I'm with you...

I’ve been missing my nieces lately.  They live 2000 miles away and we haven’t seen them in three years.  And despite the modern age of technology that includes cell phones, texting, Facebook and Skype, I haven’t talked to them in about two years.

The sad part is that I’m really not sure why.  

I dreamed of the day that the girls would be teenagers, and I could be the confidante aunt that listened when you had problems with friends or school, and didn’t judge you.  The aunt that sent you little gifts just because, that came at precisely the right moment that you needed to feel loved and cherished.  That we would share secrets and they might call me in the middle of the day just because. 

When CJ was small, she knew exactly what our relationship was to be.  She was helping me put on my makeup, running the brush across her face and saying, “CJ will do it!”  

When I shared this with her dad, he corrected me.  “No, she says it, ‘CJ WILL do it’.”  

“Not with me,” I giggled.  “She doesn’t have to convince me…she knows that I will let her.”

Every time we got the chance to visit them (which was not nearly enough with my brother in the military), I would take lots of pictures and then create a themed scrapbook with the pictures.  One year, I made a book in which each page began with “At Aunt Jaycie’s house…”  Another year, I recorded a piece of advice for each picture.  

The next time that we got together, they would quote the books.  I went to visit them one year, and Allie apologized when I saw the tattered book from their last visit.  

“I’m sorry, Aunt Jaycie,” she said soberly.  “It’s getting ruined!”

I couldn’t have been more excited.  They were reading them.  They were memorizing them.  They were LOVING them.

It was those shared memories that kept us close.  We could laugh together about how their grandmother, my sweet mother…is the worst poor sport in the world.  You have to keep an eye on her, one would say, and then in unison, “Because SHE CHEATS!”

We would talk about how their dad flipped out when his he couldn’t get the film out to develop photos from when he proposed to their mother.  He ended up smashing the camera and the film on the back patio in frustration.

They loved to hear about how they used to tease Uncle Chops that they were “stinkin’ up his spot.”  That once, he took away Allie’s “buh uh gum” because she wouldn’t keep it in her mouth.  He held her over the garbage can until she spit it out, and she cried for an hour.  They promised to never be teenagers and ignore their adoring young cousins, like Tux did when he turned 13 and was too cool to be seen with them.  

We remembered making Fourth of July shirts together, Tie dyeing, and working on the roof of my parents house together.  Eating crab around the island in the kitchen, and the many nights watching Pokemon when Todd and I spent a week with them when their parents were out of town.  How the storm nearly drowned us at the park before we could get back to the van.  Eating Taco Bell and watching CJ cry when her cheese got spilled.  About how JJ kept telling me that I was mean.


The cool aunt train appeared to be going the right direction.

But then the phone calls got fewer and farther between.  They were more hurried.  And soon, calls were not answered.  No return call.  

CJ was nearing those teenage years, and I had hopes that even if her parents were too busy to keep in touch with us, that she and I could keep in touch via social media or her new cell phone.  I texted her one day, sitting in Taco Bell, and reminded her about the spilled cheese.  I told her how much I missed her, how much I loved her, and how I wished that she were at Taco Bell with me.  

I never heard from her.

Bro told me later that she had mentioned that I texted her.  But she didn’t text back.

I posted on her Facebook wall.  

She never replied.

Bro says that she isn’t your average teenager, and she isn’t into texting.  

I happened to catch Bro one day, and we had just a moment to talk. JJ was there, and Bro asked him if he wanted to talk to me.  He said "No, thank you."


 

I finally quit trying to contact them, because it broke my heart to be ignored.  

No one noticed.

I heard Avril Lavigne’s “I’m with You” on the radio today.  CJ loved that song when she was little, and we found it refreshing that she heard “DAMP cold night”, instead of the lyrics “damn cold night”.  

I thought that you'd be here by now
There's nothing but the rain
No footsteps on the ground
I'm listening but there's no sound

We’re also coming up on the Fourth of July holiday – a family favorite.  It reminded me of the time that we were coming home from the beach and a tiny CJ said from the back seat, “You love us, Aunt Jaycie, and when we’re not here, you miss us!”

I smiled at her and at Allie, whose big eyes were looking at me in the rearview mirror.  

“When you’re not here, I miss you all of the time.”

Just so you know…I still do. 

My Grandma didn't smile!

