Kindness.

For approximately three days every year, I march around telling Nick I want to be an author. Almost on cue, he grins and says, “You know you say this every year, right?” This annual desire to be an author coincides with the days after I post my yearly blog update on a website platform that I am continually surprised is still in existence and equally surprised that I remember the password each year. I equate my three-day wannabe author stint to this theoretical high I get from spending some quality time just thinking about my mom. As we approach seven years since my mom died, one thing that became apparent to me this year is that it is beginning to feel harder and harder to remember all of the little things that used to be quick in my memory. I’ll always have the Queen’s socks for every holiday, jewelry to accompany the socks, and the world’s greatest tacky Christmas sweater (that Nancy and I have agreed to take turns with each year...except that I might have ‘accidentally’ packed it and then moved across the country...). But it’s those day-to-day memories that feel hazier as each year goes by.

When those moments hit me, I am grateful for reminders that pop up sporadically. Recently, my dad saw a person driving a motorcycle very recklessly- weaving in and out of traffic and speeding (let me also add in- this was while he was Ubering- yes, he’s an Uber driver!). As we were chatting on the phone, he was telling me about this and he reminded me that my mom used to always say, “There goes another organ donor,” every time she saw a reckless motorcycle driver. Or there’s the time Nancy reminded me that my mom was a “product tester” for the Atlanta Journal Constitution. She tested products ranging from smoothie drinks to tanning wipes, wrote her very professional opinion on them, and then her review was published in the paper. Or when I find photos that remind me of my mom's fun loving and kind nature, yet make me severely question my haircuts and choice in clothing as a child. And just like that, I’ve got more memories to add back.

I’m going to slightly switch gears here, but I promise I’ll bring it back full circle. Also, this is an obvious sign I’m not an author. An author would have a great transition here. I substituted a great transition with telling you I was going to go way off topic- yet assuring you that I recognize this- and will hook it back soon enough. Since 2011, it feels like our world has been full of highs and lows. I realize this is nothing out of the ordinary and I realize that history is full of amazing things and terrible things that define us. I perused just a few of the major headlines from the past 7 years and I couldn’t help but think what my mom would think of our current world.

Some of my highs included: Prince William and Kate getting married in Westminster Abbey (2011), Obama winning a second term (2012), the birth of Prince George and the Geico ad that always makes us say “Hump Day” with that camel’s voice (2013), travel restrictions being lifted to visit Cuba (2014), the birth of Princess Charlotte and the supreme court voting to allow same sex marriage nationwide (2015), a woman running for President (2016), Women’s March, #MeToo, and Doug Jones (2017). These might have been lows for some of you, but I don’t really care (must be because I’m 30).

And here are my lows: Sandy Hook and Aurora (2012), Boston Marathon (2013), Ferguson (2014), Charleston and San Bernardino (2015), Orlando (2016), Alexandria and Las Vegas (2017), Parkland (2018). I understand these are not all classified under an ‘umbrella’ of mass shootings and I don’t really care how anyone reading this feels about gun control or mass shootings, so please don’t feel the need to share how you feel (again, there’s that 30 and don’t care mentality coming out).

I wish it was the highs from the past 7 years that were constantly on my mind, but it’s not. It’s the lows that keep me wondering what my mom would be saying and doing. You see, in my job as a Kindergarten teacher I preach the importance of being kind. All day, every day, I talk relentlessly to my kids about being kind. Not only for you yourself to be kind, but to notice other people being kind. I tell them that it’s important to notice that when someone else does something kind, it makes you feel good. I tell them to notice that when they are inclusive, and invite someone else to play, that it makes someone else feel happy. Over and over and over I try to fill their 5 and 6-year-old brains with discussion and chatter about being kind. Thanks to another teacher’s idea, our class has a heart chart where kids can “Catch People Being Kind” by adding a heart to a chart. Twice a day, we check the heart chart to see who was caught being kind and we talk about what they did that was kind and how it made someone else feel. As I said, I spend large portions of my day preaching about the importance of being kind.

