Really, the only notable fact there is the Christmas Eve part.  I miss my dad every day.  Sometimes it’s  a fleeting thought that I wish I could talk about a work problem with him, sometimes it’s a pain in my chest, an actual physical pressure that weighs me down and I feel like I can’t breathe through the gravity of it all.

I visited Dad yesterday.   The visits are always difficult, of course.  Usually because I leave still missing my dad as much as I ever did.   One of the hardest things about his Alzheimers for me has been how impossible it seems at times to really connect with him.   Mostly he knows who I am, mostly he knows I am Julie, his daughter.  But it feels like a shallow kind of knowledge, with all the gravity and history of our relationship somehow untethered from how he defines me.  I am Julie, his daughter, but I am not sure he always knows what that means.

Yesterday we walked outside a little, chatted about the usual — the weather, how the boys are doing, how is my mother.  It got cold and we went inside and sat on the couch.  I made a comment about my grandmother, his mother.  And my dad began to cry.  To cry.  My father.  He didn’t understand, he said.  He knew he was losing some memory, but he didn’t know why, and it was weird, he said, to hear me talk about his mother.  I tried to be calm, to maintain my composure as I thought “Oh my god, oh my god, I upset him, he is upset and it is my fault and I need to figure out a way to fix this right now.”  But I couldn’t think of anything that might comfort someone who was, like I was, just missing their parent.  So I talked about her some more, and eventually he started talking about his daughters.  How much he loved them, how much fun they were.  He turned to me and looked at me and took my hand and said “I really love you, Julie.”  And I felt like he was really all THERE, for that moment, and I began to cry, too.  For everything that Alzheimers is slowly taking away.  Not from me so much, but from my father.  He misses us, too.  He is losing us just as surely as we are losing him.  There is nothing any of us can do, I thought, there is no stopping this horrible descent, but for now,  we are here and that is  all there is.

I put my head on his shoulder, and we clasped hands, and we cried together.

Day 1:   Drew

Drew………right now he is caught in this wonderful, poignant place between preschooler and Kid.   Almost a kid — occasionally embarassed at hugs and kisses when I drop him at school, starting the eye rolling when I remind him to wash his hands or go to the potty, but still little enough that when I pick him up from school, as soon as I walk out the door to the playground, I hear “MOMMYYYYY!!!!!” and watch him tear across the playground at full speed to  jump into my arms with enough force to almost knock me over.  I have never been greeted with such joy and fervor in my life, and it is one of the very best moments of every school day.  I am thankful for his cleverness (even when it works against me!), his friendliness and socialiability, the way he plays little jokes and then slyly says “Mommy, I was trick-sing you!”.  We still lay down together for his bedtime, and my day is not complete until he tells me “I love you, mama, and I will see you in the morningtime”.

Day 2:   Zachary

Zachary……..Zak Attack!  Bull in a china shop.  No one who meets Zachary fails to be astounded at his sheer strength.  He’s small for his age, but never was there a more solid, sturdy kid.  He is happy 95% of the time, but lord help you the other 5%, for he will make his displeasure known to all within earshot.  After I hear Drew’s goodnights, I eventually settle in for the night with Mr Zachary.  He’s a world champion snuggler, and mostly refuses to sleep alone.  He wakes up like his father — meaning cranky as hell — but after a drink and a snack he settles into his role as Mr. Happy.  His recipe for joy includes snacks and crumbs of attention from Big Brother Drew.  Nothing else is required. 

I know it’s cliche to say how much you love your kids, and I was thinking last night as Drew and I played a game how much I just *liked* them.  I like spending time with them, I like their occasionally silly little games, I like hard hugs and wet kisses and sharing the food off my dinner plate (most of the time).  They humble me with their love, and I am beyond grateful to have the opportunity to return it.

A friend of mine is about to have her first baby.  As in, within minutes.  And another friend will be bringing home her second in a day or so.  I adore them both, and I can’t help be think of the adjustments they are in for.