I gingerly approached my grandmother’s casket, not wanting to see her so old and frail, not at all the strong woman that I remembered from my youth.  Her snow white hair was styled just as she liked it, the loving work of a cousin that had done so for many years of Gram’s life.  The hands were clearly hers, gnarled as they clutched a crisp cotton handkerchief.  Those hands had prepared man wondrous meals for her family, quilted countless blankets, both played and taught the piano to unknown numbers of students, but would be most remembered (at least by me) for her obsession with picking every speck of lint off of the carpet. 

                The similarities ended there – the eyes closed in repose were sunken and hollow, the skin around them smoothed and softened.  Gram’s eyes had always been framed with soft folds and deep set wrinkles, the lids tucking into themselves around her bright eyes.  I remember her eyes as a steel grey color, although to be honest, I’m not sure what color they actually were.  Those eyes were both piercing and gentle, depending what you had done to earn her gaze.

                This woman, the one that they had placed in my grandmother’s casket, had high cheekbones and hollow cheeks with a wide smile.  I knew that it couldn’t be Gram, because my grandma didn’t smile!

                Oh, she did.  In her own way, but certainly not like this.  Gram had thin lips that I had always felt sympathy for, lipstick addict that I am.  Her smile was short and tight lipped, with full cheeks even when she had lost the girth of her middle age and shriveled to an elderly woman. 

                I understand the ravages of time.  The vibrant young woman pictured at the guest table as we entered the funeral home was gone long before I was born.  Her eyes smoldered, her smooth skin milky and radiant.  Gone, too, was the young mother who sat regally in family photos, coifed and made up, surrounded by her 7 children, ranging in age from young adults to mere babies.

                My Gram, the one that existed when I was young, had a healthy midsection.  Years of her own delicious meals had contributed heavily, as had her demand that nothing to go waste – even if she had to eat it herself.  She wore lipstick, on those thin little lips, and perhaps mascara and some “rouge”.  Groomed, but not overly so, her one indulgence was the regular visit to our cousin that kept her hair up for her.  She regularly wore dresses, long after it was the expectation to do so. 

                Through the years, I saw the damage that time and gravity can inflect on a body.  Her high cheeks became more jowly, and her skin thinned out and began to develop lines around the eyes and along her hairline.  Her hair faded and thinned, eventually becoming cottony floss.  Her body thinned out as well, as her appetite shrank and she no longer cooked for a family.  As I grew taller, she seemed to shrink, her bones succumbing to the pressure of living on planet earth. 

                This, I understood, and yet, I was aghast at how she appeared in death.  Unable to accept this representation of my Gram, I left without saying goodbye. 

                In later discussion with the family, I learned of the mortician’s signature style of presentation – preparing the body for burial with a peaceful smile. To me, it was reminiscent of the old adage, “never speak ill of the dead.”  He was painting a lovely picture of the departed, without regard to the life that they had lived.

                My grandmother was a saint, but she was not saintly.  She was valiant in her faith and almost fanatic in her desire to follow the commandments.  Her strict adherence to rules made her sometimes harsh with her family and occasionally judgmental with others.   Not in the least shy, the nickname “Marge in Charge” didn’t begin to describe the way that she managed those around her. 

                Lest you think that I am being disrespectful, these are the facts of her life, at least as I saw them.  She was also a wonderful cook that welcomed anyone into her home and fed them well when they were there.  She lovingly cared for a son with muscular dystrophy, giving him every opportunity to live life to the fullest, even before t hose with disabilities were invited to do so. 

                It is all of these things that I want to remember.  Good and bad, joy and tears.  To gloss over the imperfections is to lose sight of the full dimensional being that she was.  The angelic looking woman broadly smiling from the casket with smooth skin in no way resembled the woman that I had come to honor. 

                It wasn’t until they had closed the casket and we had arrived at her burial place that I felt the desire to approach and tell her goodbye.  The dedication was given and the funeral director had invited the family to a luncheon back at the church.  The crowd was thinning; young children bouncing down the hill, dodging headstones, the elderly being lead gingerly by friends and family. 

                The pink casket glimmering in the sun, adorned with a lovely spray of rosy flowers interspersed with brilliant white blooms was, for the first time, alone.  A few feet away, the ground opened up, ready to envelope her.  Her headstone, shared with my grandfather, had been engraved years before with her name and birth date.  She had been anxious to join her sweetheart of 60+ years.  Now, his vault was clearly visible in the rectangular hole.  Hers would be beside his, and obscured from our view in a matter of minutes.