I know that preaching kindness isn’t enough. But the truth of the matter is that I don’t know what else to do. The truth is that each time I hear of yet another tragedy that could have been prevented, I worry where I will run or where I will hide these 5 and 6-year-olds that I claim as my own. I wonder which way out would be the safest exit. I wonder how I will get the child who speaks little English or the child who has tantrums out the door quickly or hidden safely. I wonder what my response will be when they ask me why we are practicing a lockdown drill. I worry that they are hearing all about things 5 and 6-year-old brains should never have to hear about. I know that all of this isn’t enough, but I continue on, hopeful that maybe the 18 kids in my class will leave Kindergarten kind enough to spread kindness to others and in turn, help others feel included and happy. And in case you were wondering, which you probably weren’t, I worry all the time that I accidentally left a bottle of Advil in my purse at school and a child might somehow get their hands on that bottle of Advil and break through the childproof cap. So I will absolutely never, ever, ever be a teacher with a gun. I will start my own school filled with teachers who are also afraid of having a bottle of Advil in their purse.


Now, let me fulfill my promise and hook it back to the beginning of this post. My mom was full of much better ideas than me, especially in relation to teaching. She probably had the perfect spiel to tell Kindergarteners why you have to be quiet and hide during a lockdown drill. She probably would have had some perfectly sassy comment about this thought that teachers should have guns. While I’m not able to hear her opinions on these issues right now, I am forever grateful for my mom’s history of writing letters to express her opinions. I am grateful that when I read these letters, I get back some of those memories that are becoming hazy. And more importantly, I am grateful that she managed to leave us with a reminder to keep doing what you can, for what you think is right, in any way that feels right to you. For me, right now, in this moment, I will continue teaching and modeling the importance of kindness to ‘my’ 18 kids. 

And for your continued enjoyment, below are copies of just a few of my mom’s letters, ranging in topic from needing changing tables in restrooms (1988) to animal research (1992) to dealing with cancer (2001). 

If you've made it this far, here's a completely unrelated- but very cool- letter that Nancy found.

Strength.

Last week, I spent approximately 30 minutes taking a parking sticker off my car and then putting the new parking sticker on my car. This was not your typical cling on sticker that peels off the car with ease. This son of a bitch sticker was basically cemented onto my windshield after almost a year of baking in the sun. I attacked it with a razor blade and WD-40. Tiny crumbles of sticker now dot my dashboard, along with a greasy gloss from the WD-40. As I was attacking my parking sticker, I thought to myself: things that could be simple are just harder in Boston. There could be cling on stickers, but there are not. The Department of Motor Vehicles is not the “DMV,” it is the “RMV” aka Registry of Motor Vehicles. When I changed my last name on my passport and license, I was left with a temporary paper ID issued by the RMV. Bars and restaurants literally refused to let me in with my temporary paper ID because they thought it was a fake that I made (nevermind the fact that I was hanging out with other almost 30 year-olds). Driving is an extreme challenge. Not only are the roads very confusing, but many roads do not have lines painted onto them (my theory being that the snow plows scrape off the paint). All roads have giant potholes. Most drivers are aggressive (I am now one of them). Roundabouts are called rotaries and they are everywhere. And some of them even have traffic lights in the middle of them. None of my teaching license credentials transferred to MA, causing me to have to take MA teaching tests. Moving into apartments is hard. Couches and boxsprings don’t always fit up stairwells. And it snows and your car doesn’t shovel itself out….nor do the stairs….or the sidewalks (and we have gotten a teeny tiny amount of snow compared to average winters). And don’t even get me started on how hard it was to be a Falcons fan here this year.

I say all of this, because as I was attacking my parking sticker, I remembered something that I’ve thought about before. My grandma lived in Boston. My mom lived in Boston. My Aunt Jenny lives in Boston. My Aunt Emmy lived in Boston. Boom. The badass, strong, and amazing women that I have looked up to, and continue to look up to, lived (or lives) in Boston at some point in their lives. I thought to myself, maybe a small slice of why these women are so strong is because they tackled living in a city that often isn’t always easy to live in. And maybe a small slice of how I’ve gotten through some tough situations this past year is because I come from a line of strong, independent women, and I’d like to think they’ve rubbed off on me. And who knows, maybe living in Boston has given me some extra strength. In the picture below, my aunts and grandma were strong enough to tackle getting me through the airport as a toddler. Although it looks like it may have been a bit of a struggle....