When we brought Drew home, I was a mess.  A hormonal nightmare.   Cliff and I laughed (later!) that I cried whenever someone walked into a room.  And also when they left it.  Honestly, as much as I loved him, I was terrified by the sudden responsibility.  Nine months apparently was NOT enough time for me to prepare.  We had all the Stuff, but you can’t register for sanity, I suppose.  We brought him home on a Thursday, and we had a pediatrician appointment on Friday, and I looked at Cliff totally seriously and said “We just have to keep him alive until 8am.  We can do that, right?”.  I obviously failed to consider that they were going to send him home with us afterwards, too.  I thought — oh my god, I have ruined my LIFE.  And unfortunately, this poor poor little baby was going to pay the price, because by virtue of his association with me, I have ruined his life before it even started.  And we had tried so long and wanted him so badly, who was I to be anything other than insanely blissful?   Thank god I had a great friend who I called, and cried to, who laughed (in a nice way) and told me she was pretty sure every new mom had that panic.   She told me to hold on, let life ride a bit, take it day by day and hour by hour if necessary, and one day I would wake up and realize that the whole day before I hadn’t cried or worried about something insane (What if the dog eats his face off while I am in the shower??)  Sure enough, we found our groove.  And eventually I even started showering again.  But I never forgot how horrible that feeling was, the feeling that my life had suddenly spun totally out of my control, looking at Drew and thinking “How can I love something this much and be so absolutely terrified of it?”.  So, for Laura, who I also know had a long hard road to motherhood, don’t think too much those first few weeks.  Just let it ride.  Be gentle with yourself.

I thought I was in a better place when Zak came along.  In many ways I was, I suppose.  His birth was a dream, I felt fantastic physically, I knew we were capable of not accidentally maiming him during diaper changes.  Emotionally, though?  Still hard.  Everyone had warned us about Drew adjusting to being a Big Brother, but no one really talked about US adjusting to two.  Suddenly Drew seemed like a giant hell bent on inadvertently (or not) crushing the baby, and Zak seemed like a baby dictator determined to keep Drew and I apart.  I had been so concerned with Drew missing me when I was tending to the baby that I didn’t realize how much I was going to miss him in those early days.  But I knew we’d find our way this time.  We laughed after my 4pm cry sessions this time around, and tried to give each other a break.  So for Megan, congratulations.  The early days of two are a blur of thanklessness, but it will pay off in spades.

(h)

No one was more shocked than I was when I walked in, considering I have spent the last 19 years swearing up and down I would never attend such an event.  Facebook changed that a little bit.  I realized I liked seeing where people ended up.  I liked touching bases with old friends, and seeing that they are happy and doing well.  I bucked up my courage and bought the tickets.  In the end, I am glad I did.

The first night was  a happy hour.  Trenda, Bernice, and I went together.  Just like Prom our Senior year, we hung out for a little while and then ran off to hang out together.  There was something really, really comforting and safe about being tucked away in a booth at Trudy’s, briefly casting off the mantle of Wife, Mother, Worker Bee, and just laughing our (slightly tipsy, in my case) asses off.  We need to make more time to do that with each other.  I don’t see Trenda or Bernice much these days, but I mean to remedy that.  There is something infinitely valuable about touching base with the friends that hold your history, you know?  All our conversations were shortcuts — no explanation necessary.  It was divine.

The formal event was the next night.  I was shocked at how suddenly I transformed right back into, well, ME.  High School Me, that is.  Awkward, uncomfortable, shy, self concious.  I felt all of 17, but not in the good ways.   I was astounded that everyone else seemed to have grown up.  I have the trappings, I have certainly earned my grown up wings, and there are days I feel downright O.L.D., but once I walked in I felt like a total fake adult.

The reality is, everyone was so much the same.  Everyone looked really good – not an old person in sight.  God Bless sunscreen and advances in skin care.  The groups were still the same – popular girls were still popular, atheletes were still entitled (just a little thicker and balder), the Dreamboat was still a Dreamboat (if you are reading this, I know you made the extra click!), and my friends were still, blessedly, my friends. 

We have a fabulous babysitter now that we have moved to a point where mom can no longer watch the boys on the occasions we need to be away.  Milissa is actually Zacharys daycare teacher, and that has been a blessing.  The boys love her and are totally comfortable with her, and they have a great time when she comes over.  She has a (stunning) seven year old daughter named Jasmine. 

My 20 year (20?!?!?!) high school reunion is this weekend, and I asked Drew if he was looking forward to playing with Jasmine.  He told me he was, and then he sighed like a weary little old man and said “………..because I love her.”

I said — hey, you love her?  Why do you love her?  And he said “She is just bee-ootiful and pretty.”

Which she is.  As well as smart and sweet.  But I am not ready to share my little man with the ladies of the world.  Not just yet. 

Stuff like that scares the bejesus out of me. 

Mom and dad had kids young.  When dad was diagnosed, I was in my mid thirties.  If I were to end up in the same boat, Zak and Drew would be in their young twenties.  That’s just too young to have to deal with an ailing parent.  Too, too young. 

