Chapter 20: Together

I’ve pinched myself a lot this year. I’ll be tucking the kids into bed and be interrupted by Chris’s stomping and “Fee Fi Fo Fumming.” The kids shrieking/giggling. Or I’ll sleepwalk downstairs in the morning to the dreamy smell of rich coffee and see him whisking eggs as only a drummer could: quick and on tempo.

It’s almost surreal to be on the same schedule this year after seasons of being opposite. It feels normal and comfortable and right. We’re no longer single parents sharing an address. We are a family – in the most beautifully messy way.

So by the time Thanksgiving came around, the comparisons between the previous year and this year were startling. Last year, Chris was off for the 24 hours of Thanksgiving Day. It was formulaic and forced. We ate dinner at 10 PM, exhausted, thankful that we didn’t kill each other in the process.

But this year, oh, this year! We had five days off. Together. My parents came down to join us and we escaped to a lake house where we were wonderfully, eerily, alone. Chris morphed into Jacques Pépin as he orchestrated culinary arrangements that were like none other. We ate and ate and then ate some more. There was no agenda. No rushing off to something. No distractions. It was what vacation is supposed to be: a chance to vacate the normalcy and routine.

Looking back at the loneliness of the previous year, I am so grateful for what it taught me. I will never take for granted the simplicity of being with those you love. And I realize the best gift you can give anyone, is the gift of time.

Chapter 19: Last Words

We all thought he was dying. The evidence was piling up: weight loss, excessive sleeping, Hospice nurses, and family phone calls. With summer ending along with our availability, we booked a flight to Orlando to say goodbye to my granddad. Once there, we sat around his and Nancy’s living room eating care-calendar meals of casseroles and lasagnas. My cousin, Will, took lots of photos. My dad gave an emotional farewell speech. We broke out singing a few broken hymns. Tear sliding, camera rolling.

I had worked on an “I Remember” poem while we were there and minutes before we drove back to the airport, I asked Nancy if I could share it with him. I tiptoed back to their bedroom and by the yellow glow of the lamp, I read. Poem in one hand, his frail hand in the other. I don’t think he was cognizant of the moment as he drifted in and out. But I was fully aware of my purpose: I wanted him to know that he mattered. His life, his being, his very essence had imprinted on mine. Part of his blood and lots of his stories flowed through my veins.

It felt so cathartic to have closure because so often in life we don’t. Before I left, I told him “In case I don’t see you again, I want you to know that I love you.” And he replied in his dark coffee voice, “You will. You will.”

Of course, he was right. Maybe it was the new dentures, or the medicine. Most likely, it was his will. But Granddad did make a turn-around. A month later, we were together in Kansas City for a family reunion – his kids teasing him that the next time he thinks he’s dying, to actually go through with it.

But the truth is, we are all dying. And what a beautiful reminder to treat each encounter as if it was our last. To say the words we need to say, to show the love we feel underneath. I don’t know about you, but I would rather share my heart in person rather than in a eulogy.

Just in case.

Chapter 18: Lots of Locks

Perhaps I was being a wee bit dramatic. Duke probably won’t even remember it, but I feared that someday he would be in therapy, sobbing over gender identity and trying to forgive his mother. The comments started sporadically, but soon spread like poison ivy as more and more strangers confused him for a girl. Sometimes it was awkwardly uncomfortable. Other times, downright funny. Like the gentle-eyed woman in the produce aisle who sweetly chirped, “What’s her name?” and I curtly replied, “Duke.” She half-smiled, half-gasped and went to die a slow and painful death of foot-in-mouth disease by the lettuce.

If it had been up to his father, Duke would have grown up looking like a Hansen brother. But I was done with it. The day we were at a lake party and a grandmotherly-type cooed “your girls are so cute!” (Eloise in a bikini and Duke, shirtless, in blue swim trunks), I knew. It was time to make an appointment at the barbershop.

The day of, Duke was a pro. He sat statue-like while his blonde baby curls went fluttering to the floor. We got photos and a certificate and a ziplock of his locks.

What I didn’t anticipate though was the resulting, er, trauma. That afternoon, Duke had trouble going to sleep. I sneaked upstairs to see what the problem was and found him sitting on his bed, holding my mirror. Staring.

It looks like my fear of Duke landing in therapy may still come true. This time it will be identity confusion. And naturally, he’ll blame his mother.

Chapter 17: Queen of the Hill

I think the reason women believe that having boys is easier than girls is that they know a kingdom is only big enough for one queen. And as soon as that queen’s power is threatened, well, it’s all over. The wars will rage on until one day the young royal establishes her own place to rule.

Eloise was born with the ability to reign. She manages to get us to bend to her ways without even realizing that we’re being coerced. So, I’m not really sure who came up with the “Queen Eloise” party theme, but I am sure she was enthralled. We danced (jumped) to hits by Queen and Prince. We decorated crowns. And we accented everything in pink.

The thing I’ll remember most though was not something on the agenda – at least not mine. While the adults were distracted inside, Eloise led the miniatures outside. For days, she had been talking about playing in this dirt “mountain” in the vacant lot. And that’s where we found her. There in her pink tutu skirt and glittery crown, she played. Her majesty. Filthy and giggling.

In that moment, I could not have loved her more. She was a perfect contradiction: a demure adventuress. She reminds me that life is too big to be put in a box. You plan a party. You choose a theme. You have matching everything. And then a giant pile of dirt beckons.