                “Goodbye, my grandma,” I whispered, my hand placed lightly next to the flowers, my head as near the lid as I could lean.

                A tiny hand touched me, my five year old standing beside me.  “What are you doing?”  He asked, no doubt aware of the tears that had finally come.  I knelt beside him to explain that we were saying our farewells to Gigi.  Giving him a moment to do the same, I gave Gram a final pat and made my way down the hall to follow the rest of the family.

                I left with reticence, wanting to go back to the funeral director to assure myself that he would stay with her until she was properly buried.  I knew that this was procedure, but I wanted to be sure that my sweet little grandma wasn’t alone there while the family partook of the feast of salads and goodies prepared by the ward Relief Society.  It seemed cruel to leave her behind alone.

                My baby must have been thinking the same thing, as he paused after walking just a few feet.  Running back to her side, he blinked a few times, and then burst into tears.  His little heart was filled with sorrow that spilled out in great heaving sobs as he stood near the casket, suddenly understanding that Gigi was gone and that he hadn’t even said goodbye. 

                This was his first experience with death.  He knew that there were times that people left us and went back to Jesus.  But he’d never seen a body before, and I wanted to be sure that he wasn’t freaked when he saw her. 

                I explained about her body and her spirit and how she would leave one behind, while the other would go on.  “She might look like she is sleeping,” I explained, “But it’s really only her body.  Her spirit, the part of her that makes her who she is – that part moved on.”

                He seemed to understand that.  But it’s hard not to think of her in terms of the physical body that she wore here on earth.  He found a display room of caskets at the funeral home and had asked if he could lie in the ‘beds’.  After all, Gigi was sleeping in one!

                It makes me wonder if we’ll even recognize one another in the hereafter.  Are we going to look much the same as we did here – mother’s eyes and dad’s short legs?  What does ME perfected look like?  The physical is what we ponder, often wondering if a celestial body will have brown hair, or if society’s idea of perfect will be instituted.  Wand which society?  Wouldn’t we all, then, look alike?

                No, my grandmother didn’t smile.  Her teeth were crooked and her lips too thin.  But she was MY grandma.  And that’s how I’ll remember her, with gratitude for the small things that make us unique.  The things that make us…unforgettable.    

                So spare me the angelic smile, save your smooth skin and perfect posture.  Let me remember my Gram in all her glory, perfectly imperfect as she was.  That is enough for me!

Happy Mother's Day, Gram!

I dreamt of my Grandma for Mother’s Day. It’s not really unusual, I often dream about being “home” at my grandparents’ house, mixing with my cousins and wanting to stay longer. I’m always just about to leave, and sad that I have to go. I never get to stay there long enough.

But this wasn’t your happy, flowery kind of dream, but one in which I was wandering in her home, watching my aunts move things around and pack things up. They were all distracted and talking amongst themselves, but not really to me. I was becoming frustrated that no one seemed to notice that Gram was not there.

“Where is my grandma?” I asked repeatedly, finally becoming tearful and angry. “Where is my grandmother?”

A reply was absently tossed at me.

“But that’s not far from here!” I cried. “I want to see my grandmother before I leave!” I was indignant, and yet, they went right back to what they were doing. I awoke with that choked up, something is not right in my world feeling. I was weepy through most of the morning.

I was a little worried. You see, some years ago when I was young, I dreamed of my Uncle Bruce. In the dream, I walked up the stairs and found his twin sister sitting in his wheelchair in his room. She was crying. “This is all that is left of him,” she said. Two weeks later, he passed away after battling Muscular Dystrophy for 19 years. I thought that I had caused his death.

So at first, I worried that this might be the same for my Gram. I tried to remind myself that it was Mother’s Day, and I was likely thinking of the women in my life. I know that my mother and her siblings are meeting soon to discuss the future. I recently taught a lesson in church on Joseph and his interpretation of dreams. It all added up.

I was also feeling guilty because I haven’t called my Gram in ages. She’s in an assisted living home, and even though her body checked in, her mind did not. It’s a stranger living in my Gram’s body. She doesn’t know who I am when I call, and doesn’t remember afterwards that I have called. My sweet cousin V visits faithfully every week, and Gram doesn’t even remember her.

Another beautiful cousin lost her grandfather a few years ago, and I expressed my condolences. “Oh, it’s okay,” she said sweetly. “He’s been gone for years.” I understand that now.

