I listened to my husband’s side of the conversation and knew what was being asked.

In short, Gramps was making sure that we were taking the bird feeder he made for me with us to the new house.

As if that was ever a question.

I love birds. If you’ve followed me over the years, you know of my love for birds. When I found out, years ago, that Gramps could make a bird feeder, I asked for one. It took him nearly four years to get around to making it, but when he did, it was the Taj Mahal of bird feeders. Two floors, a heated bird bath and a tin roof. It was amazing and wonderful and brought even more bird friends to our old back yard.

So, yes, by golly, I was taking it with us!

Shortly after we moved in and settled, my husband went back for the white bird feeder. He had me pick where I wanted it put in the ground. It had to be viewable from my office as I spend most of my weekday hours there, so I picked a spot in line with the window from my office. But it also had to be viewable from both the window over the kitchen sink and the dining room windows. So I ran around the house while my husband stood in the spot that I had picked for the bird feeder. I’m sure we looked funny; him standing still, all alone in the yard, me peeking out of windows.

And then he went about digging a hole and burying the pole.

With some help.

LittleBrother is in a “helping” phase. Sometimes it’s… annoying. Because it’s quicker and easier when I set the table, but why would you say no to a child who wants to help. And it’s faster to wash the car without little hands and many questions, but the helping heart is so pure that saying no feels cruel.

So as FireDad attempted to dig a hole and set up my bird feeder, LittleBrother stood and asked his daddy a billion and twelve questions.

And really, it’s quite perfect. Because now my bird feeder that I adore so much because I love birds and my husband’s grandfather took the time to make me such a masterpiece also has the additional family history that our youngest son talked his dad’s ear off while “helping” put it in the ground.

Knowing that I’ll think of Gramps, FireDad and LittleBrother every time I look at my bird feeder makes me smile. I love that something relatively “new” in our family has so much history attached to it.

I felt those sad twinges of adulthood knowing that I would miss Sunrise Service outdoors at my parents’ church and breakfast in the fellowship hall. There would be no Easter basket full of candy — that I don’t even eat — sitting for me on the hearth of their fireplace. There would be no long walk around The Farm, snapping pictures of spring in progress. It’s not that my husband’s family isn’t wonderful; I just miss mine even more when holidays come around.

Yesterday, however, was possibly the best Easter of my adult life. In my newsletter blurb, I had written that sometimes we carry over the holiday traditions from our families — and sometimes we make new ones. Well, yesterday? We made new ones. Really, really fun new ones. Like laugh-so-hard you nearly pee your pants new ones.

In the future of Easters in Ohio, we will buy cheap kites at the dollar store and pray that it’s so windy, the kites repeatedly break end up in trees — causing us to run all over the yard, laughing and howling and making my mother-in-law’s neighbors think we’re crazy.

And then, once the kites break and the tails are thus free for use, we will become ninjas.

Then the boys will take a great photo together and, as a reward, get to be as silly as they want. Maybe even Easter Zombie silly.

To wind things down, one Easter Ninja and one Booey will put on a duet at the piano, channeling some John Travolta-esque disco moves from time to time.

The good day was also helped along by the fact that the boys were gems in church. And my skirt fit.

Sometimes it’s easy to get caught up in missing what you don’t have, what you’re missing at any given time. Days like yesterday remind me about the importance of living in the moment, blooming where you’re planted. It’s not that I didn’t miss my family and our back-home traditions yesterday; I did. But being present in the awesome, laughable, crazy-lovable antics of the rest of my family was equally important to me, to my husband, to my boys.

I hope someday the boys look back and remember the fun we had on the Easter of 2012. I know I will.

Or Wren.

No one sings next to me in church with a deep bass, a bit off the rhythm but with the most joy anyone could muster.

No one calls and asks to speak to Centerfold.

As we move toward buying a new house, I know he won’t be there to help us paint — with a smile. Who paints with a smile anyway? Just him.

My sons no longer have a great-grandpa who gets down on the floor — on his belly — and plays trains. Or cars. Or just hangs out. My kids were so, so blessed.

And yet…

and yet…

While the phone doesn’t ring and I am not greeted by his deep voice… and there are no bone-crushing bear hugs… and I simply miss his face, his voice, his presence…

He will always be with me, with us.

Two years may have passed. Two years without my beloved Papau. But he is still present in our memories, in our stories, in our hearts. In the lives we continue to live.

His legacy lives on through these two little guys.

“They will fly me, like an angel,
To a place where I can rest.”

Missing you tonight… and always.

I’ll show you the “official” family photo on Monday. Instead, I want to get all sappy up in this piece.