This year was full of highs and lows and had me feeling especially grateful for the line of strong women who came before me. The biggest and most obvious high being that Nick and I got married! I could go on for hours about how it was the best day ever, but there’s really not more to say aside from the fact that in our eyes, it was the best day ever. And that we’ve never had so much fun. The only reason this day happened was because of the people Nick and I refer to as our “village.” On top of all the strong ladies I previously mentioned, there’s my dad, my sister (also a part of the badass lineage), Nick’s amazing parents, and very close family friends who may as well be called Aunts. Planning a wedding out of state literally would have been the most stressful experience without this village to help us.

My mom’s sisters, Aunt Jenny and Aunt Emmy, rallied around helping us plan the wedding. One thing I knew from the beginning of the planning was that I wanted to wear my mom’s wedding dress, which was also my grandma’s wedding dress. But I also knew that I wanted to update it. This is where Aunt Jenny comes in. She helped me find a wonderful seamstress who was willing to tackle the project of carefully redesigning this gorgeous gown from the 1950’s. Aunt Jenny, my cousin Audrey and I spent many, many Saturdays driving an hour outside of Boston to go to the redesign appointments. I am so grateful that I lived near them and had their company during the entire dress process. You can see more pictures of the amazing wedding dress redesign here.

While Aunt Jenny took care of the dress side of things, Aunt Emmy took on all things related to Pittsburgh. She helped us find a photographer, she went to the florist with me, she did a walkthrough of the venue with us, she did an enormous amount of work helping us find and set-up a venue for the rehearsal dinner, and she let us take over her house the weekend of the wedding. In the picture below, I am making children's gift bags at Aunt Emmy's house next to my enemy, Rex (my Grandpa's toy dog that continues to terrify me as an adult). My Aunt's placed him next to me to "help" with the gift bags.

One of our biggest laughs came on the Wednesday before the wedding when I dragged the two of them to a grocery store produce seller to buy 200 peaches for the wedding. Looking back on this, it sounds so stupid that I put so much energy into finding peaches. In Pittsburgh. In May. I was doubted by many a peach sellers, but nevertheless, I persisted. :) I wanted a piece of Georgia at the wedding and peaches as nametag holders was the solution. Let’s just say the very nice man at the massive produce building gave us a full tour of their facility and taught us ALL about the many different varieties of peaches. For an hour.

Needless to say, going through planning a wedding with these two ladies, my grandma, and my sister, eased the pain of not being able to plan a wedding with my mom. They all have the same wacky sense of humor as my mom, they creepily all look and sound alike, and they are just as badass and organized as my mom was. We had more laughs than tears, and I know that’s what my mom would have wanted.

Since the wedding, saying that life has felt like a whirlwind is an extreme understatement. Nick moved to Seattle for 6 months a week after the wedding for an internship. I was lucky enough to live there with him for the summer. We had a blast exploring the Pacific Northwest and I especially enjoyed a relaxing summer. Fall arrived with a crazy move to a new apartment in Boston where we gained two fabulous roommates (named Jen and Emily- notice the connection with my Aunt’s names? So weird!), who I now realize I never would have survived the Fall without.

The arrival of Fall also brought the arrival of my dad’s cancer diagnosis. I’m not going to go into detail here, because I feel like unfortunately the social media world already knows all too much about this due to our battles with the insurance company. As you can imagine, this was a hard one to swallow. I had my fair share of “No way. Not us. Not again. Not fair. Nope.” moments. But there comes a point where you make a choice. You can sit around feeling sorry for yourself or you can pick yourself up and make a plan to tackle it. My dad, my sister, myself, and our entire family chose the latter. My sister’s badass strength has been out full force helping with my dad. She has spent hours upon hours upon hours driving back and forth from Atlanta to Charleston to help with my dad. And she has been phenomenal! She makes sure he is doing his exercises- and gained the title of his Physical Therapy Assistant- she makes sure his spirits are lifted, and she makes sure he is eating well. I am confident Nancy and I wouldn’t have the strength we’ve mustered up without not just one, but two lineages of strong families. And now, enter the other badass side of our family.

She cleans the deck of sailboats, too! Superwoman, I say.

