Savoring a Blessed Life

First of all, apologies for my lengthy absence. It seems writing a 200-page thesis has a way of forcing you to prioritize tasks, and in the grand scheme of things, blogging takes a back seat to far more critical activities like Brownie meetings and pre-school holiday parties. Particularly since I’ve been reminded recently, by multiple sources and in multiple ways, how fleeting life is and how fast children grow.

I read an article recently in Ladies Home Journal titled “The Long Good-Bye,” by Melissa T. Shultz. In it, the author details the rapid progression of her son’s life, from the newborn tucked against her chest, to the toddler cutting his first teeth, to the wobbly pre-schooler on his first two-wheeler, to the a teenager texting when he arrives at his destination. In her article, it all happens in the span of about a page and a half.  “‘They grow up too soon,’ everyone told me. Eighteen years later, I finally understand what they meant.’”

The movie Toy Story 3 brings this point crashing home to me every time I see it. Watching it the other day with my son, I literally sobbed when Andy passed on his beloved toys to young Molly on his way to college. Because it’s true, they do grow up too fast. I can’t count how many people have said this to me since I had my daughter, but I can tell you it happens almost weekly. At first when I heard those words, I would smile and nod. Then I progressed to a, “Yeah, I know what you mean,” without really meaning it. Then when my little girl got on the bus for the first time in kindergarten, I finally started to understand, at least a little.

My daughter will turn eight at the end of January. Eight. How did that happen? Didn’t we just bring her home? Didn’t we dress her in little sundresses with the ruffles on the butt and sing along with Dora the Explorer only last week? When did she stop napping? And using a sippy? The little girl who used to scribble with crayons now sketches fashion designs at the kitchen table. The cute little munchkin with tiny ponytails on each side of her head that stuck out like Pippi Longstocking’s now wears lipgloss and fingernail polish. She’s graduated from Dumbo’s Flight to Star Tours, from craft projects to math tests, from Goodnight Moon to the Rainbow Fairies chapter book series.

And she will only get bigger. Before I know it, she’ll be a “tween,” more interested in electronics than toys, in primping than playing in the bath, in boys than in her momma. Sigh.

Sometimes I think we should concentrate our efforts on our little man instead. The girl is a lost cause. With him, we may still have time to stop this mad progression of growth. With enough coffee, we could stunt him to where he’ll stay my cute little snuggly bear forever and ever, hanging finger paint crafts on my fridge, singing his ABCs, and alerting me when things are “kistusting.”

But I know it’s a fantasy. He will grow, just as she is growing. It will happen quickly, in the blink of an eye. And one day we’ll drop them off at college and look back on it all as if it happened in a day, wondering where the time went.

And so today, instead of following my daily routine of looking forward – to how much time I’ll have to write when both kids are in school, to what colleges the kids might choose to attend, to where my husband and I will retire when our home is empty and our schedules free – I’m focusing on the abundant blessings that fill our lives now: the little man sucking on a broken pacifier while he naps; his big sis playing Barbies while watching the Nightmare Before Christmas with her uncle; my amazing husband of 15 years who is living this adventure with me. I’m savoring this day, this time of my life. And I will strive to do so every day, because this time will never come again, and I know I’ll miss it when it’s gone.

Scheduling Success

Since my last post (which, I realize, was several weeks ago already), a number of you have asked for an update on my “week of no solitaire” and my new highly scheduled life. I am proud to say that, since posting my last blog, I have wasted not one single moment on solitaire, mahjong, Sudoku, or any other similar time-sucking activities. (Although, you may have guessed from my recent lack of blogging that I neglected to include “write blog” to the schedule. I have since rectified that problem.)  

Since instituting this new system, I have achieved record-setting writing productivity – approximately 100 pages of writing over a two-week period. A little over 80 pages of that went into my thesis, with another 8-10 going toward other projects. Whew!

Now, granted, the thesis needed to get done. I had set a deadline with my director, and I was determined to make it, no matter what. Merely sticking to the schedule wouldn’t have cut it. I spent many consecutive late nights typing like a crazy person. But the schedule helped me stay on track during the days and accomplish all the other things that needed to get accomplished at the same time. So, overall, I’d call it a success.