Is there any part of her that knows that we are there? Will she remember when the veil is lifted? Be upset that we didn’t spend more time calling or visiting? Or will she understand that it was hard to communicate with her from so far away?

Is it abandonment if she abandoned us first?

I wished that I could call her, could tell her all that I needed to say. I wanted her to be my Gram – ornery and all – so that I could talk to her.

My dearest Gram,

Happy Mother’s Day! I hope that your day is filled with joy and laughter!

I love you, Gram. I miss you.

I want to laugh with you about our memories – how you told me when I was a teenager, “Don’t be yourself! Just be nice!” How I winked at you to tease you. How worried you were when I allowed a man – GASP – my grandfather – into my bedroom at Heritage Halls. About the time that you lost track of me at age two and I tried to go to school with the big kids.

I want you to remember them, too.

I want to share my successes with you. I want you to know how proud of Tux I am, for making the President’s Honor Roll in college. Even taking Japanese! I want you to know that he’s becoming himself again. That Addy has lost so much weight and is finding himself to be a handsome young man. That Toddy is finally pottie trained. That one of my graphic designs is being displayed prominently in the resort that I work for.

I want to tell you how exciting it was to see Tux graduate from Seminary. How proud of Todd I am because he says prayers in Primary. I want to talk about the things that I read in the scriptures, and how it applies to my life. I want to share these things because you devoted your life to teaching your family about the Gospel. I know that you would want to know that we got it.

I want to show you that despite all of your worries and concerns about our morality and poor decision making, we turned out okay. I want you to know that we understand why you were so adamant and sometimes…okay, often…critical. We know now because we are mothers. Grandmothers.

We are a family of strong women. We fight for the things that matter. We raise our children with equal amounts of discipline and love. We are good wives. We are a good family. We love each other. We support each other. We are there for each other. You’d be proud of us, if you knew who we were.

Yes, I’m a coward. And I’m ashamed of that. I’m afraid that if I call to talk to you, it will break my heart.

I'm sorry that I'm so weak. I'm sorry that you can't be with Grandpa like you desire. I'm sorry that your time here on earth is dragging on without you really being in it. I'm sorry that I didn't talk to you more often when I could.

Happy Mother’s Day, Gram. I love you. I miss you. And I’m hoping that in the world that you live in, you are happy. That when it’s all over, you won’t remember the time that you spent trapped in a stranger’s mind. And more importantly, you won’t remember that I was such a wimp.

Someday, we’ll look back on this and laugh. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

Love,

Jaycie

Undecorating the Tree

Taking down the tree for me this year has been a strange experience.

I’m the type of Christmas decorator that loves to break out the boxes of ornaments and doodads on Thanksgiving weekend, filling my house with more than enough festivity. I love everything Christmas, everything sparkly…and it can be dollar store or from Macy’s, it makes no difference to me. I leave it all up, including a clock that plays carols every hour, until New Year’s. Then I begrudgingly take it down, glad to have the house clean and uncluttered, but sad to see it all go.

Not so this year.

It was a crazy year for the holidays. Not only had I started a new job, but it was one that required a great deal of time and energy through the holidays to prepare for big events on the job. Two weeks before wrestling season began, Addy the Musician decided to wrestle after all. (Mothers of wrestlers – and daughters of coaches – know that you MUST be prepared for the holidays before Thanksgiving in order to survive, as you spend most of December, January, and February at Tournaments and matches!)

It was more than that, though, as this year was so much harder than even last year in terms of the economy. Even though I am back to work, I have added expenses that have rendered my income LESS than what I was making last year on unemployment. More importantly, I see the signs everywhere that folks are struggling. Business has been sparse and sporadic, and no one knows what will happen next. It is impossible to predict business in any industry, as this is uncharted territory. As such, hours have been cut, budgets slashed in an effort to stay alive through the recession. Many businesses have failed in our area, and others are barely holding on.

It is changing life as we know it. This may seem simple, but I can illustrate my point with scrapbooking magazines. I’ve always subscribed to all of the different magazines, from Creating Keepsakes to Memory Makers and Simple Scrapbooks, Scrapbooks, etc. and anything else that hit the shelves. I love the ideas and inspiration, as well as the creative process. In the last year, most of these magazines have folded. Only the major ones remain, and who knows how long that will last? I have never seen so many cars for sale alongside the road. Even if you had money to spend on Christmas, the stores had bare shelves and limited stock on what they did have. The list goes on and on.

