I Can't Help It

     If you are in the vicinity of me at a playground, you will hear me before you even lay eyes on me. You will hear my voice over all the other background noise. Oh, it will come through loud and clear. For a second, you may even think that someone has knocked a needle off of a record ---why on Earth would a record player be at a playground? That's just silliness....Back on point! --- or that a song is on repeat. But no. No, no, no....it is just little ol' me. Yep, just me saying, "Be careful, okay, slow down, be careful, hold on tight, don't slip, be careful, okay, slow down, be careful...." You get the point. And you know what?

I can't help it.

     And don't worry, I can already see you smirking as you sit, reclined back on the bench, looking so relaxed, watching your child play. Good for you!  And I'll notice as you lean over to your mom friend and whisper, "Helicopter-Mom Alert."  And you both have a nice giggle. I'll politely smile at you, and promptly go back to reminding repeatedly, I mean, watching my children. Do you know what I'm thinking at that moment? I'm so jealous of them.  Jealous, you say?  Yes.  Jealous that you can relax. Jealous that you are reading a book, or playing a game on your phone, taking time for you. That is awesome and I applaud you! I would give anything for a single ounce of that. The way I am wired makes it so that I cannot physically or mentally relax. And you know why?

I can't help it.

     I actually despise the phrase, 'Helicopter Mom', if I'm to be completely honest.  I've been known to refer to myself as that, because I hear it so much. It used to just be called, 'Overprotective'. Simpler days I guess, when it was okay to be neurotic. Kidding! I'm ((kind of)) kidding....  Anyway.... 

Yes, I am an overprotective mother. I come from a long line of overprotective mothers and looking back on it, there is nothing wrong with it. Unless you're the innocent child, of course. My grandmother used to tell me that I couldn't ride my bike around the corner, "because I can't see you."  (She lived one house away from the corner.)  I'd roll my eyes, agree, and huff off on my bike, thinking the whole time just how unfair she was. (To my mother and grandmother, I wholeheartedly apologize. I get it, and I am one of you now.) I'd say to myself, "I'll never be that way with my kids." Whoops!  Sorry about that kids!  Miss G went riding her bike down our hill the other day, and the words, I kid you not, came out of my mouth: "Don't ride around the corner.  I can't see you."  Oh hell, it has happened, the metamorphosis  is complete.  My husband turned to me and said, "I told her she could go around the corner."  I swear he grew three heads by the way I was eyeing him. Anyway..... you see, some of this is just in our DNA, or the way we grew up. I try to be relaxed, I really do, but you know what?

I can't help it.

      Yes, some of us hover for fear that our babies will topple off of a slide, while others like to let their children explore and if they fall, they learn to pick themselves back up. Neither is wrong and neither is better. We are all our own types of parents and we're all doing our best. Whatever parenting style you do is by far the best one if your kids are happy and safe.  

I'm an Overprotective Mom, and if you could feel my anxiety, see all of the worst case scenarios race through my head any given day, you'd understand a little better why some moms (or dads) hover.  I have actually asked my husband, "Why am I this way?  Why does my mind automatically go the worst thing that could possibly happen?  I work myself up before the kids can even step foot out of the door."  And if my kids are running around with cousins or friends and I'm out of view talking with other adults, you better believe that one ear is perked up, listening for any crying, or worse, silence.  I do very well at seeming like I'm paying attention to someone talking, and for the most part I hear everything they say because that's rude not to pay attention, but one part of my mind will not shut down. It is supercharged and honed in. I just....

I can't help it.

     I've seen and heard far too much 'Mommy-Shaming' lately. I wanted to give you all a clearer insight into one type of mother, a small crash course if you will, since it is the only one I know how to be and know way too much about: Overprotective, Helicopter, Needs to Cut the Umbilical Cord, It Must Be Exhausting- type of mom. And yes, it is exhausting. I can't escape the thoughts in my head, and believe me, I'd love to.  I can't outrun the urge to put my arms up when my kids are climbing on playground equipment.  

Some days, I will let my kids run and climb the dome at our park. They try to climb so high, and I will sometimes force myself to stay where I am, at a distance, and just watch.  I will stop myself when I feel the need to yell, "Be careful!"  I cross my arms so that I do not run over to reach for a leg that has slipped through. It's baby steps for me. I've become a little more relaxed with Miss G, but Li'l B is still a baby to me, and it will take just a little more time. Hopefully he can learn patience....and I'm referring to with me. Someday, they may look back and I hope they realize that...

I couldn't help it.

     Maybe the next time you see a mom out who seems to be a little nervous, running here and there, repeating herself, arms outstretched, just give her a smile. If you see her race to her child who has tripped and stumbled, just give her a nod. She's not purposefully trying to 'baby' her child, she's merely doing what her mind and instincts are willing her to do. Rather than laugh at or tear each down for our different parenting styles, let's embrace and lift each other up. And if it's me you see at the park, well, Heaven help you, you may need to go to another park before I drive you insane.  No, I'm ((kind of)) kidding. Just please know that deep down, I'm trying to relax. In so many more ways than you can even realize. I'm trying to step away.  I'm not trying to hover over my kids.  But also remember - 

I can't help it. 

After The Hardest Goodbye

     

It has been a year since my dad passed. 