While reading A Widow’s Walk last month, the author wrote of treasuring a photo she had of her husband with her son. I realized that while I have many snapshots that I’ve taken, many of which are of great quality, we don’t have a father-and-sons “official portrait.” That seemed wrong. And so, my wheels began turning. That caused smoke to start pouring out of my ears. And this concept was born in the depths of my brain fire.

It is exactly what I imagined. That photo. Right there. That’s it. And then I was rewarded with some amazing “extras.”

When you ask me “which one” I’ll be buying, I have to stifle a laugh. There is no choice involved. This is a “must purchase them all” type scenario. Those are my firefighters, my men. They look so flipping cute tough that I can hardly contain my pride.

But, wait, it gets better. Heather asked me to step into a photo.

She showed me that last one, the only one she let me see that day, and said, simply, “FireMom and her men.”

Yes, I got kind of weepy. I also got weepy when she sent me that one as my first preview. And I flat out cried when she sent me the link to all of the photos yesterday evening. We are a lucky little fire family, aren’t we?

More on our family photos on Monday. For now, I think we all need to give kudos to FireDad for going along with my request. I didn’t tell him he had to do the turnout gear photo. I asked. Nicely. I gave him the option to say no. He did say yes, obviously, though he may have been pushed into that by his friend Boogie. Whatever the case, I am eternally grateful.

I cannot wait to hang these on our wall. Walls. Plural.

I wanted to blog a cute story that exists in my family about today, Flag Day. I tried to, off and on, all day. I failed. All day. You see, the story involves my grandparents, as newlyweds. Young and in love. Not knowing what the future would hold but ready to face it all. It’s an adorable story. Really, it is.

Yesterday would have been their fifty-fourth anniversary. My grandfather died in January.

Today I spent the evening with my husband’s grandparents, married fifty-one years next month. I kind of needed it; the presence of loving grandparents. My heart broke all day yesterday for my grandmother, for our family. I expected that the feeling would lift today. Instead I remembered that it was Flag Day. The story came immediately to mind and, all over again, the tears fell.

Maybe next year I’ll tell you their story. This year, I miss him far too much.

Normally. Today was not one of those days.

They argued. They came halfway upstairs to plead their case to me, wanting me to choose one side or another. I told them that they were going to have to work it out because we don’t argue about TV. We just don’t. Just like we don’t whine about it. They went downstairs. They argued some more, again pleading for me to step in. I warned them that if they didn’t stop fighting over the television, I would take away their privileges for said TV for the rest of the day. The fighting escalated.

“That’s enough, guys. Turn off the TV and the DVD player. You have lost privileges for the day.”

BigBrother yelled at me, “NO! It’s OUR TV!”

Like heck it is!

I walked down the steps, turned off the power buttons, unplugged the TV from the wall, unplugged the DVD player from the TV and carried it by its handle (I said it was small) into the storage room in our basement. Upon entering the playroom again, I said, “No, it’s my TV. You are allowed to use it when you use it properly. You have lost TV privileges for the week.”

Upon uttering that sentence, I became my father.

I wasn’t the best at keeping my room clean as a teenager. I was busy, involved in everything from musical theater to sports to academic games. My lack of room organization drove my parents absolutely insane. My father would threaten me: “If you don’t clean your room, I’m going to take a trash bag in there and throw out everything on the floor.” To which I would reply, “It’s MY room.” To which he would reply, “Like heck it is! This is MY house. You are using MY room.” He didn’t say heck.

I swore I would never be that parent.

But, man, we’re not going to argue over television in this household. And we’re not going to leave clothes all over the floor. Or toys. Or even books. And, ohmygoodness, we’re not going to yell at mommy or daddy and/or have a sense of entitlement. Because my head might explode. And, really, I understand what he was saying so much better now. It’s really not a horrible parent to be, the one who works hard to ensure that the children are raised with an understanding and respect for people and things. So maybe it’s okay that I have become my father.

As long as I don’t grow his mustache.

When I was little, she would have me help her clean the bathroom. I would make “soup” in the toilet, happily scrubbing the blue bubbles while she carefully cleaned the sink. As I grew, the bathroom cleaning became one of my weekly chores. She taught me to clean that spot behind the faucet that most people don’t think to look at (but I always do if I visit your bathroom). She taught me the value of working hard, even when people aren’t going to see the results because maybe they just might. I hope to teach my sons the same thing.

I was in middle school, awkward age that it was. I had a friend over. We were sitting on my bed listening to Mariah Carey. My mother burst through my bedroom door, grabbed my hair brush and started singing “Hero” at the top of her lungs. I was mortified. My friend thought my mom was so cool. I thought my friend was off her rocker. My mom taught me that being silly and laughing were important. I hope to teach my sons the same thing.

