Gratitude and Honor

(The formatting here is certainly far from perfect. Technology is not my strength, so please ignore the funny formatting!)

When I kept up with writing these blogs, for some reason I got into a groove of giving each entry a title with only one word. I find myself organizing my thoughts around that one word, thus creating an entire story woven around a single word. This year, I couldn’t do that. I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to think of a single word that molded together my feelings of gratitude and honor and I couldn’t think of one. I even thought of just molding the words together and creating my own word- “gratihon” or “hontude.” Yikes, bad idea. By now, you’re catching on to how much I really wanted to continue having a single word title. But as you can see, I gave in and just decided to use two words in my title. You’ll have to bear with me as I organize my thoughts around two words instead of one.

November 23, 2019 was a date etched in my head for what felt like all of 2019. This was a date I would say a million times over in answer to the question, “When are you due?” On November 24th, 25th, 26th, 27th, 28th, 29th, and 30th, I would understand that alleged due dates are a load of bullshit and when someone asks you your due date you should just give an approximation- maybe the month you think you’ll have your baby, or better yet, maybe just the season you think your baby will be born in.

Finally, on December 1, 2019, an 8lb 6oz little girl not-so-eagerly joined our world and just like that, 

Nick and I embarked on an entirely new adventure, an entirely different pace of life, and entered into 

an entirely new world where we constantly walk around questioning our every move and realizing we have no idea what the fuck we’re doing. And none of this is without extreme gratitude.

Since December 1st, I have realized the extreme amount of gratitude I have for anyone who is currently a parent, or who is working their ass off trying to become a parent. I had no idea of the level of work and love that goes into this new title. From the ups and downs of trying to begin a family, to the ups and downs of just trying to keep a child alive, and then on top of that, trying to help that child thrive. Sheesh. And they tell me this is the easy part.

I also have an incredible amount of gratitude for our family and friends who have supported us. From family coming to visit and provide baby help and cooking, to friends stocking our freezer and making grocery store runs, we are so incredibly grateful for people helping us. I have actually joked a lot that people are either just genuinely really nice or they must be thinking, “Geez, Abby and Nick really need some help.”

 

I have extreme gratitude for women. For all the women with children, I am so damn sorry I had no idea what you’ve been doing. I’m sorry I didn’t understand the hardship put on your body whether it be trying to start a family, being pregnant, childbirth, or postpartum. And why don’t we talk about postpartum more often? Oh right, because if we did there would be a sharp population decline. I’m sorry I didn’t understand the level of tiredness that just becomes normal. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize how skilled you were at multitasking and getting things done in a short window of time. I am most sorry that I never had the chance to tell my mom that I now understand the sheer magnitude of what she did for me. The level of gratitude I have for my mom quadrupled on December 1, 2019. I only wish she could have known that I am starting to understand how much gratitude I have for her. Actually, I guess I don’t wish that because then I would have had a child nine years ago and I was most definitely not ready to be a parent.

I have no segue here, but onto that second word. Honor.

Before I was even pregnant, I was stressed about how I would be a mom without my own mom to help me learn how to be a mom. Someone gave me the advice to honor my mom through being a mom. Honor my mom through being a mom. I spent a longgggg time stressing about not knowing how to honor my mom. I could always craft, but there wasn’t anything I wanted to craft. Seriously, how would I honor my mom if I didn’t know how to honor her and I didn’t feel like crafting?

I inadvertently dipped my toe into the “honor my mom” advice last summer. It all began at a kids
consignment sale in a convention center. I can and I can’t believe I went to one of those. Yet suddenly, I realized how to honor my mom- by bargain hunting for anything related to baby gear. It almost became a game- how often could I check Facebook Marketplace for baby items? Could I be the first one to respond to the “Buy Nothing” neighborhood group when someone posted a free baby item for porch pick up? How far was too far to drive for a great deal on a baby item? How well could I haggle with the prices? Needless to say, I got many free and deeply discounted baby items all while trying to honor my mom. I suppose I should have been venturing to yard sales in order to truly honor her, but I don’t have that 8AM on a Saturday morning yard sale gene in me.

The truth is, my stress over not knowing how to honor my mom was unnecessary. There was no way to know how to honor her until I became a mom myself. My 3 month stint at parenting has shown me a few things I can do to honor my mom.


I can make sure she keeps laughing.

 

I can make sure she keeps visiting our family and friends.
  

I can make sure she has a love of the beach.

 

I can make sure she knows she is strong and mighty.

