For Lilya Raine

Sometimes, this world is not a very nice place.  Sometimes, bad thing happen to good people.  Sometimes, we are left wondering why and how come and why them?  Sometimes, we flounder as we try to take it in, as we try to make sense of it all.  Five years ago on September 26^th, a terrible thing happened to two very good people that I love but before I tell you about the thing, let me tell you about them.

My brother, Michael, is a tall, thin, gentle and hairy kind of guy.  He started growing facial hair at age fourteen and never stopped.  Rather than fight it, he wears a beard and a ponytail and it suits him.  He is kind at heart and as a result both animals and small children adore him.  He is quiet, as a boy raised with three older sisters tends to be, and he is loyal, as a boy with three older sisters tends to be.  He has a quietness about him that is comforting. I love to be in a room with him and not have to fill it with talking because he already knows.  He gets it and conveys it all through his eyes.

My sister-in-law Kelly is crazy.  I say this because I love her and because it is true.  She is loud, she is opinionated and she has no filter.  If she likes you, you know it and if she doesn’t like you, you know that too.  She is passionate, she is stubborn and she is a riot.  When I first met her, I liked her instantly and knew she was the one for Mike.  They complement each other and they love one another in a way that is nice to be around. 

Five years ago I was waiting anxiously for a phone call telling me that Kelly had gone into labor and their daughter would be born soon.  The phone call I got from my terse father with my mother sobbing in the background was that Kelly had gone into the doctor, there was no heartbeat.  And on September 26, 2009 at 2:50pm Lilya Raine Arena was born, but born sleeping they say, or born with the angels, or stillborn.  She was 5lbs 12 oz, 21 inches and perfect in every way.  I say I cannot imagine what Mike and Kelly went through that day but the truth is that I cannot even bring myself to imagine. 

If everyone around you is so happy and excited when a baby is getting ready to be born, imagine how the sadness replaces that joy and you are left with your own grief and the palpable grief of those around you. I flew up to be with them soon after and while I wanted to be a comfort, I think it comforted me more to see that they could still breathe.  That they could eat.  That they had people non-stop in and out of their house loving them, feeding them, praying for them.  But as Kelly says, even with all of those people and all of that love, she felt very alone on her Island of Grief.  All of those people were well meaning, as was I, but we didn’t have the right words and we couldn’t take away their pain and we couldn’t fix it.  

Kelly said that two hours after Lilya arrived; a woman entered her hospital room and introduced herself as a Perinatal Bereavement Nurse.  Kelly says she thinks she asked her nicely to leave and she did.  However, this woman left her information and booklets and a memory box and a hug.  Kelly didn’t want to talk to her then, but she did two weeks later and Lisa took her call and listened to her and did the best thing ever by introducing Kelly to the Western NY Perinatal Bereavement Network.  This group does amazing things for families who have lost a baby either through miscarriage, or born sleeping or after their births.  They provide women like Lisa who visit in the hospital and leave information.  They provide cameras and people to take pictures of these babies when families are too distraught.  They provide money and burial services for those who can’t afford it. But the best thing they provided Kelly and Mike, was hope.  Hope and encouragement.  They met other people who knew exactly how they felt because they had been through it.  They weren’t offering platitudes, they were offering a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on and expecting one in return.  This group forced Kelly from her Island of Grief and slowly she got involved trying to make things better for other people going through what she went through.  She wanted to be their hope and their encouragement.  

Every year around Lilya’s birthday, Mike and Kelly do something to honor her, to remember her and to grieve for her.  When she would have been three, they sent lit lanterns up into a cool night sky with a group of their family and friends. The pictures were beautiful both in the number of people who came out and the love you could see on their faces.  My favorite picture is one of Mike and Kelly that was taken from behind and it shows them leaning into each other and looking up.  Mike wears Lilya like another layer of quiet and Kelly wears her like a shield and sword, but they wear her together.

I tell you all of this because they continue on their journey of offering other people hope and encouragement and they are raising money for WNYPBN to do so.  Kelly and Mike live a modest life as do their friends and their family and they are trying to raise a very modest amount to give to WNYPBN in Lilya’s name.  I don’t have the money to get them to their goal, but I am hoping that I have the words.  If you can donate to this amazing group in honor of my niece, thank you.  Here is the link to donate in Lilya's name.  If you can’t donate but can share a prayer or some good thoughts, they will take those too.

                                              

                                                                                                                                                

C Student At Best

I used to be a great student.  Pointy pencils, crisp paper, hand in the air.  That was me.  I was the one put in charge when a teacher left the room and I loved to write the name of wrong doers on the board. I would stand at the front of the room, chalk in my hand, ready to write down any and all infractions.  I also used to be able to sit in a classroom and listen and take notes and learn.  I would learn a lot and get A’s, except in Math, and feel bright and confident.  I did my homework, I read the books assigned (all except Faulkner), and I even did extra credit for fun.  Yes, I used to be a great student.