She worked hard, finishing her degree(s) after I was born. She went on and got her CPA which is no small feat. She has worked hard in a male dominated field. She told me, time and time again, that I could be whatever I wanted to be. When I went to her when BigBrother was eight months old, exhausted after a miscarriage and working six days a week in yet another male dominated industry, she supported my desire to find a way to work from home. She told me that it wouldn’t be easy but she told me that I could do it. She always told me I could do it, no matter what my newest passion of the moment was. She has been my biggest cheerleader, my biggest challenger. I hope to be the same for my sons.

Today is my mom’s birthday. She taught me much more than these four little anecdotes. I am grateful for all she has taught, for all I have learned (however slowly). I am hopeful that she will teach my sons a lesson or two over the years as well.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

We were sitting on our red, blue and green chairs for storytime. These chairs sat on the floor and had a bit of padding on the seat cushion. They sat stacked by the wall until it was time for the librarian to share a story with us. Then we would fight over our favorite colors and sit, wiggle, tip them over and generally make a ruckus while the story was being told. I was sitting in my chair, listening intently when the Ominous Voice of the Secretary came over the loud speaker in the library.

“Mrs. Librarian, would you please send The Girl With Pigtails Who Will One Day Become FireMom to the office?”

Sounds of “oooh” arose from my peers. I smiled, sheepishly. I wasn’t one to be called to the office. There was an issue with a food fight the prior year but that was so first grade. I was a good girl whose mother made her wear dresses even though my favorite past-time was hanging upside down from the monkey bars. I didn’t cause too much trouble though I did, in all honesty, talk. A lot. I exited the library and began the long walk to the office.

I thought about many things on the trip down the hallway. As I turned right to pass the cafeteria, butterflies began to dance in my stomach. I thought about the days after I got my swing set when I was four, eons ago at that point. I would sit on my yellow, hard-seated swing and cry for a sibling. I wanted a sister to play with so badly. Living in the country, our only neighbors being my grandparents, I just wanted a playmate. Years passed. I announced to my grandparents that my mom was pregnant before she had taken a pregnancy test or even suspected that she should. Intuition. I was seven at that point.

A week and a half before I turned eight, I walked into the office, took the phone from the Secretary and said, “Hi Dad!”

“You have a brother!”
“A brother?”
“Yes! A brother!”
“But why? You said I was getting a sister!”

And thus began the love/hate relationship with my brother.

I kid. Kind of. They did tell me that I was getting a sister. The Christmas before he was born, I got a Kid Sister doll. I was so excited to be getting a sister! I would braid her hair and help her dress and we’d talk about boys besides the fact that I was eight years her senior and by the time she liked boys I’d be gone. But then she was a he. That changed things a bit.

It was difficult going from the only child for eight years to having a brother. I made him a sign for his arrival home. And over the years we fought like siblings do, me being upset when he said his bike was cooler than mine and he getting upset when I didn’t want him in my room when my friends were over. And then I left. And he grew up. Sometimes I’m sad that we missed out on the playmate years, that I was gone when he was becoming the man he is today. But it’s worked out.

Today my Baby Brother turns 21. I don’t know how it happened. Sometimes I still see him as the little boy who liked to follow me absolutely everywhere, even when I didn’t want him to do so. I see him a lot in my oldest son, both in looks and mischievous actions and too-smart-for-his-own-good discussions.

My dad called and announced that he’s kicking it old school and setting off a bonfire tomorrow. We always had bonfires on our birthdays. It’s what you do in the country. I’m feeling nostalgic for the little brother that annoyed me, that I loved so fiercely. The one I sat on the swing and wished for… even if I didn’t know it was him for whom I was wishing. I’m glad he’s my brother. I would have killed a sister.

Happy Birthday, Buttface.

Since every death diminishes us a little, we grieve – not so much for the death as for ourselves.
-Lynn Caine

Shoveling the snow from the recent and on-going snow storm, I was aware of the silence. I heard nothing except for the sound snowflakes falling and the occasional sound of a shovel scrape from a house a few blocks over. I didn’t want to cry as I knew the tears would freeze to my cheeks but, still they came, in the calm, quiet of the aftermath of yet another phone call that changed our lives as we know them.

Tomorrow will mark one month since my Grandfather suddenly left our lives forever. Today the phone call came that FireDad’s Uncle passed away after a long battle with cancer. The news wasn’t unexpected. He left James Cancer Center a couple of weeks ago with the news that his kidneys were now failing. If I know anything about organs, I know kidneys. I knew it would be soon. And yet, I wasn’t ready. The grief from my Grandfather hasn’t yet settled and I found myself in tears on Saturday night. Not calm, happy tears but the kind that make you heave and choke. It’s still raw. And now this.