My dad’s family is also full of strong people who are hilarious, thoughtful, and kind. He has had siblings, friends, and a niece visit him, some on multiple occasions, to help out during his recovery. They traveled from Ohio, Vermont, New York, New Hampshire, and Wyoming. His siblings send him weekly cards via snail mail, cool puzzles, and old family photos. Our cousins were gracious enough to help pay for some of the travel expenses Nancy and I incurred traveling to and from Charleston. I look at my sister and I look at myself, and I think, “Damn. We are so lucky to have all of these people in our lives.”

I can’t end this blog without mentioning someone who came into my dad’s life a year ago and has subsequently become family. My dad started dating a wonderful woman named Karen last year. She came to the wedding in Pittsburgh with my dad and we were thrilled to have her there. Yes, my dad gets all the credit for meeting her. But I can’t help but think my mom had some sort of role in bringing Karen into our lives. Aside from the important fact that she and my dad are a great match, Nancy and I love her- as does our entire family. I can promise you that six years ago, I would have balked at this statement and said it would never come from my mouth. But apparently, a lot can change in six years and we couldn't be luckier. Obviously, she is also a strong, badass, independent woman.

And in case you were wondering, Nick and I have loved our time in Boston and wouldn’t change a thing. We have explored a city rich with history. We value the fact that we live in an area where we can walk to the grocery store and restaurants. We are within a very short drive of some amazing places including Vermont, Maine, NYC, and Cape Cod, just to name a few. We loved “Marathon Monday” and going to the Red Sox game at 11AM. If you’ve made it this far, you should also know that while we loved our time in Boston, we are headed back across the country when Nick graduates and I finish the school year to begin a new adventure in Seattle as Nick starts a new job (and I hopefully find a new job soon!). We couldn’t be more excited, so please come and visit!

Adventure.

         This morning, I woke up grumpy and mumbled the words, “I don’t want to go to work. I just want this day to be over.” As with anyone who experiences a traumatic event, the date that your life completely changes may as well be etched in stone inside your head forever. There’s nothing you can do to make the date pass except pick yourself up and use every ounce of your willpower to get through the day. All I wanted to do was curl up under my heated electric blanket and watch House of Cards while eating Cabot’s Seriously Sharp Vermont Cheddar Cheese with Wheat Thins. Alas, this dream was not an option because it was crazy sock day at school, which was fitting, because I obviously wore the Queen’s googly eye crab socks. Needless to say, I (reluctantly) grabbed my coffee and my lunchbox, headed out the door, and began the adventure that is March 4^th. 

On this date five years ago (crazy, right? five years?), we all began a new adventure. At the time, it inevitably felt like chaos. Trying to figure out how to live our lives without Queen Jean present = obvious chaos. It was an adventure to figure out how to wake up, get out of bed, and start each day as a new day. It was an adventure to tackle birthdays, Mother’s Day, and holidays. As days have somehow quickly turned into years, I can actually say that I’m finally beginning to feel like I am figuring out this adventure. While it took me five years to realize, it’s actually quite simple: If you can wake up and remember to try your best to live each day like the Queen, then you’re bound to be ok. Figuring out how to live like a badass Queen is tough, though. It requires thinking back about how the Queen handled things and it also requires a massive support network of people to help you laugh, read People magazine, watch Ellen, wear crazy socks, and be kind to others as you give this thing called life your best attempt.

            The same year the Queen left us for a cooler place, this pretty cool guy walked (literally) into my life. He was a smart, well-traveled, lego-loving, handsome man who checked off almost every item on that list I made as a thirteen-year-old of my “dream man.” This is already sounding horribly cheesy (get it? I've still got Cabot cheese on my mind!), but stick with me. So this new adventure began and this lego-loving man, named Nick, stuck around. Nick and I have gotten to take a lot of traveling adventures. We were lucky enough to travel to Iceland where we went camping and ate copious amounts of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in between hiking to the most beautiful waterfalls. We explored Budapest and Krakow where we brushed up our knowledge of WWII history. We went to Big Bend National Park in Texas where we camped in the desert and went to sleep looking at more stars than I’ve ever seen.

           When this adventure partner of mine decided to apply to graduate school, I thought, well, what’s another adventure, right? So the adventure of MBA school began. Nick took the GMAT; I hated the GMAT and the amount of time it consumed. Nick spent lots of time online browsing lots of different programs; I daydreamed about what it would be like to live outside the state of Georgia. Nick wrote essay after essay after essay; I was one of many proofreaders [read: I was the one who determined if non-engineers could understand].

