Parents all over the country were shedding tears this week as their babies entered their classrooms for the first day of school.   Unashamed, I admit I was one of them.  Only, my baby is not a baby anymore.  He’s a handsome, 17 year old, young man who drove himself to high school for the first day of his senior year.

All day long there were tears ever present at the corner of my eyes.  All I could think was….have I done enough? Have I given him enough opportunities?  Have I adequately prepared him for what is beyond high school?  With more tears, I thought how I would give anything to travel back in time to his elementary school days and relive just one of those years all over again. 

It seems like yesterday I was standing on my neighbor’s lawn and watching my first grader board the school bus.  Many of those days I had to drag him onto the bus as he begged and cried for me not to make him go.  It was a tough time for my kiddos.  Their dad and I were getting a divorce, we moved into a new house in a new neighborhood and Austin began first grade at a new school. 

His first grade teacher, Mrs. Fleck, was a wonderful and kind teacher.  She called me the first week and said Austin had spent a lot of time at his desk crying those first few days.  With amusement, she told me when she tried to comfort him he said “My kindergarten teacher from my old school won an award from Star 101.5 for being the best teacher.”

Austin also started playing soccer when we first moved to Redmond.  Sadly, a broken arm ended his season two-thirds of the way through.  As the doctor was wrapping up his arm in a cast she asked him how he broke it.   When Austin told her it was the monkey bars, she told him she sees lots of hurt little kids because of the monkey bars.  With tears rolling down his cheeks and a whimper in his voice he responded, “Yeah…..they are kinda tricky.”

Over the next several years I enrolled Austin in various activities wanting to see what would stick.  What would this spunky, sweet, blond hair, blue eyed boy love???  He played soccer, basketball, baseball and football.  Eventually, he narrowed his focus and his love to baseball. 

I will never forget when he stepped up to bat one of his first years playing baseball and I could see through his white pants to the planes and cars imprinted on his Underoos.  It was also during those first few years he was usually last in the batting lineup.  Parents may look at me in disgust when I say there were times when the bases were loaded and our team had two outs; I prayed the pitcher hit him with the ball so Austin could take a base.    I could deal with a bruise, not a broken heart.

I will never forget his first home run or the All Star Baseball game when he was intentionally walked.  I will never forget the smile on his face after those games, or what the coaches said about Austin at the end of the season.  No home run or double play can compare to the wonderful things the coaches said about my son. 

When he had finally outgrown wanting to be a gangster and then a skater with his long hair, he eventually arrived in middle school.  Two years after that he was in high school.  My heart hurt and swelled with pride when he struggled trying to find his group of friends.  Drugs and alcohol had become more prevalent in middle school and high school, and Austin wanted no part of it.  He moved lunch tables so the coaches and administration didn’t think he did drugs. 

My heart swelled even more this summer when I realized he found a good group of friends.  Friends who were kind enough to stick out a hand and respectfully introduce themselves to his little sister.

Austin drives now, and has been caught spinning his tires and squealing around the corners.  I’m guessing, though, he won’t be doing that anymore after I told him how much a new set of tires will cost him.  I love the independence he’s gained from driving, but I constantly pray for his safety.  I also miss the conversations we had as I drove him from place to place. 

I laugh remembering one particular conversation while we drove in the car.  He was sharing with me all the awkward stuff they discussed during Sex Education.   It was in that moment I realized he was no longer a little boy.  When I asked him if talking about Sex Ed was awkward because of the cute girls in class he said, “No….when I think about that I have a deep voice in my head saying “Ohhhh yeah!”

Those same cute girls, probably wearing their Lululemon pants, may also have been the cause for some of his distraction during his freshman year of high school.  As is the case with most young men at that age, he struggled to find focus and motivation for school work that first year.    But all it took was a sit down conversation at the dinner table, a list of possible college choices and calculations of the grades he needed the rest of his high school years.  This list is framed and hangs above his desk keeping him focused on what is ahead.

In all honesty, I cannot say whether he’s still distracted by girls in Lululemon pants.  These days, he is as silent as a monk when it comes to discussing girls with his mom.

I will say….any girl would be lucky to date a guy who hugs his mom every night before bed.  Any girl would be lucky to have a guy who thanks his mom for dinner even when it’s his least favorite meal (rosemary chicken.)  Any coach is lucky to have this young man on his team who tries hard, is respectful, responsible and always has a great attitude.  Any college will be lucky to have my son on their campus who believes in kindness, generosity, gratitude and always giving a solid effort. 