I went to a seminar this summer that was eight hours long and six hours too long and had my first inkling that maybe I am no longer a good student.  I wished passionately and deliberately that they would just hurry up so we could go home. I took my time walking to the bathroom and took even more time walking back.  I zoned out, I doodled and I heavily sighed.  I chalked up this bad behavior to it being summer and it only being a seminar and not really school.  However, then I started my classes for my teaching certification and noticed this bad behavior following me.  I skimmed through the online classes and had to fight my urge to click “next page” without reading the current page.  I had to stop and remind myself that I like this material, I want to teach, and I am not in a rush.  I had hoped it would get better when I started my face-to-face meetings. Nope. I went to one and decided I’ll do the rest online.  To be fair, it was all day on a Saturday in a hotel banquet room.  All day.  I at least followed directions and was dressed in a business casual fashion, unlike my classmates who were bedecked in yoga pants, running shorts, and other slouchy attire.  I wanted to write their names on the board. However, this would have required engaging in conversation with them, so I refrained.

I was like the guy in the stripes.

We sat there a lot.  We listened too much.  We watched one great video and did one project together as a table that I commandeered because everyone else sat there scared. I believed the speaker when he said he would get us out early.  Ten minutes early is not worth teasing us with all day mister.  I am fortunate enough to be already working in a school and a lot of the information they gave us was common knowledge to me.  Again, I doodled, I zoned out and I heavily sighed. I watched the guy across from me furiously chomp his gum for hours.  I also watched him store that chewed gum in his shirt pocket and take it back out to eat later.  I made up stories about the people at my table; gum guy provided a lot of fodder.  I wanted to slap the other people who at ages 30, 40 and 50+ found it necessary to interrupt and ask questions that would only pertain to them.  So really, not only am I not a good student, I stink as a classmate too.  I know my face said “shut up” or “nice yoga pants” or “this is not Starbucks coffee”. I probably missed an opportunity to collaborate and engage with wonderful, future teachers.  Snort.

I had a moment of panic in that if I can’t be a good student, how will I be a good teacher?  I thought I must suffer through these meetings and force myself to look pleased, to not silently scream SHUT UP when the fifth person in a row asks the same question.  Slowly, as I sat there and doodled I came up with a plan.  I will take my classes online and I will do so in an environment that makes it feel like school to me.  Being on the kids’ computer and saying “I am doing school work” does not keep them from screaming “MOM” from downstairs.  I will study for my content test by taking my content to a quiet library and taking notes in my brand new spiral with my pointy pencils and two pens.  This is how I am a good student, this is how I will learn and this is how I will get certified.  And maybe I am no longer the good student that I used to be, but maybe knowing this will make me a better teacher.

Boy Wonder

Please don't get me wrong.  I love my son. I love my son so much it hurts.  I would mama bear anyone or anything that hurt him.  I would go to the ends of the earth and to the moon and back for this kid.  I love his gappy smile and the way his hair looks like a mad scientist in the morning and the fact that he is probably the happiest kid I know.  I love that when he laughs it makes me laugh too. I love this kid.  

All this love aside, let me just say that my son has recently lost his mind due to early onset hormones and he is making me CRAZY!  If the hormones in our milk supply have our girls physically changing at an early age, they have our boys mentally changing at an early age too.  Age ten seems to be the start of full on testosterone, stink and attitude.  I can deal with the stink; it is the testosterone and attitude I don't know what to do with.  My sweet son has an flippancy about him I can't stand.  A general "Pshaw" to me as I say anything. I thought it was the dads that boys were supposed to turn against, not the moms.  I can handle this, it is all part of growing up and distancing themselves, I get it.  But does he have to lose his mind and all sense of doing the right thing as well?

Case in point: said boy loses his video games for an undetermined amount of time.  He takes iPad upstairs to "listen to a podcast".  When Mom tucks him in, he is holding the iPad and looks vaguely pinched in the face.  IPad is burning hot. Hot enough to fry an egg on.  Boy repeats numerous times to the Mom's face "I wasn't playing video games, I wasn't playing video games."  He was playing video games.  In a stroke of parenting genius, Dad removes door from boy's room.  Parents congratulate themselves on being good parents and think lesson has been taught and learned.  Parents aren't always right.  Said boy is in trouble again two days later.

It is one set of trouble after the next. Another bad choice, another impulse unchecked.  I am scrambling trying to figure out what punishment might strike home with him while wondering if he no longer cares and if he is on his way to being a career criminal.  I feel like one of those blow up things car dealers use to get your attention when it comes to parenting my son.  My arms are flailing, I am bent over, I am upright, I am here, I am there, I am trying this tactic and that and this and I don't think any of them are working.

This is me.  This is me parenting my son.

I look at my daughter and think what did we do with her that we aren't doing with him?   Did we just get lucky that time?  I have started dreading picking him up and hearing what trouble he got into today.  I vaguely remembered my brother getting in a lot of trouble when he was about this age and a quick phone call to him verified my memory.  We laughed as he remembered that at age ten he and a friend rode their bike ten miles to the mall without permission.  Bill says he doesn't remember being like this until he was twelve.  People at work have said that raising boys doesn't get any easier.  People just love to kick you when you are down. I am going to go find a sleepless mother with a newborn and tell her my daughter didn't sleep in her own room through the night until she was ten.

I can't believe it won't ever get better.  I can't believe that I am always going to be waiting for the bad phone call home or the sign here and acknowledge your son did a bad thing here please letter in the backpack each night.  I know he is good at heart. I know he can be kind and sensitive and caring.  I have to believe that when the tsunami of testosterone subsides, he will still be the boy who laughs with his heart and loves with all of his might. I just really hope it is before he is forty.