The quote above, found as I was desperately seeking solace this morning, speaks well to what I’m feeling. My heart is broken for my husband’s family, a family that I am proud to call my own as well. His uncle leaves behind a wife, three sons and their wives, six grandchildren with one more due to arrive in two weeks, two siblings (one of whom is my mother-in-law), nephews and their families (us), a niece (my sister-in-law) and her husband and, of course, his Mother, our beloved Granna. The grief for each of these different people is different. I stand on what some might consider the outside of a family circle and I feel a complete and overwhelming sense of loss for each of them, for all of us.

I am aware that the grief I am feeling currently is compounded by my recent loss. I am also aware that my husband feels the same, as he views my family as his own and, as such, he lost a Grandfather not even a month ago. I am not saying that we don’t miss his Uncle and that we don’t miss my Grandpa. But I’m aware, today, how much grief is more about those of us left behind than the one we have just lost. Living life without those that are such a part of us is difficult. At best. Making a new reality for ourselves is a long process.

My heart is broken for all of these people in my family right now. As the snow continued to fall while I was outside, I allowed myself to be lost in thought, in the swirly white winds cutting through my jacket, my soul. Life seems fragile lately and, really, I don’t quite like that feeling. As I battled with those tears freezing to my face, a friend landed on a branch and chirped at me. I turned and took in the beauty of his red feathers against the white snow. He chirped again. I listened.

Life continues on even in spite of our grief. On the day of my Grandfather’s funeral, FireDad’s best man and his wife welcomed their first daughter. Today, as the news of yet another loss in our family washes over us in tears and heartache, we received word that one of my dear local friends is in active labor with her first son after two girls. Their births soften the blow a bit, remind me that life really does continue on even in the moments when we wish we could rewind time, ask for a do-over or just press the pause button for a day or two.

I know that we will survive this loss and the surrounding grief just as, one day, it really will stop snowing. Like the seasons and both the joys and sorrows they bring with them, we enter this next season of grief hoping that some joy comes. And soon.

“It is the memory that enables a person to gather roses in January.” – Unknown

January is over. I can’t say that I’m sad to see it go. What started off as a wonderful month has become an increasingly difficult year. The death of my beloved Grandfather has thrown me for a loop, leaving me unable to find the words to properly blog over the past few weeks. With some other severe health concerns in my husband’s family, FireDad and I are somewhat dreading the continuation of this year. That sounds so negative and unlike me, unlike us as a whole.

And yet, while I’ve been immensely sad, the quote above applies. Something about the passing of someone so dear allows us to reach into the back caverns of our mind and remember things we simply hadn’t taken the time to pull to the front of our brains. I know that I was lucky. Or, rather, I am lucky to have been so loved by such a wonderful man. I am the luckiest of all of the grandchildren in the fact that my children not only got to meet their great-grandfather, their Big Papau, but they got to love and interact and play and laugh with him as well. I feel sad that my brother and his wife won’t know that same joy. I feel even more sad that the other grandchildren won’t get to introduce their future spouses to Grandpa. Maybe I am the luckiest. I do try to remember that.

Despite the grief of this month, it’s been a rather successful one. I’ve read eight books and, no, I don’t know where I found the time. I hit my deadlines though it was very difficult for me to do last week and contributed to a lack of blogging here (and there). I drove around Ohio. We just finished the floor in our kitchen and dining room (more about that project here). (By we I mean my amazing husband with a smidgen of help from his dad, his grandpa and a phone call to one of my uncles.) I started yoga in a class setting and really kicked up my own personal workout time, successfully losing two pounds this month (though I may have gained that back this weekend during a lovely day out with my friends). I started hosting two separate (awesome) giveaways. I had a post syndicated on BlogHer (go leave a comment on my parenting in public post if you would). And I took (at least) one picture, every single day.

In 2008 when my maternal (step)Grandfather died, I failed that very week at Project 365. I really thought that the passing of my paternal Grandfather would do the same. Instead, in the confusing hour after that phone call, I picked up my camera and expressed my grief visually. I may fancy myself a writer but the photographer in me comes out when I can’t find the words to say what I’m feeling in the deep recesses of my heart. January, of course, proves difficult in this region when it comes to creativity and lighting. I do hope that during the month of February I can work on being a bit more creative and not just flubbing through the project. Either way, I’ll keep at it.

January was difficult but it seems that I not only survived but managed to be rather successful despite the fog of grief. I will admit that even though they often bring tears, remembering and sharing stories and memories about my Papau has been a welcome distraction from the sadness. It’s been my way of gathering roses in this bleak midwinter month of January. Though, I’ll be honest, I’m ready for Spring as I have an idea to honor my Grandfather.

Plus, I’m cold. Brr.