My own family is changing, too. With Tux turning 19 and attending community college, Addy in High School, and Todd in private preschool at his daycare, we are all going different directions. They are all growing up so fast, it’s hard to believe, and I’m not ready for my babies to be all growed up. Tux is straining at the apron strings. I’m not ready to untie him yet. Addy is thinking that he, too, can exert his independence in many ways…some of which are not age appropriate. Todd is the usual toddler, and having been raised with teenage brothers, he can hold his own in an argument – and usually does.

This changing landscape at home was more difficult during the holidays, as they no longer delight in all that is Christmas. Oh, sure, they want the gifts, and everyone sucked up to Santa throughout the month to ensure said gifts. But they didn’t enjoy the décor, or the joy of the holiday. I heard them complain constantly about my clock…which usually brings me joy. This year, I’m not sure if I left it up just hoping that it would spark that spirit in my heart, or if I just wanted to prove that I was still in control by leaving it up.  They refused to watch Christmas movies or specials, and I didn’t even try to fill the house with the usual carols.

We have had a longstanding tradition of driving to see the Christmas lights, and bellowing, “HO HO HO!” at the most beautifully decorated houses. Ones that are trying, but not quite there get a “HO HO”, and those that are pitiful receive something along the lines of “Ha ha ho” or simply an unenthusiastic “Ho”. Tux has endured it since he was six, but this year, he simply refused. Addy was too busy. It was nice that Todd got into it, however, so we did get a couple of good nights.

The tree, the lights, the ornaments, the Santa figures, the nativities…all wasted on the boys. They could have cared less.

Perhaps this is normal, particularly in an all male household. I tried to tell myself that as I decorated, but three weeks later when it was time to take it down, I wondered why I had bothered. It wasn’t as if I had a great deal of time to devote to it, but I had because I felt that I needed to be ‘that kind of mother’.

I imagine myself as the defender of our traditions. The keeper of our memories and joys. Each ornament has a story, a special place in our history. The “windows on the World” ornaments that began with “Feliz Navidad”, because I was taking Spanish in high school that year. The god’s eye that I made in first grade. The scratched up bulbs that were on my parent’s first Christmas tree some 45 years ago.

Each ornament has it’s own storage box, labeled with a description so that each is returned to it’s own place. I provide years and givers if they were gifts. I look forward to the night that we decorate each year…a Christmas movie playing on the TV (Usually “Christmas Vacation”), drinking egg nog, and talking about each ornament and favorite memories associated with it. I decorated alone this year.

I took it down tonight by myself. The family did come out to watch “National Treasure”, which I put in. That was a nice surprise, as they are usually so busy with their own activities. But I was the only one to admire the stunning ornaments like the Christopher Radko Mickey Mouse, the hand painted baby Jesus on a golden ball. The only one to reminisce about the candy cane that Tux made at his very first cub scout activity, or the gingerbread man that is dressed like Elvis that Addy made at school. To recall the time that Hubby whisked me off for a surprise visit to Las Vegas the beginning of December, and the Excalibur ornament that I bought to commemorate it. To ponder the true meaning of the season looking at the kneeling Santa before the manger.

And yet, some of those memories were painful, too. I found ornaments that were made during times of my life when I thought that I had good friends - nearly family - only to find out that I meant nothing to them when the bumps came along. I found myself trying to decide if I should keep them, or if they were just too much to hold on to. I've moved on, and I have a new life, one that does not include these toxic people in it, and I'm happy now. Did I want to keep those reminders of those that had hurt me so deeply? I eventually decided to keep them - one more year. To allow myself to really heal and evaluate them a bit more objectively. They didn't make the cut to the tree this year, but I wasn't quite ready to throw out so many years of my life forever, either.

I’d always thought that these things would be cherished as I cherish them. Not just the ornaments, but the memories. I thought that it would be something that I lovingly passed down to my sons and their families as they grew up. That they would look forward to sharing this each year. That even when I was old and grey, I would still decorate the tree with my grandchildren, and share these special times.

My mom didn’t even put one ornament on her tree this year. We usually do Christmas morning at my house, and dinner at hers. This year, we would be eating dinner at the Fire Station, where my dad was on duty. She just didn’t see the point. She put up half of the ten foot tree – which left it a bit misshapen and short – with simple strings of lights and called it good. No Christmas village. Just the sad tree.