After the adventure [chaos] of preparing to apply for school, Nick then tells me he only wants to apply to one school. He says this one school is the exact program he’s looking for and if it doesn’t work out, then so be it. Obviously, at this point I think he’s crazy and I’m seriously questioning his sanity. Then, he proceeds to tell me that the other reason he's picked this one program is because he thinks it would be cool for me to live in Boston. For me to live in the city my mom went to college in. The city my mom and dad met in. The city my Nana and Pa met in. The city my aunt lives in. And, this people, is one of many reasons why I’m marrying this man.

            Ok, enough of this sap. The point of this story is that it is pretty exciting to live in this city that my parents began their own adventure in. My mom met my dad via her college roommate at Simmons College. To say my parents began their relationship together as an adventure is an extreme understatement. Shortly after graduating from college- with a degree- my mom up and moved to St. Croix with my dad! Whenever I think about this, I just laugh and laugh, because my mom would have never been pleased with this if it were my sister or me. My mom never actually revealed this whole story to me. One day I was able to put the puzzle pieces together and I remember saying to my mom, “Wait. YOU moved to St. Croix? And you weren’t even engaged yet? And you didn’t have a job when you moved there?” Her response, “Yes. And Nana and Pa were NOT happy about it. So don’t get any ideas.” So anyways, they moved to St. Croix where my dad worked on a boat and my mom was a secretary. Whenever she told me about her secretary job, she always mentioned her psychology degree from Simmons and also inserted her advice there: “Don’t be a psychology major unless you actually want to do something with psychology.” After the St. Croix adventure, my parents moved back to the US, lived in Pittsburgh, and got married.

After getting married, they trekked off to Hyde Park, NY for my dad to go to The Culinary Institute. Then, my dad got a job as a chef in Atlanta in 1985, so my parents packed up all their belongings and headed to the South in a U-Haul. My dad drove the U-Haul and my mom followed behind them in their car. Until the U-Haul broke down. They stood on the side of the road and watched all of their possessions get towed away by a tow truck. I’d like to think that in that situation, after screaming your fair share of expletives, you’d just have to remember that it’s all part of an adventure (adventure is obviously a synonym for chaos- but it sounds a hell of a lot more fun). All these adventures occurred before my sister and I were even a thought.

Now, circle ahead 30 years later to 2015. Last May, when Nick and I packed all our stuff into our U-Haul, I couldn’t help but think about all the adventures my parents had in the early years of their relationship. On our trip to Beantown, our U-Haul didn’t break down. But I did spend a large portion of the drive writing a lesson plan, in the loud cab of the U-Haul, for an interview that I had two days after this massive move (chaos or adventure? you can decide). We made it safely to Boston and unloaded all of our things into our tiny apartment on the first floor of an old, lavender colored house. And so our Boston adventure began.

            I can’t say that learning this new adventure of life without my mom is what I would have chosen. But I can say that my life has grown for the better out of this adventure. Family, friends, people I’ve met along the way, relationships that have formed, jobs I’ve had- those are the reasons why this new adventure is an adventure and not just chaos. And it takes an army of seriously amazing people to turn chaos into an adventure.

Time.

Lately I’ve been thinking about time. Not thyme the spice, but time like a tick tocking clock.

When my parents moved to Atlanta in 1985, I highly doubt they had intentions of staying here for the long haul. I mean, why would two Northern bred people move to the South and plan on staying forever? People say “y’all” here and drink sweet tea. And it’s sweltering here in the summer. Although, after the winter that is currently happening in the North, maybe they had the right idea. Anyways, over time they established roots in Atlanta. They found an area with a good school system and bought a house at the bottom of two hills on Aberdeen Drive. They made friends, joined the local pool, Nancy and I became Girl Scouts, and they sent me to cotillion (I still resent this because Nancy never had to go). Over time, the city they didn’t plan on living in forever became home.

About three years ago, my dad told us his master plan of selling the house, moving to a city or town near the ocean, and buying a sailboat. Initially, all I could see from his master plan was that the house would not be our house anymore. The house with all the memories of my mom, the house that literally exemplified everything that was my mom, was going to be lived in by another family.