 

I can make sure she knows the crazy deep level of love I have for her.

 

Anna Jean Arch, even though you came into this world in a different month than I had in my head, I am grateful for you, and as your mom, I will keep trying my damnedest to honor your grandmother. Which means that I will probably embarrass you big time.

Perspective.

Eight years ago I did what anyone would do when something traumatic happens. I picked up the phone and called two of my friends from growing up who unfortunately also experienced the trauma of losing their mothers. I vividly remember both of them essentially saying that my mom had already taught me all I needed to know in order to succeed and that I would be ok. In that moment eight years ago, I definitely called bullshit on their advice. I now realize that the point of many life experiences happening to anyone is to help us put things into perspective. I am learning that gaining perspective happens in many different ways...and that the advice from my friends was actually not bullshit and was wise and profound beyond their years.

Jolt of Perspective

I will never forget the jolt of perspective I got just a few days after my mom died. Nancy and I were headed out to the “shed” in the backyard. I put “shed” in quotation marks because my mom turned the tool shed my dad built into the cutest little mini version of our house. It was painted the same grey color as our house with the same shade of teal on the mini shutters and the door, it had a mailbox marked 6330 ½, it had cute little white curtains along with a flower box in front of the window. Anyways, Nancy and I headed out to the tool “shed” to get something. Most likely a shovel to scoop up Sam’s poop that was scattered across the yard like land mines, but who knows. Nancy was in front of me and she was the first one to open the door. As she opened the door, I knew I heard something rustling around inside. Without saying a word of warning to Nancy, I took off and bolted across the yard leaping over piles of dog poop while leaving her to deal with the rustling noise. Something fell, or jumped, from above the rafters in the shed- probably a squirrel, mouse, opossum, or some other creature you never want to be surprised by- and then Nancy turned around and bolted only to find me clear across the yard, laughing so hysterically that I was crying. In any normal circumstance, there probably wouldn’t be anything particularly special about this event. In that quick 30 seconds, I got the first true belly laugh I’d had in weeks. I also got a dose of perspective. 

How lucky I am to be here, laughing with my sister, on a gorgeous day?

I spent a really long time trying to find a picture of the damn shed and this hair style prom pose picture is seriously the only one I could find. Also, I'm wearing my infamous prom dress that my mom found at a yard sale for $1. I honestly don't think I've ever seen her more proud of her yard sale abilities.

Reflective Perspective

Other times, gaining perspective takes years. I was 13 when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was on the verge of turning 24 when my mom died of breast cancer. I was 29 when my dad was diagnosed with metastatic lung cancer. Hearing those statistics initially provides thoughts of, “Ugh. Depressing.” It’s taken all these years for me to learn that all those traumatic experiences have actually given me incredible perspective. Now, don’t get me wrong. If I was #blessed with magical powers and could go back and change it, obviously I would rather erase all cancer from the world with a giant “fuck you” while ninja kicking in the air. But alas, I don’t have those magical powers (yet) and I’m here with a futile attempt at finding the positives after hell. 

Just a few months ago at 31, I was vehemently complaining to my dad about a hike that Nick and I did that I thought was too hard, too long, made me too hungry, required us to get up too early, and was generally just too much for me.

You see, I am notoriously un-enthusiastic about exercise. I know it’s good for me and I always feel great after I exercise, but the process of jump starting myself to actually exercise is a continuous challenge. I love going for a power walk on a nice day, but ask me to go for a run on a nice day? Hell no. I’ve tried gyms and spend most of my time trying to figure out how to use the machines. I’ve tried spin class and my butt hurts so much afterward that I wobble like a penguin for days. I’ve tried Zumba and I did love that, but is Zumba even a thing anymore? I’ve tried barre and I am the person constantly being readjusted by the teacher because I’m not doing the moves quite right. The one thing that has stuck is yoga. I’ve started going to hot yoga and found this great studio that’s walking distance to our house and they always have some very motivational/inspirational knowledge to pass on during the class. Yoga has this magical way of making me feel strong and calm. I’ve even learned how to do crow pose which in my wildest yoga dreams I never thought I would be able to do. 

That was a gigantic side tangent about my exercise habits that none of you needed to know except to understand that I’m not one of those people who is an eager beaver when it comes to exercising. The point of my story is that after listening to me gripe and moan about the aforementioned terrible hike, I’ll never forget my dad saying, “You’re lucky to be able to do something like that.” And with those words, my outlook on exercise- and really on a lot of things- changed. 

How lucky am I to be physically able to do whatever I choose to do?