So yes, when I think of the young man I have raised, I do believe I have done enough.  He is amazing.  Whatever he does, wherever he goes, the world is a better place because of him.

I would give anything to travel back in time to his first grade year and relive every single moment all over again.

Whether or not he is ready for the world, I may not be ready to let him go.

Well,  the actual moment everything changed was several months before this, but I can’t even bear to think about that.  It’s not overly important the exact minutes/seconds in which Jill’s life changed forever.  What is important though, it did.

On August 28th, 1978 I was no longer the baby in the family.  I was promoted (or demoted depending on how you think about it) to big sister of a whopping 10 pound baby girl named Kim.  

I didn’t mind the demotion. There may not have been enough room for me to rest on daddy’s chest, but I used this time to practice for when it was my turn.    

Kimmy was my favorite!  I loved Kim almost as much as Kim loved food.  I mean, look, she couldn’t even zip up her pajamas.  Her belly busted the zipper of these poor jammies.   

Hardly able to walk Kimmy caught people off guard with her ability to swim.  Camping at the Chelan State Park she hobbled down to the end of the dock and threw her naked baby off the end.   All the nice people sitting on the dock said “Oh honey.  Here let me get that for you.”  Before they could get their drunk, sunburned asses off the dock, Odd Job jumped off the end and swam to shore. 

Kimmy was great at most things.  I mean, of course she was, she learned from me.  I tried to mentor her the best I could.  I taught her so many valuable lessons in life, like how to cheer and pretend she knew the Pledge of Allegiance.   

I tried teaching her how to fish, but she was never as good of a fisherman as I was.  She was too busy posing and rocking her sweet swimsuit.  

I did impress upon her the importance of sharing our musical talents.    Here we are in the school talent show.  I was playing the piano while we both sang a duet to “We are the World”.   I’m just so very, very sad there was not a video camera to capture our raw talent and the pained faces of our audience.  

Kimmy took that experience, enamored by the spotlight, and continued to share her musical gifts.  She graced our family with flute and piano concerts.  She played her flute while my mom played the piano at the same time.  It would be an inaccurate description to call my mom the accompanist since neither of them were playing on the same sheet music.  Despite the off tune performance, I remember it being exquisite.  The concert was ALMOST a sellout, but our older sister, Debbie, refused to buy a ticket.  She said she was happy standing in back.  I’m guessing she couldn’t swing the 10 cents for a front row seat or five cents for the nosebleed section.

There wasn’t one person who didn’t love Kimmy, and there wasn’t one spotlight Kimmy didn’t love.   In the summer while our family skied at the State Park in Lake Chelan, Kimmy was adamant she didn’t want to ski.  That is, until my mom told her everyone was watching.  Kimmy said, “Fine!  Dad, just take me for a short little loop.”  Our dad set her up in the skis, pulled her out of the water and fought all the boats to make just a short little loop.  Kimmy used this opportunity to hang onto the rope and wave to all of her fans.  She was unwilling to let go until she was sure certain everyone had seen the cute little girl on skis.

Kimmy was a pretty awesome little girl, but as much as I loved her, she wasn’t perfect.  She obviously had a few less than charming moments. 

And I’m guessing this was the time she brought home LICE.   

All in all, she was a really good intern, I mean sister.   She listened.  She followed instructions.  She let me dress us both up like hookers.  

Truthfully, we dressed up this way for Halloween.  She was Cindy Lauper and I was a punk rocker, but we did look a little tawdry.    When we were little and had been caught playing in our mom’s makeup, our dad would facetiously exclaim “Ohhhh honey.  You look JUST like a hooker.”    We wore that compliment proudly.

For years I had convinced Kim…. Dad was the boss of Mom, Mom was the boss of Debbie, Debbie was the boss of Jeff, Jeff was the boss of Jill and Jill was the boss of Kim.  When Kimmy asked me who SHE was the boss of, I told her “Benji and Scooter.”  (Our dogs.) 

In time, unfortunately for me, Kim realized she did not need to live life under my dictatorship.  This was a tough, tough adjustment for me.  I’m guessing this is why I burned her shoulder with a hot curling iron and why I hid nasty stuff inside her Oreos.  But, come on, I was furious she wouldn’t pick up the leaves with her bare hands after I nicely raked them into piles.  She will tell you I purposely raked dog poop into those same piles, but I admit to no such thing.  [cough]

Over the years, as Kimmy and I grew older we walked the line of sister, enemy and friend.   When we fought our dad would say to us “You’re going to be best friends one day.” Disgusted by each other, it was impossible to imagine this being true, especially when she was in my closet 24/7 stealing my clothes...and my UNDERWEAR.