The next year and a half was busy. Nancy, my dad, and I went through every single thing in the house. And I mean everything. My mom treasured memories. This is just a nice way of me saying that she saved everything and had hoarding “tendencies.” It was all very tidy and organized, but it was ALL there. From the daily notes when I was an infant in daycare, to every piece of artwork Nancy and I ever made, to napkins from my parents wedding, to rocking horses and wagons made by my dad, our Little Tikes plastic kitchen, and even my mom’s sweet Paddington Bear straight from her trip to London as a little girl. There were times when it was enjoyable and funny to go through boxes of things we had never seen. And then there were times where I couldn’t look at another piece of silver or china without wanting to cry because nobody knew what to do with it. Also, we frequently didn’t know what things were. Did you know people used to have knife rests? Each person had their own silver box like thing to rest their knife on when they weren’t using it during meals.

We never left empty handed!

Nancy and I determined what we wanted, what my dad wanted, and what my aunts wanted. Then, we held two massive yard sales for the stuff that nobody wanted. We were selling so much stuff that multiple people asked us if it was a “multi-family” yard sale. Nope, just us. To cap it all off, my dad held an Estate Sale to sell the bigger pieces of furniture and fancy things like knife rests. During the midst of all this, my dad was traveling around the east coast to find a new place to call home. He visited multiple small towns and cities along the coast in North and South Carolina. When he narrowed it down, Nancy and I spent time with him in two cities trying to help him decide the pros and cons. After lots of travel, and many good options, he ultimately decided to make the move to Charleston, SC.

Playing with my toys before selling them at a yard sale. These weren't the "hot" items I had hoped they would be. Apparently plastic kitchens are way cooler now.

The house on Aberdeen was on the market for a month and a half before it was swooped up by a nice young family with two little girls. The two little girls were the same age that Nancy and I were when our family moved into the house. Meant to be? I think so. There were about two months from the time the house was sold to the time my dad actually moved. In these two months, I just kept thinking about how terrible moving day was going to be. I prepared myself for how awful it was going to be and how it would be so sad, blah, blah, blah.

Moving day came. I said goodbye to my bedroom that saw coats of pink, yellow, blue, and cream colored paint while I lived in it. I said goodbye to the dogwood tree that I researched for my third grade science project. I said goodbye to the mailbox my mom painted to look like a cow. And I said goodbye to the azalea bushes Nancy and I had our picture taken in front of every Easter. Nick and I were the chosen ones to drive Sam to Charleston (more on Sam later). We gave Sam a double dose of anti-anxiety medicine and loaded him into his crate as I said one last goodbye to the house on Aberdeen.

When I was in college and would leave home after a visit, my mom would always stand in the exact same place outside the garage and watch me back down the driveway. As I switched my car gear from “reverse” to “drive,” I would give a little honk on my horn and my mom would wave until I was up the hill and out of sight. Every single time I came home during or after college we had this same little routine. As Nick drove us away with Sam yelping and screetching in the back, I looked back and had that same memory of my mom waving away as if to say, “It will be ok. Go.” And then I was fine. The drive was fine (except for Sam’s incessant yelping) and I realized that I was indeed ok. I realized that the time I spent going through everything in the house was the time I needed. It gave me time to understand that the house on Aberdeen gave our family memories. Luckily, memories don’t have to be contained to the walls of a house.

Any inkling of sadness that may have existed over the house on Aberdeen was gone when we moved my dad into his new house in Charleston. He was so happy to have a fresh start and within a couple of months he found the perfect sailboat and became Captain Jeff. Never have I ever seen my dad as happy or excited as when this boat became his. He named the boat “Patience” and the numbers on her mainsail are 2259- my mom’s birthday. Sheer perfection, if you ask me. Over time, I realized that even though the house on Aberdeen is being lived in by another family, now we will have new memories to make in Charleston.

        

I don’t really have a good transition here, but I mentioned earlier there would be more about Sam, so here it is. My sister and I spent our entire childhood wanting a dog. We begged and pleaded to get a dog. My mom always said no because she didn’t want anything else to take care of or worry about. So, we spent our whole childhood dog-less. Yes, you should feel sad for us. The closest we got was having a giant dog bowl outside our sliding glass door that said, “Killer.” This is because Oprah recommended having a giant dog bowl as a defense against people breaking into your house. The addition of “Killer” was my mom’s idea.