I have since added a helpful element to my scheduling: the “to-do” list. Not a novel invention on my part, I know. But up until now I have only utilized to-dos at the very busiest times of my life when I have a million things to get done in a short time and forgetting something could be catastrophic: my wedding; preparing for the births of my children; Christmas; every time my neat-freak brother-in-law comes to visit.

I’ve discovered that these useful little tools, just by the fact of their existence, prompt me to accomplish things I wouldn’t have otherwise. It’s as if writing a list and sticking it on the fridge makes each task mandatory, as opposed to some idea I’m just toying with. I feel obligated to cross items off, and if I don’t, I feel I owe an explanation to myself and others as to why tasks didn’t get done. What could possibly have been more important than washing the insecticide gunk off the windows? Why didn’t I get around to re-potting the fall flowers? And could anything really have been more important than mopping the floors? (Well…)

Now that the schedule is in place and my thesis is drafted, it’s time to move forward. The revision schedule starts now: 5-6 revised chapters each week for the next six weeks. At the same time, I’ll be writing personal essays, juvenile poems, and short stories for my independent study. Mix in with that trips to the pumpkin patch, Halloween parties, a quick trip to visit Nana and PopPop, plus the very real possibility that I’ll once again host Thanksgiving, and it’s shaping up to be a busy fall. But I love every minute of it. And with the help of my schedule, everything should get done on time with a relative level of sanity.

So what about you? How will you keep yourself sane and organized this fall?

Goodbye, Grandpa

My grandfather died yesterday, a little less than a month shy of his 98^th birthday.

I’ve been thinking about my grandfather a great deal over the past six months or so, partly because his ailing health brought his mortality vividly to my consciousness, but also because of my thesis project. What does my grandfather have to do with my thesis project? Everything. I’m re-telling his immigration story in the form of a historic middle-grade novel.

My grandfather put his stories to paper almost twenty years ago, when he came to the realization that his mind wouldn’t be sharp forever and that he should document the stories of his youth while he could still clearly remember them.  He dictated stories to his daughters and grandchildren, who typed and printed them. Then he collected the stories into paperback volumes for everyone in the family – a rare treasure for all of us. Imagine the gold mine of stories we would have if all our ancestors did this!

The book starts with stories of his father, my great-grandfather: how he left home twice, first to find a job, and later to escape a war and build a better life in America. He left when my grandfather was a newborn. (The two would not meet again until my grandfather was almost twelve.)

He goes on to tell of his childhood in Croatia, lived with his grandparents after his mother died of typhus when he was only two. He tells of village dances, where he and his friend Tom would earn tips running back and forth to town to buy additional cherry pop; of the hour-long walk to and from church with his grandmother that caused him to nap during the sermons; of his afternoons spent watching the cows so they wouldn’t get into the corn while they grazed. There were less happy remembrances, too: of the grandfather who never spoke to him; of the uncles who resented him for being too small to work; of his own father’s resentment of his ability to learn English and assimilate in the U.S. far more readily than he.

But it’s my grandfather’s immigration story that inspired my thesis. He was placed on a train by his grandfather when he was eleven, supposedly to return home after a doctor’s appointment in the city. His grandfather then left him on the train, which wasn't headed back home at all, but across the continent to a ship in Cherbourg, France. My grandfather had no idea where he was going. He carried only a small care package put together by his grandmother of bread and cheese and some spare clothing. And so he traveled across the ocean to meet his father.

In an era when we don’t like to take our eyes off our children playing in the yard for more than ten minutes at a time, it’s hard to fathom placing your only descendant on a train, alone, for a journey to another continent. Granted, his itinerary had all been pre-planned and paid, but who was to say that some other rouge traveler wouldn’t have other plans for him along the way?

Fortunately, the hand of God led him safely to Ambridge, PA, where he finally reconnected with the father he’d never met, where he put down roots, and where he ultimately fulfilled his dream of being surrounded by pretty girls and having a family. God blessed him with a wife and eight daughters, as well as three sons, over 30 grandchildren, and more great-grandchildren than I can keep track of. He was a World War II veteran, a retired bus driver and steelworker, a devoted Catholic, and one of the finest role models of honesty, humility and joy that I can think of.

You will be greatly missed, Grandpa. Thank you for the stories. Thank you for the memories. Most importantly, thank you for the love. Say hello to Grandma for us. We’ll see you on the other side.