM! Are you kidding me? Another picture? Who takes pictures in an elevator anyway? That’s so dumb.” And look at his hair. He has the “Eddie Munster” look going on. He used to do that shit on purpose. He got sick of “fighting” the widows peek and much to my dismay, made a decision to embrace it, to become one with it, to let the peek fall where it may. Oh, how I love that kid.
Andrew. My first baby. This picture was taken before he went “All Pubescent**” on me. He still had the chunky face, the nervous habit of playing with his hands and the “I LOVE SPENDING TIME WITH MY FAMILY SO DANG MUCH” smile on his face. He still loves spending time with his family, he’s just too cool to let it show as freely. You know how teenagers are, all growing hair in places where the sun don’t shine, thinking their too cool for school. Or for bowling with their parents, or for shouting “I love you” back to their mom when she yells it as she drops them off in front of junior high school.
(Funny story about that. It just hit me last night as we were eating dinner that my son, my first baby, will be going to HIGH SCHOOL NEXT YEAR. I shouted out “Oh my God! You’re in EIGHT GRADE, which means, you’re going to be a freshman in high school next year. NO! NO! That can’t be true… how is that possible?!” To which my son rolled his eyes and said “Oh great, here comes the Water Works.” And man, was he right. I couldn’t stop crying and CRAP! I’m crying again now.)
I do believe that the sweetest thing captured in this photo is the love captured between my daughter and her daddy. It reminds me of something that I wrote when she was an infant.

You are looking at the greatest joy in my life right now.
My husband holding our daughter.
The way she smiles at him. The way she grabs his neck and pulls herself close to him. The way she giggles when he looks at her. The way she just loves him and the way he loves her right back times 1000.
There are no words to describe the happiness and fufillment I feel when I watch them together.
We’ll see how true that is when she’s 15 and I tell her “No!” and she’s all “DADDY SAID I COULD… SO SCREW YOU!”
But until that fine day, I will enjoy watching the two of them together, her totally owning him and him loving every minute of it.

Not a day goes by that my husband doesn’t say “She’s the sunshine of my life, Y.” Not a day goes by that she doesn’t squeel for joy when she sees his car coming up the street after a long day of work. Not a day goes by that she doesn’t make him, Mr.I’mTooToughToCry, tear up from her sweetness. They have a special bond and being able to see it so clearly in this picture is the most beautiful thing to me.
Every night, when we lay in bed, my husband thanks me for my children and I thank him for being such an amazing father and sometimes we cry because we know that we are incredibly blessed to have those 3 beautiful human beings in our life.
I never thought when I took that picture on that hot day in September that one day, on a day that I needed it most, it would remind me of what matters the most.
Don’t let the balance in my checking account fool you. I’m rich, people. I’m so filthy rich.
[/The Cheese&trade]
(brought to you by Love Thursday.)
**More on THAT later, because, pooberty is gross.

I’ve only seen a couple pictures of my husband as a baby, and only ONE of him as a child. So, when my mother in law gave me this picture today, I freaked out at the cuteness and I started crying. CRYING! And I still cry everytime I look at it.
I CAN NOT STAND HOW CUTE HE IS IN THAT PICTURE.
I can’t stop crying because of how damn cute he was and how cute he still is and how I can’t believe someone that damn cute grew up and fell in love with ME.
NO WONDER OUR KIDS ARE SO DAMN CUTE! LOOK AT THAT FACE.
I can’t explain what I feel when I look at that picture. It’s like, everytime I look at it, I get all crazy inside and say things like “Oh my God! That little boy grew up to be the father of my children!!”
When I look at it, I see a little bit of Andrew, a whole lot of Ethan and I see GABBY’S MOUTH!

That little girl right there used to dream of the man she’d marry and of the beautiful children that man would give her and of how happy those children would make the two of them and how they’d grow old together and watch their grandchildren play on their front porch while they sat in their porch swing holding their little, fragile old hands… And OH MY GOD, that cute little boy right there is that man!
Why in the hell is that one little picture of my Little Beaner turning me into a giant, emotional CHEESE FACTORY?
Why is it making me want to run to him when I see him and kiss him all over and tell him that I love him so much that it hurts because OH MY GOD HE WAS THE CUTEST LITTLE BOY I’VE EVER SEEN BESIDES THE TWO THAT CAME OUT OF MY VAGINA!?
I have no idea, but man, he’s not going to know what hit him when he walks through that door because I’m going to jump on him, wrap my legs around him, kiss him all over and tell him that I feel like the luckiest woman in the world to be married to THE CUTEST MAN IN THE WORLD.

Today is the day that I celebrate the man who I made three beautiful children with. The man who goes to work everyday without complaining to provide for our children. The man who has taught my boys to respect women, to be responsible, to think for themselves, to be wise in the decisions they make. The man who has taught them all about fishing, how to load and shoot a rifle. The man who will stop whatever he is doing to fix a flat tire for his own boys or any of the 30 kids in the neighborhood, the man who will get up at 2am to clean vomit up after his boys didn’t make it to the toilet because he knows “his wife” has a weak stomach and can’t do it. The man goes without new clothes, who puts off getting new glasses that he desperately needs so that his children do not go without. The man who never had a father of his own to model himself after, but instead of being bitter, chose to become the best father he knew how to be.
He is AWESOME. My children are so blessed to have him for a father, and I feel so damn lucky to been the woman he chose to have children with.
Today is also the day that one of our children was born.
Eight years ago today, Ethan Michael came into our lives at 2:47pm. He was the funniest looking (to put it nicely) baby I had ever seen. Within a few months, he turned out to be one of the cutest babies in the history of babies and I have spent most my life trying to not bite and squeeze him to death, because he is THAT cute.
I’m trying really hard to not throw a tantrum like I did on Andrew’s birthday. It’s not easy, because I HATE how fast they’re growing. But that’s life. That’s how it works. You give birth, you do your best to raise them, and suddenly, you blink your eyes and they’re all grown up. It truly is bittersweet.

Happy Birthday, monkeybutt.
And finally, today is the day I celebrate my father. A man who loves God with all of his heart. A man who “practices what he preaches.” He loves his family and has made many sacrifices for us. My relationship with my dad wasn’t always a good one. There were many things I resented him for, but in the past few years, I’ve come to understand what a precious, amazing man my dad is. All of the things he did for us, he did from a place of love and wanting to protect us. He’s admitted and apologized for some of the ways he treated me as a teenager, and I have forgiven him. I understand he did the best he could and that he has always loved me deeply. He’s a man who is true to his word, a man who would give his last dollar to help a person in need. I love my dad and I’m so grateful for the relationship we have.

Happy Father’s Day.