She may not have missed putting up her decorations, but I did. Her ornaments are as special to me as my own, as I see my past hanging on the branches. I see my history, my memories, my childhood. Will I give up, too, when I get to that stage of my life?

It was especially poignant to me, as the older boys are balking at some of the other things that I have tried to teach them throughout the years. Not only our faith, but matters of family and personal growth. I am seeing that I am not going to accomplish all that I had planned as a mother. Yes, yes, I realize that they have their own free agency, and NO child is going to live up to the ideal that we set for our goal. (heaven knows, I have disappointed my parents plenty!) Faced with raising another child, I am torn between providing the same level of parenting that I did the first time around for Todd…or should I simply relax and not try so hard to be the perfect mother? Will it hurt less if he doesn’t become the man that I was hoping to raise, if I don’t put that much into it? Will my children even look back once they have left the nest? I know that every mother worries about these things…at least, I believe that they do.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be normal. I’ve had a depressed mind for most of my life, as near as I can tell, and I wonder if I am the only one that pines for such sentimental things as I do. Am I the only one that mourns the end of an era? That notices when the details are being lost in the shuffle, and the effort is no longer there?

Right now, I’m chalking it up to fatigue (work has really been draining this last two weeks), and the usual blues that come after the holidays. I’m blaming it on the weather. I’m throwing it out with the last year, ready to go into 2010 with a brighter outlook. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t bid a more heavy hearted farewell to each ornament, wondering if I would want to bring them all out again next year.

I think that I’ll finish cleaning up and allow myself those moments of melancholy…just for tonight. Tomorrow is a new day, and I’ll rejoice in the fact that the clock is silent and so are the complaints, the family room is now 9 sq feet bigger, and my shelves and tables have all been cleaned and shined before returning their regular décor.

I will no longer have to check the nativities to make sure that the animals are not wandering off (thanks to the teenage boys) or that the Santas are standing up and not dead after Todd shooting them with a Nerf gun. And if nothing else, it gave me a good excuse to write for a minute… something that I’ve missed terribly and enjoy very much.

It’s all in perspective.

Here’s to 2010!

My Sister's Keeper Review

I’ve been meaning to write about this book since the moment that I saw the movie trailer…but I’m glad that I didn’t . After seeing the movie, I am filled with thoughts and emotions that I didn’t have with the book, or were renewed. It was a very well done movie and although it deviates from the book in one key point, I felt that point was actually an improvement on the story. I’ll discuss that at the end so that you can avoid it if you haven’t seen the movie or read the book!

The book, by Jodi Picoult, is what I consider her second best work, Nineteen Minutes being the absolute most amazing thing that she has ever written. My mother urged me to read Nineteen Minutes so that she could talk about it, and I was a Jodi Picoult fan from the very start. She is an intelligent, intuitive, and well educated woman, and this shows in her books. They are insightful and always based on a storyline that makes you question your beliefs and values.

My Sister’s Keeper is centered on an 11 year old girl that has been a virtual spare parts replacement for her sister, who suffers from a rare form of Leukemia. She was genetically engineered to be the perfect match for Kate, and conceived solely to save her. Despite their best efforts, the cord blood is not enough to spare Kate, and so, a lifetime of donations begins. Blood, bone marrow, and finally, they are asking for a kidney. At this point, Anna seeks medical emancipation from her parents, suing for the right to determine what will be done to her own body.


Although they were unable to fully represent all of the complexities offered in the book, the movie did a good job of showing the strain that this places on the entire family. Kate has suffered the agony and indignity of cancer, but the rest of the family has suffered equally as much.

Anna, of course, has been the child who was born to save her sister, something that is proving to be more difficult than they originally thought. She is never asked if she would like to do this, and in fact, they hold her down when she is a small child. Does she have the right to decide for herself whether or not she will help her sister? Is she beholden to do so? Or are her parents in a position to decide this?

Sara, the mother, has devoted her entire life to keeping Kate alive at any cost. Any. I guess that you can see what I think of her.

Brian, the father, has tried to keep his family on an even keel all of these years, watching Sara fight the dragons that beset their daughter. It is intimated that he has lost his ‘first love’, as the marriage is strained. Understandably so.

There is an older brother, also. He is troubled and rebellious, testing the limits at all times. Jesse has always been the sibling that couldn’t help his sister. He gets lost in the shuffle, and even when he is ‘bad’, he is ignored. Deep down, he’s a good kid, though, and loves his family.