He was right though.   When it was her birthday I took money out of my piggy bank and bought her a stuffed Spuds MacKenzie dog at the local garage sale.  When she was being harassed and bullied by some guys during high school, I shredded them to pieces.  When she left for college, I sat on her bed and cried. 

While she was away at college, it was the first time in 18 years I was without her.  As sad as I was, I believe this is when she grew as a person and learned the most valuable lessons in life.  She learned how to beer bong AND find her way home afterwards.  She bravely studied in Mexico for six months during college, something her big sister would have never had the courage to do.   While in college she met the man of her dreams, a guy equally as wonderful as her.  It didn’t take them long to decide they wanted to build a life together, and what a wonderful life they’ve built.  

Birdy is quite lucky I like him so much.  Otherwise, he might have found himself huddled in the corner much like those high school boys I ripped apart on the phone.

She has the kindest and most giving heart of anyone I know.  Despite loving the spotlight when she was little, she is incredibly humble.  I’ve told Kimmy over and over again, it’s too bad she didn’t come first because she is the true leader between the two of us.

She’s an amazing wife, mother, daughter, aunt, sister and most of all friend.  The world is blessed to know and love her.  And I’m so unbelievably grateful she forgave me for burning her with the hot curling iron.

But most of all, we are all lucky Mike and Diana got down and dirty one last time.

Happy Birthday to the the most amazing person in the whole wide world!!!

A few months back when I cleaned out the contents of my mom’s car I threw everything into a bag, and postponed making the decision of what to toss and what to keep.  Each item I stuffed into that bag told a story, and I knew at some point in time it was a story worth telling.    

My mom’s motto which she repeated quite often, “Hope for the sun, but plan for the rain.”  Prepared.  Always prepared. 

There is only ONE time in my life I can remember her NOT being prepared.  A few years ago my mom, my daughter and I were cross country skiing up in the mountains. Coming down the hill my daughter fell and when I tried to help her up we both tumbled.  One of us landed on my ski causing my binding to break.  Stuck out in the middle of nowhere we weren’t sure what to do, but within a few minutes a group of skiers happened to cross our path.   Luckily, one of the skiers had duct tape in her coat allowing us to tape up my binding so we could continue on our way.  When we cleaned out my mom’s closets a couple months ago we found duct tape in most of her fanny packs and her ski coat pockets.

Back to the contents of my mom’s car:  ordinary, impressive, hilarious, questionable.  Why in the world does someone need white chalk in their car??

The chalk in combination with the two measuring tape reels and the one plastic blue glove make me wonder if she was an undercover CSI agent.  Suppose she came upon a dead body and needed to survey the scene?? 

The disposable camera must have been necessary to document the crime scene.  And if the assailant did happen to come back to the scene she could beat them off with the large wood stick she kept hidden by the driver’s side door. 

I seriously doubt the blue glove and wood stick was indicative of my mom having an OJ Simpson persona, but the electrical tape and Swiss army knife make me wonder. 

Perhaps the blue glove in combination with the CPR Micro Shield Rescue Breather makes more sense.  Maybe she was preparing for the day she witnessed a horrible crash and needed to administer CPR and first aid without getting any blood on her one hand.  She did have Band-Aids in her car, but they appeared to be from the 1970’s.  Not sure they would be effective or sterile at this point in time. 

You know what???  Come to think of it she said she kept the camera in her car in case she was ever in an accident and needed evidence of the accident for insurance purposes.  I doubt that would ever happen though.  She had three sets of eye glasses stashed in various places of her car.  There’s no way she wouldn’t see an approaching vehicle.  With the three pairs of eye glasses, two sets of sun glasses and the windshield defogging cloth her visibility had to be 20/20.

You never know though….her visibility could have been compromised if she was ever stuck in a snow storm.  If she was…no worries.  She had two ice scrapers, two head warmers, a set of chains and a box of kitty litter.  (Kitty litter is used to throw onto the ice if your wheels spin and can’t get traction.)  She also had a stash of dog cookies but unlike the kitty litter, the dog cookies were actually used for her granddogs or ANY dog for that matter.

In the rare case the chains and kitty litter did not work to get her unstuck, she had a miniature pillow and two wool blankets to keep her warm.   She also had her choice of musical entertainment:  Kenny Rogers Love Connections, Dave Brubeck’s Greatest Hits or Tom Petty’s Highway Connection.  But if she wasn’t in the mood for music she could always listen to one of her two audio books: Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons or David Baldacci’s First Family.  