Shortly after Dad was diagnosed, he told my mother that she’d be relieved to know he had decided against suicide.  I don’t know how serious he was, but I do know he wouldn’t have mentioned it unless he had — however briefly — considered it.  It made me really, really angry.  How dare he even think of making a decision like that?  But every time I forget to do something or space out on a name, I think about that conversation, and I understand just a little.   I am established in my life, and this sucks.  I cannot imagine if the boys were in college and they got that news about me. 

There are some types of early onset Alzheimers that are genetically influenced in a way that you can get tested to see if you can get it.  They have not said that Dad has that kind, and given that no one in his family before him had AD, I doubt it is.  But I do wonder what I would do if it was.  Would I want to know?  Probably not really. Would I find out?  Yeah, I think I would.  Not so much for myself, but so that I could be sure to wring every single bit of pleasure out of my boys now, so that I could set things up for them so they didn’t have to worry about the mundane details of taking care of me. 

Even now, I sometimes hug Drew or kiss Zachary, overcome by the desire to hug him just a little harder or kiss just one more time, and think “I want to REMEMBER this.”  I want to remember it always.  Forever.   The smell of their hair, their sturdy arms snuggling me.  It reminds me that this damn disease doesn’t only steal loved ones away from us, but we leave them as well.   One day my dad might not know who I am.  I think about how painful that will be.  For both of us.

 He walks up to me, puts his hands on his hips and says “Mommy! I want my toast, please. How many times I have to ask you? I ask you a MILLION times already, but you just not listen.” and he shook his head sadly, like there was no hope for me at all.  Which, lets face it, might be true.

He is convinced our neighbors are his “parents”.  I do not have the slightest clue WHY he thinks this, but he will not be swayed.  Cliff and I are Daddy and Mama,  so our roles are obviously defined.  But since other people are always telling him he needs to ask his Parents permission to do things, he had to assign that role to someone.   I know he is confused about why he needs to ask our neighbors to cross the street or eat a sample of pizza roll at Costco, and I find it mildly disturbing that at 4 he already realizes that his father and I, while lovely, clearly lack the sort of authority and gravitas the label “parents” seems to require.

He either does not understand or cannot say the word “yesterday”.   So instead, he says “last morning”.  Which is awesome.  I don’t know why, but it kills me and I hope he always does it, even when the other kids at Harvard make fun of him.  “Hey, how did you do on that pop quiz we had last morning?”

Computer = compudder

Goldfish = goldfishies

raviolis = ollies

When he asks for milk, he has started asking for “a drink called milk”.  I don’t know if he thinks I need the clarity or I will throw a  Drink Called Battery Acid in the sippy or what, but he always needs a drink.  Called milk.  Just so you don’t screw it up, mom.

This is gross, but hey!  4 year old boy!  Boogers = burgers.  Did you know you shouldn’t eat burgers or they will make you sick? 

I now have my answer.  Drew thinks that show is the Bomb.  He calls it “Falling Down Show”, which really is the better of two options, considering “Ball To The Crotch Show” would be equally appropriate.  He laughs harder than I have ever seen a kid laugh.  Rolling on the floor, total hysterics.  It is awesome, and I willingly tolerate Tom Bergeron (the perfect host for those in Middle America who find Ryan Secrest a bit too edgy) for the sake of those belly laughs.

About the only show that tops Falling Down Show is Big Red Ball Show.

 It just occurred to me that both shows are broadcasted by ABC.  Where they can’t find anyone to write dialogue, apparently.

They have been working on rhyming with the 4 year olds.  Honestly, I am so damn tired of rhyming.  We rhyme in the car, we rhyme at bathtime, we rhyme in our house and with a mouse and in the dark at the park. 

So I picked Drew up at school today, and I am just bone tired.  I have been sick, the baby isn’t sleeping, blahblahblah, adult concerns and worries, blahblahblah.  But we WILL rhyme!!!   There WILL be learning!!

My mind was about 10% on the rhyming.  That 10% was 50% there.  The other 90% was 100% figuring out mundane stuff like dinner and clean socks and excel macros and training documents and how much milk was in the house.  (If that math confuses you, you are not a working mom.)

So the rhyming went a little something like this — the enthusiasm, of course, belongs to Drew.

BOX!! fox  HOUSE!!! mouse  CAR!!!!  star  NOSE!!!  hose  DOG!!!  log  HAT!!!!  cat SOCK!!!! 

You know what I said.

Uhh, yeah. I know.