I think that the only thing that this family has going for it is love, which is almost unbelieveable in the circumstances presented. It speaks to the deep relationships that they must have had before the chaos began.

The things that I questioned as I read the book and watched the movie were what I would do in this situation. God forbid I ever have to find out! No one should have to see their child struggle as Kate does. I would like to think, however, that I would have asked Anna for her help, and that I would not have forgotten my son.

When I was on bedrest three hours from home when Todd was born, that was the most difficult part. I had two other children who needed me, who needed attention. I was stuck in a hospital bed, so far away, and seldom got to see them. I tried to keep in contact via phone and IM, and stayed interested and involved in what they were doing. It became more difficult after Todd’s birth and subsequent NICU stay, as I spent 12 hours a day at the hospital with him. I reminded myself that it was only for a short time. But I still made time for the other boys, or at least I tried. It may have been short bursts of time, such as when we went to dinner when they were visiting, but I tried to make it focused attention. It’s not easy, I can assure you. But I’d like to believe that I would be able to do this even with the long term illness of a child.

The second question that I had to ask myself is how far I would go to save a child. Again, my children are everything to me, and I feel that I would move heaven and earth to do so. But could I sacrifice one for the other? Could I expect one to give up their own life to potentially save the life of another…when that is not even guaranteed? What is the big picture?

The character that I felt the most sorrow for was Jesse. Although Anna endured medical procedures and physical pain to help her sister, she received attention because she was the one who could help Kate. (not a good reason to be valued, but at least she was valued) Jesse had nothing. He could not do a thing to help Kate. He was simply forgotten.

I was impressed with the actors. Cameron Diaz as Sarah was a stretch in my mind, prior to seeing the movie. She carried it off well, however, and I finally felt like I could take her seriously as an actress. (personal political statements aside) The same could be said of Joan Cusack, who was beautiful as the judge who hears the case. It was the first time that I’d seen her in any serious and substantial role, and she was fantastic. It was hard to see both of these women, who are approximately my age, in roles as mothers and middle aged women. (when did that sneak up on me??) The final blow as Jason Patric (of the sexy vampire movie of the 80’s, The Lost Boys) as Brian. He was very good, and we are old. Let’s just face it.

Abigail Breslin was fine as Anna, although the movie did not showcase her. Jesse was played by Evan Ellingson, a new face to me. He did a good job of showing the love that he had the for the family, as well as his troubled thought process.

The real star of the show was unequivocably Sofia Vassilieva as Kate. She was appropriately in pain, in anguish, and yet hopeful all at once. She shaved her head for the role, and was seen looking devastatingly unpretty. (kudos to the makeup folks, as well, who transformed her into a pathetic, scarred creature!) At an age when beauty is tantamount to personal image, she allowed herself to be seen in the most hideous of circumstances. I cannot say enough about her performance! She was brilliant, and reminded me much of Molly RIngwald. I’d have thought her to be a relative, as she had facial expressions and mannerisms that reinforced the physical similarities.

My vote is for Sofia to win something major for her role. Anybody listening??

Now I’m going to mention the plot point that changed from written word to screen. So if you do not want to know…stop reading now!


SPOILER ALERT


The ending of the book gave Anna her emancipation, placing her medical decisions in the hands of her attorney. Traveling home after the trial, they are in a car accident that kills Anna. The attorney then donates her kidney to Kate, who is miraculously healed by this kidney.

I hated this ending for many reasons. First of all, it was unexpected and I was devastated. Secondly, it seemed unbelieveable that after all that had been done to save Kate…and the knowledge that she was both too weak for the kidney surgery and not likely to be healed by it, anyway…that she is saved by this donation. I was upset that after all that she had done to save her sister, all that she had gone through to give her sister what she wanted…Anna still sacrificed everything.

Mostly, though, I was angry because in the end, Sarah got what she wanted. Kate lived, and Anna was merely spare parts. I felt that Sarah had never truly connected with Anna, and that if she had to choose one child to live over another, it was a done deal.

The movie ends differently, but no less sadly. In the movie, Kate is allowed to express her desire to be DONE, and then she dies peacefully. Anna is granted emancipation…not that it matters now, anyway…but it has accomplished what Kate had asked for. Life goes on. They are sad. They miss Kate. They look for answers, and there aren’t any.

It was REAL. (Sorry, Jodi)

Tears flowed freely throughout the movie, which had an excellent score. I left feeling sorrowful, and yet, uplifted. Odd. Definitely a ‘thinker’ movie…the best kind.