When the tow truck finally arrived she would definitely look presentable having taken great care to comb her hair and apply Chap Stick while looking in the 5x7 mirror she kept tucked away in the glove compartment. 

Also in the glove compartment was a handicap permit.  Handicap permit???  Please.   I have a hard time thinking of her as handicap.  Especially when I find a zip lock bag full of of bungee cords, straps and florescent pink ribbon used to harness her bike onto the back of the car.  Although if I’m wrong about the cords and straps being used for her bike….I must admit my mind goes back to the OJ Simpson theory.

It truly is amazing she had any room whatsoever left in her glove compartment after finding the EIGHT receipts dating back to 2012 from Brown Bear Car Wash.  Did she keep the receipts just in case she was dissatisfied with the Beary Good car wash and wanted to dispute the charge??

Of course there was all kinds of regular stuff in her car.  Stuff that most of us seem to carry with us: coupons for Burger King, pens, phone charger, garage openers, umbrellas, gift cards, registration, insurance cards and a plastic Jesus with broken off feet carrying a baby on his shoulder who is sadly missing his head.  

Of all the things I’m throwing away I’m having a hard time giving up Jesus.  There has GOT to be a reason she kept this in her car.  

Our stuff.  Their purpose.  The story.   

What would your car say about you??  Mine would say I was scared of starving.  I don’t have blue gloves, bungee cords or kitty litter….but I do have snacks.  Lots of them.

The hardest part of grief is feeling like no one understands.   You feel as though you are standing on an island not participating in the world, only witnessing it from a distance.  You stand alone while you try to come to terms with your changed landscape.  It is up to you to find the strength to heal and build your new life.

Grief is an isolating experience.   No one can truly appreciate what you are going through while you fight to accept the loss of a loved one. We are all unique in personalities and the ways in which we cope.  We are also unique in the relationship we had with the one we lost.  Therefore, no two people will experience grief in the same way,  As close as I am with my siblings, the four of us experience our grief differently and at different times. As close as we all were with our parents we each had special relationships with our mom and dad.  Even though my siblings and I understand each other better than anyone else we still don't know exactly what each one of us are going through.  We will all heal in different ways.

I love my husband and he loves me in more ways than I can adequately express with words.   He supports me in every facet of my life, but truth be told, my grief has been a challenge we have had to work through.    He does not understand, and I would not understand if the situation were reversed.  Men are naturally programmed to be pragmatic.  They are problem solvers and  their genetic makeup was created thousands of years ago to care for and protect their loved ones.   Realistically, it should not be simplified to say only men are programmed to protect their loved ones.  We all want to protect the people we care about…man, woman, child.    

But the grief stricken cannot be protected.  They cannot be fixed.  Grief cannot be removed or ignored.  It is ever present and continuously changes form.  Grief is like an octopus grabbing you with its tentacles one by one.  Sometimes grabbing you all at once.   The more you fight it, the longer the hold remains.  Slowly it may release its grip, only to find its way back again when you least expect it. 

This can be very difficult for a partner, a friend, a parent  or a child to accept.    They love us and they feel helpless to make us better.  No prodding, prying or pulling can release the grip of grief.  The only solitude and saving grace for the grieving is to be reminded they are not alone and they are loved.  Remind them their tears will be understood.

When you lose someone you love, you lose more than their presence in your life.  You lose your sense of self.  You not only grieve your loved one, you grieve all the pieces of yourself you lost when they died.   A new self is born.   

Sometimes I find myself marveling at all the things that have changed within me.  My purpose in life has become my biggest unanswered question.  The quest for the answer has become my biggest objective.  Time has becomes a richer commodity and time with my family has become my most valued priority.  Many of my relationships changed.  The circle of friendships has become smaller as I socialize less.  I am no longer the person who assumes the role of making other people feel happy.  It’s hard to make others feel happy when you are a little short on resources yourself. 

People may shy away from you unsure of what to say.  They may feel nervous they will say a word or a phrase reminding you of what you’ve lost.  They may be afraid of bringing tears to your eyes.  The reality is, you are never not thinking of your loved ones.  It is forever present.  And the tears….the tears are a welcome release from what you are continuously holding back.  Bringing tears to a grief stricken heart gives them a momentary vacation from the continuous strain of stifling the pain and tears.  Laughter maybe doesn’t happen as freely, but when it does, it feels euphoric.  With every ring of laughter you can feel a broken piece of you begin to mend. 