 

     It is still so foreign to think this, to realize this, to say it out loud. I will admit that, surprisingly, this has been the quickest year of my life. Maybe it rushed by because this was our year of 'firsts', so every first holiday or birthday without him seemed to loom ahead, which made it arrive that much quicker.  It wasn't that I dreaded the occasions, but it was the fact that someone who was always there, suddenly wasn't going to be.  No walking in to see his smiling face, hugging him tightly, inhaling his cologne.  No more hugs.  No more smiles.  Gone.  

     As time passes, I feel that people think grief should subside, as if there is a time table and, miraculously, the wound should heal, leaving you whole again. Losing a loved one, to me, is truly like losing a piece of yourself.  You will never regain it, but you will learn and adapt to how to live without it.  And it never for a second means you do not miss it.  That doesn't mean it gets easier, just different.  Life is change, is it not? Between you and me though, sometimes change really sucks.  

     On my first birthday after dad, my mom called and played me The Beatles' 'Birthday Song'.  Dad did this every year when I lived at home.  He would crank it up and we would all dance and sing in the living room together.  I started doing it for Miss G and Li'l B on their birthdays.  They love it as I did.  And this year, when I would play it for them, I would close my eyes and dance with dad.  

     

     For ALS Awareness Month, I posted a picture everyday promoting a movement which I had created in honor of dad called, Moving Out ALS.  It didn't really catch on the way I had hoped, but I put myself out there.  Dad was worth it.  I think he would've been proud of my effort.  

     My brother Chris, his family, mom, and our family of four went to the beach for a little vacation this summer.  It was Miss G's and Li'l B's first time ever seeing the ocean.  As they ran towards the surf, arms spread out as if they were flying, giggling at the wonder of the vast waves, I watched them through blurry eyes.  All I could think was how dad would've absolutely loved to see their reactions. Dad was in awe of the sea.
     We went out one night, divided up dad's ashes in sea shells, and laid them in a hole that we had dug in the sand.  We all stood there and watched as the ocean made its way in, sank into the hole with its watery fingers turning up the ashes, and withdrew back out.  We all said goodbye as dad left us one last time.  

     One occasion in particular was extremely tough because dad really was the reason for it - Our ALS walk.  Our captain was not among us, and the feel of the walk was completely changed. Something as simple as checking a box to indicate why you're walking was enough to bring on tears. In Honor to In Memory.  I think a lot of us never thought we'd be checking that box.  Now everything is In Memory.  During that day and throughout the whole walk, when I felt like breaking down, when the void became overwhelming, I smiled. In Memory. 

 

       We created a new tradition.  Every year, around dad's birthday, we go to a Browns' game together.  The stadium felt electric.  We cheered loudly, we clapped until our hands hurt, and we missed the reason we are all Browns' fans. Sundays are not the same when watching our Brownies play.  But dad's love for the Browns taught us about loyalty, picking yourself back up when you've been knocked down, to never give up on anything, and that Brown is Beautiful.   

     Another tradition that the kids and I started is celebrating Day of the Dead.  Gabby in particular has had a hard time with her Pop-pop's passing.  She knocks the breath out of me a lot with her questions and observations.  We decided to print out pictures, collect all of Pop-pop's (and other family members who have passed) favorite foods, mementos, and decorations, and say what we love and miss about them.  Gabby missed everything. She stole my answer.  

     Christmas was last on our list in our year of firsts.  I know all of us were not looking forward to it as dad loved Christmas.  I made mom her traditional 'Grandma's Brag Book', and dedicated the last page to dad.  The book was one of the hardest things to create.  Mom mentioned that this was the last book that he would be in, and she began to cry.  Gabby also cried.  She had asked me why God couldn't just let Pop-pop come down for Christmas so we could give him hugs and presents.  I had no answer for her.  It was becoming my usual response to her questions because I, too, have many questions with no answers.  Most times, that's what death brings us.  But we all celebrated and smiled and laughed at Christmas, because that's what dad would have wanted, for us to celebrate.   

     I had someone who had just lost a parent ask me if it got easier as time passed.  "No," I answered without hesitation, "it just becomes different."  I still think I hear him clearing his throat, smell his cologne, or hear his voice when I'm visiting mom.  Then the harsh realization swoops in, and I have to remember that he's gone. I've learned that a heart can break over and over again, and we survive it.  I dream of him, but in those dreams, I know he's not supposed to be there, and I find myself crying.  And when I wake, I have two opposing feelings jockeying to be dominant; joy, because I just got to see dad again, and sadness, because I know it wasn't real.  Sadness always wins.  Stupid sadness.

     The year after our hardest goodbye has been rough.  I'm not going to sugarcoat it.  Many times I've wanted to tell dad about things going on, have him reassure me about a decision, or laugh at our latest debacle. It's true that our favorite moments ultimately become memories.  But that's also one great thing I've come to realize this year; we have a ton of wonderful, special memories to share with each other and with our children.  I find myself telling Miss G and Li'l B lots of stories about their Pop-pop, to which I am welcomed with squeals of delight and, "Tell it again, mommy, tell it again!"  And I do.  As long as we keep dad in our present, he will forever live with us.  In Memory.  







      

 

  

"Death smiles at us all; all we can do, is smile back."