Well, what would YOU do?

A Moment to Myself

I am living the life of a single parent.

Oh, no, there’s nothing wrong with me and Hubby! I’m staying at Bro’s house, taking care of his three children while he and Sis attend a conference out of town. The girls, CJ and Allie, are 10 and 8, and JJ is 4. I also brought along Todd, who adores his cousins and is a wild man playing with them.

But that presents some logistical problems. We’ve had a lot of fun playing, doing crafts, and hanging around the house, but we can’t stay cooped up forever. They need to get out and about some, and that means taking all four of them in the van…to someplace PUBLIC. LOL Not really a problem, as the girls are really cute with JJ and Todd, and mother them so that I can just direct the crowd where I need them to be.

The problem comes in when you have to go out for just one thing. Yesterday, we ventured to Hobby Lobby and Wal-Mart to stock up on craft supplies, goodies, and necessities. We got some hot dogs for dinner and headed to the bakery section to get some buns. Everyone was getting crazy by then, and when I saw the batteries that we needed, I dropped them in the cart and headed for the exit. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that we still needed buns!

So…do I serve them hot dogs on bread and hope that they are okay with that? Do I drag the whole group back to Wal-Mart? Is there a mini-mart somewhere that I could dash in to? Leave them in the car? NO. That would make me crazy. Have the girls run in and get it? NO. They are living in a brand new area that none of us knows well yet and I couldn’t feel good about that.

We ended up eating leftovers and we’ll get hot dog buns next time we end up at Wal-Mart. It’s a different situation for me, as I usually have hubby at home, so I can leave Todd with him, or better yet – send Tux to the store to get what I need.

Most of the time, things go really well. They all jump on the trampoline, play quietly in their rooms (or not so quietly, but still happily), or watch TV. We walk to the park to play, or some other group activity. It gets crazy when one or more members of the group want to do something different, or definitely DON’T want to do what the others are doing.

And then there is the matter of quiet time. The kids are missing their parents (including Todd, who cries on the phone with Daddy and his brothers), and that means that they need some extra special attention. I also have to make sure that they eat somewhat nutritious meals (Aunt Jaycie did NOT promise that she wouldn’t feed them a lot of junk food during the week!), get enough sleep, and that the house is not completely and totally trashed. I spend the bulk of the day entertaining, comforting, cleaning…and then when it’s time for me to put everyone to bed and have some ME time…they are needing some lovin’. I’m happy to give it to them, but after a few days, I’m missing my blog, my Facebook time, and our family website! Not to mention the daily sojourn with Digifree, where I stock up on fun digital scrapbooking supplies.

And because my brother is military and we are surrounded by others in similar situations, it truly makes me appreciate military wives all the more! I know that Sis is often alone, when Bro is TDY for long periods of time. She does this for months on end sometimes, never having a reprieve or another parent to leave the kids with (or send the kids away with) for a moment’s peace.

Add to this the pressure of adjusting to a new area every couple of years, which means new routines, new friends, new surroundings. In this move, they even crossed the country, which means a different culture and different weather.

Before they left, I noticed that she sneaks out occasionally to weed the yard. That’s her thing here, they said. It’s therapeutic and allows her that down time, time to think. Time to regroup in her own head. She’s been lucky so far, as Bro is close to home, but the day will come.

It makes it all the more important to have a network of good friends that can help out. Trade babysitting, run errands, just to have adult conversation with!

Of the many things that I admire about military wives and Sis specifically, I have to point out one that you might not even consider. I have lived in my home for about 8 years. I still do not have all of the décor on the walls! Some rooms are decent, others a little bare. I just can’t decide what I want to do or can’t commit to anything.

Sis has lived in this house for three weeks. It is perfectly decorated with all of their things. It looks very much like the home that they had when CJ was born, and with the furniture being the same, it almost feels like that home, but without the humidity!!!

I have the luxury of taking time to make my home HOME. Military families move so often, and need the continuity of their home…and it makes it incredibly important to make it home immediately, especially for the children. I can see where it would make even the parents feel better about their new digs, too!

So today, I say hats off to military families everywhere! We appreciate their sacrifices, both great and small, on our behalf. And to all of you single moms, my heart goes out to you! Whatever brought you to this place, you are a saint to take on the task of raising a family alone.

Now, I must go, for the little boys are quiet…and that is never a good sign!!!