Fast forward to Christmas 2008. I am a senior in college and Nancy is a senior in high school. We headed over to a family friend’s house for Christmas Eve dinner and my dad was acting really weird. On the drive to their house he kept saying, “Abby and Nancy, you guys are going to love your Christmas present this year.” We were convinced we were getting a Wii. We walk into their house and we are greeted by this itty bitty adorable black fluffy puppy wearing reindeer antlers. My dad said, “Merry Christmas! He’s yours!” For most people, this would be a great moment. Cameras would be flashing, everyone would be hugging, the dog would be giving everyone kisses.

The exact opposite happened. My mom screamed, “WHAT?? You’re kidding. You didn’t talk to me about this?!” I could go on, but this would be R rated if I wrote the language that she actually screamed. My parents disappeared and discussed this for quite some time. The ride home with the adorable itty bitty puppy was awkward and quiet. This awkwardness went on for a couple days. Nancy and I said we would send the itty bitty puppy back to the farm he came from because things were so weird. Finally, we had a “family meeting” where my mom said the itty bitty puppy, who got the name Sam, could stay. As long as: she never had to feed him, she never had to take him outside, and she never had to take him to the vet. Basically, he could live in the same house as her and breathe the same air as her as long as she was not responsible for him.

So Sam stayed. And the ‘funniest’ part of all of this is that while Sam is adorable and hypoallergenic, he is bad and he is kind of weird. He ate his fair number of shoes, he chewed on rugs, he broke window panes trying to chase squirrels, chewed on beautiful maple and cherry wood furniture my dad built, peed everywhere, ran around the house in circles while continuously barking, and had (well...still has) difficulty going on walks because he lunges and attempts to attack all moving objects and animals. As time went on, Sam chewed on things less, learned to go to the bathroom outside, and even was brave enough to learn how to use a dog door- it just took Nancy two weeks to teach him that you could also go back IN the dog door from the outside.  

I still don’t think my mom would admit to any of this, so what I am about to tell you is merely my speculation about her relationship with Sam. When my mom got sick again, she was home more often and spent more time resting around the house. Amidst this, she sent me this picture text of Sam laying his head next to her when she was resting on the couch that said, “Look who is keeping me company today.”

Also, there was a little dog named Buffy who lived down the street and belonged to an older woman who my mom watched out for. My mom would write little notes with dog bones taped to them that said, “To: Buffy, Love: Sam.” Sam and Buffy would then get together for “play dates.” My mom claimed this was because it made Buffy’s owner happy, but I secretly think it made my mom happy too. While Sam had an unwelcomed arrival into our family and my mom wanted nothing to do with him, over time he grew on her. Again, I am speculating, but I think the aforementioned stories show a little bit of her change of heart.

Sam and Buffy on a play-date organized by MY MOM

What is so amazing about Sam is how much he helps all of us. Sam is the best comedic relief during hard or stressful situations. Sam greets you smiling (he really does smile like a human), sitting, and wagging his tail when you walk in the door. The minute he sees a squirrel, he runs out his dog door and around the house trying to catch it, which is hilarious to watch because he is so determined even though he has failed so, so many times (he has caught one- we think it was a senior citizen squirrel). Sam and my dad are buddies. Sam often whines when my dad is not in his sight. Probably because my dad spoils him rotten with bacon grease poured over his food and refrigerated dog treats. When Sam came into our family he was possibly the worst thing that ever happened. And then, over time, he evolved into the best thing that ever happened to each one of us. If you're reading this and thinking, "Gosh, they are weirdly obsessed with their dog that they became 'those' weird dog people"...you are correct. The hardest part of this blog was narrowing down how many pictures of Sam I could post. Also, I know it's so inappropriate that we let him on the couch. But it just happens.

  

I don’t know why I write these blog posts every year near the time that my mom left us for a cooler place. Four years ago, I needed this blog (ok, you did too, but I NEEDED it). Now, I don’t need it. I could go into tomorrow without posting this and I would be ok. Inevitably, the time period of February to March every year is just a little bit harder than the rest of the year. It’s hard to go through February and March without thinking about what we all went through during that time period four years ago. It’s like I’m drawn back to this blog during this time of year as a form of self-therapy. Is that a thing? Can a non-doctor, average person provide therapy to themselves? Whatever- I’m making it a thing.