One of many gorgeous hikes that I complain about.

My dad’s simple words made me realize that I am so lucky to be able to do these things and that I need to have an attitude and take on the challenge of caring for me- including exercising- with a better attitude. As a somewhat healthy and somewhat active almost 32 year old, a family history of cancer can completely change how you care for yourself and what preventative measures you take to ensure you stay healthy. Nancy and I have met with genetic counselors, tested our genes through some sort of a full genetic panel, and met with a nutritionist who specializes in preventative cancer diets. The nutritionist gave me some insight into why eating less meat is important and she also taught me some hard lessons that I’m working on...most importantly, that I should only be having one- yes, one- glass of wine a week. I am also now privy to many of the recommended preventative screenings for someone with a family history of cancer. In the last year I had the joy of experiencing a mammogram, a breast MRI, and even a colonoscopy. You might be thinking how lucky YOU are not to deal with that until you’re much older than I am. But you know what I’m thinking? Whatever drugs they give you for a colonoscopy are awesome and how lucky I am that I get to have that loopy experience every 5 years. But in all seriousness…

How lucky am I to have the opportunity to know way more about my health than I ever wanted to know and to attempt to be ahead of anything that may be cancerous?

If I can learn how to do this from yoga, you can do anything. Truly anything.
*Not pictured: this pose lasting for long enough for someone to take a picture and then me instantly falling into the water.

Changing Perspective

When Nick and I made the decision to move to Seattle, my biggest worry was all of the people we were leaving on the East Coast. Would I become the long lost relative on the other side of the country? Would our friends forget about us? I couldn’t shake this gut wrenching feeling that I was saying goodbye to all the important people in our lives as we made our way across the US in my black CR-V that was stuffed to the brim. Now that we’ve been in Seattle for over a year and a half, I realize that somehow, those worrisome questions are not worries at all anymore. I realize that calling my sister and my dad is actually easier on West Coast time and I talk to them both more than I probably would if I lived on the East Coast. Somehow, we miraculously have friends in Seattle and somehow, my East Coast pals have not left me in the dust. Also, we have 2 sets of great friends on either side of the country both named Meg(h)an and Jordan. How cool is that?

How lucky am I to have incredible friends- and also family, too!- on both sides of the country?

With Megan, Jordan, Meghan, and Jordan.
Apparently we have a hard time remembering names. To remedy that issue, we just befriend people with the same names.

Perspective from Others

I am also lucky to have people in my life help me find perspective when I can’t seem to find it. Since 2011, Nancy and I have a chip on our shoulder toward the month of February. Not only is my mom’s birthday in February, but February is also the month we all spent with her in the hospital. This year, on February 1st, just the day before my mom’s birthday, we had to say goodbye to Sam, our doodle of a poodle who was most definitely the strangest, quirkiest, yet best and most lovable dogs you’ve ever met. Since Sam was our first dog, I never experienced the horror of losing a dog. 

[If you recall, the short version of Sam coming into our lives is that my dad got Sam as a Christmas gift for us without consulting my mom, who always said she never wanted a dog. You can imagine how that went over.] 

Through my blubbering tears, I sobbed to Nick, “This is another reason why my mom never wanted a dog. She always said that people get so upset when their dogs die and everyone has to see their dogs die. And now I get it.” I was truly a blubbering mess. Nick’s reply was short and simple, “There’s also all the great times you had with Sam.” Cut through more hours of me being a blubbering mess...only to realize that Nick gave me the perspective I needed.

How lucky are all of us to have all the memories with Sam, the strangest, best dog?

                         

What you don't see is the piece of bacon, chicken, cheese, or overpriced refrigerated dog treat (he refused to eat normal dog treats) luring Sam to stay in these perfectly adorable poses.

We Control our Perspective

Life is hard. Nobody really tells you that, because who wants to spend all their time talking about how life is hard? The reality is that we all have our own struggles, we all have traumatic experiences, we all get into ruts of negative thinking. This year more than ever, I seemed to finally recognize that it’s what you choose to do with all that shit that flies your way. You can fester in it and be pissed off, or you can chalk it up to learning about perspective and move along. This year has brought me continued perspective, continued reminders to be patient even when I don’t think I can be patient, and continued gratitude for all the luck that has been thrown my way. Whatever your individual situation, I hope reading this brings you some form of perspective, because if you’re reading this that means you’re here. 

And damn...how lucky are we to be here? 

Of equal importance, Nancy and I have renamed February. It shall now be called Fuckuary. 

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.