I believe there is one universal truth about grief which I believe is a necessary step to heal.  It was a truth that brought me to my knees when it was said to me. 

You must accept your life will never be the same.   

A hard, but necessary truth.  Once you stop trying to claw your way back to your old life, you can learn in time to find happiness in your new life.  You will take the good and the bad with you.  It is part of your heart and part of your soul.  It will teach you and guide you.  It will make you more compassionate and make life more meaningful. 

With every breath you take and every tear you shed you will begin to build the bridge, one board at a time.  You will build your way back to the world that is waiting for you with open arms.  It will look different, feel different.  It is different.   But it is life.  A life your loved ones would want you to live with your whole heart.

My husband and I had been dating for seven years when he asked my dad for his blessing to marry me.  According to my husband, my dad said something like, “Well, shit!  Of course!!!!”  I imagine my dad patting him on the back, and then giving him some sort of manly hug.  My dad never saw us get married.  He passed away three months after giving Ryan his blessing.

I spent the next year deeply grieving the death of my father.  The world was a different place and did not hold the same enchantment it had held a few months prior.  My heart was not in the right place to celebrate marrying the love of my life when I was heartbroken over losing the first man I ever loved.

A little over a year after losing my dad the dark cloud that had been following me around since he passed away had turned into a lighter shade of gray.  I was just beginning to see where the world held some beauty again when, as God would have it, my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  The trajectory to healing and happiness had changed course again. 

Shortly after my mom's diagnosis, my dad visited me in my dreams.   I was standing on the patio in the backyard of our childhood home when my dad walked through the sliding glass door.  He was wearing the usual attire he wore working around the house, and he looked a lot younger in my dream than when I had last saw him.  He walked up to me and with his whiskers rubbing across my cheek he gave me a big hug.  It was at that moment I realized it was a dream and I began to pull away from his embrace.  Before letting me go, he grabbed my shoulders, looked into my eyes and said. “Jill, it won’t be long now.”

I woke from that dream with tears in my eyes and the conviction he was telling me it wouldn’t be long before he and my mom were to be reunited.

It was over the next few days, my husband and I agreed to plan our wedding within six short weeks.  We had already missed the opportunity to have my dad at our wedding.  We did not want to live with the regret of not having my mom there either.

We married at the Seattle waterfront with just our families on a stunningly, beautiful March day.   Everything about that day was perfect and a testament to God’s blessings. 

My husband has always wanted to travel to New Zealand, so as our wedding gift my mother gave us plane tickets for our honeymoon.  Over the next several months she would continuously ask when I was going to schedule our trip.   She may have felt I was unappreciative since I seemed to be hesitant making any arrangements.  The truth was, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her, I didn’t want to plan anything while she was sick.  

Over the next several months, cancer overtook her body and her health slowly declined.  She lived at home for the majority of the time and it wasn’t until the final two weeks she lived in the hospital and in hospice care. 

On the last day she was here on this earth, I heard the same words my dad spoke to me in my dreams that night.  The hospice worker told us, “It won’t be long now.”  Shortly after hearing these words, I left my mom’s hospice room and booked Ryan and my plane tickets to New Zealand. 

In the final hours of someone’s life you can visibly see the transformation of life leaving their body and death creeping in.  Sedated with morphine, their eyes hold a listless stare off into the distance and are neither open nor closed.  It is difficult to determine if they are present in the room and can still hear what is going on around them.

But when I grabbed my mother’s cold, frail hands and I said, “Momma, I scheduled Ryan and my tickets to New Zealand” her listless gaze moved from the corner of the room to look at me directly in my eyes.  With as much strength as she could muster she nodded her head and tried to smile.

That image has imprinted itself in my memory and evoked an immense amount of pain every time I thought of New Zealand.  As the dates of our scheduled trip approached, I knew I could not avoid the moments of pain any longer and risk losing out on my mother’s final gift. So over the last several weeks my husband and I have spent many hours together listing out all the things we wanted to see on our honeymoon.  And my husband spent many, many more hours over the next several weeks planning all the logistics…. booking hotels, rental cars and more flights.

The feelings towards New Zealand have slowly evolved from the painful memory of my mother on that day to one of excitement and gratitude.  I now envision exploration in Auckland, hikes along the Tongariro, dinners in Wellington, sunbathing in Abel Tasman, kayaking in Milford Sound and bike riding in Queenstown.  More importantly, I envision many wonderful days together with the husband I married on that beautiful day in March. 

We are going to have a trip of a lifetime together.  And with a change of heart, I feel blessed to know it won’t be long now.