Meredith First's Blog, page 2

My 19th Mommiversary…

My baby boy is 19 years old today which I suppose makes today my 19th Mommiversary. Every cliche known to every mom comes to mind but the one that I seem to think over and over is “Where did the time go?”. Maybe I’m more sentimental about this because the first thing I always think of is, “I wish mom were here”. She’s missed so much and that breaks my heart.

It was just yesterday that I sneaked into the bathroom at my office to take a pregnancy test. My fingers shook as I thought that I should have waited until I got home and do it in some ceremonial fashion rather than in a stall in an office complex conveniently located at the junction of I-5 and Interstate 80.

His childbirth is a blur since I went into pre-term labor at 28 weeks, got pre-eclampsia at 35 weeks and spent 9 weeks bedridden just to keep the boy cooking in the womb. Then when he was actually born, he had the cord around his neck and wasn’t breathing. I made my mother follow his every move, afraid he might get switched around at the hospital, while my husband stayed with me, hoping I didn’t seize out.

His childhood is a blur cuz he was a whirlwind of a boy into everything and basking in the glow of negative attention. His teenage years are a blur cuz he suffered from severe migraines and was sick so often it seemed like all we did was search for answers and cures for his intolerable pain. That and cuz that same negative attention thing makes for a super feisty (read: smart a$$) teenage boy.

Then he grew up. Magically. Overnight. One minute I was holding him in my arms, just after his birth, staring at my husband wondering how we could be a part of this miracle and the next we were sitting behind him while he was scheduling his college classes and working with his counselor like a mature, fully-formed man.

Where did the time go?

When the doctor’s put him in my hands, I looked up at my husband and said, “I could have six more of these right now.” He practically fainted…again (that’s a whole other blog post). But I meant it. The one feeling that was very clear when I held that baby for the first time, was my purpose in life. I knew with all my being that I was born to be a mom. Not a perfect mom. Not a mom who changes the world in any significant way. A mom who does her best every single day to make sure she turns out adults who she might want to be friends with. Adults who earn their way, work hard and know when and how to do the right thing.

I know exactly where that time went: into feedings, diaper changes, Baptism, lullabies, stories, playgroup, soccer, gymnastics, swim team, T-ball, basketball,football, golf, lacrosse, dive team, homework, tutoring, Sunday School, Church, home church (his favorite), where do babies come from?, how not to search for naked pictures of Pamela Anderson on the internet even if you are proud that you know how to spell naked correctly, First Communion, year-round school, how to deal with a crazy full-time working mom, how to deal with a mom who gave her career up for her children and struggles to find her identity, how to leave five generations of family history behind and move across the country to where the ground is frozen for 6 months and you don’t know a soul, Cotillion, Confirmation, how to drive on a frozen lake, getting your permit, getting your driver’s license, how to dig your car out of the snow, how to change a tire, how to call AAA when you can’t dig your car out of the snow,  vacations, family holidays, spring breaks, endless summers, movies, weekends where you don’t get out of your jammies all day, endless doctors, broken bones, casts, splints, crutches, ER visits, hospital stays, specialists, holistic specialists, meds, herbs, potions, parties, formal dances, dating, learning gentlemanly behavior with women, the sex talk, Prom, tuxes, corsages, girlfriends, heartbreak, how to break up with a girl without making everybody mad at you, learning about safe alcohol consumption prior to college, car accidents, leaving for college, surviving leaving for college, proper behavior when coming home from college, job searching, how to quit a job without burning bridges, how to write resumes and cover letters, how to ask for what you want rather than assume the other person can read your mind.

My baby boy is 19 today and I couldn’t be more proud of the man he’s become. Today is my 19th Mommiversary. Thank you, Jesus.

Grandma Joan took this first picture of Cole actually looking into the camera, coming alive as a baby.

Are You Struggling? Ask for Help…

I’m still struggling with the Polarocalypse this year.  It’s my sixth winter in Minnesota and the most difficult by far and not just because of the brutal, bone-chilling, make-me-cry-cold.  Not the normal difficulty of missing my homeland of California and the sunshine, family and friends.  I’ve actually adjusted to life in Minnesota very well and after all, I do have my family with me, just not my extended family.  I’ve built the village I knew I needed since my kids were just 10 and 13 when we moved here.  

On the surface, I have everything I need for a happy life.  But inside, I’m struggling to stay healthy and keep weight on to survive this unholy, bitter, no one-should-have-to-endure-cold.  I’m struggling just to be.

For the last year and a half, I’ve been working through vertigo and upper respiratory infections.  It may sound minor, but to a writer, it’s career-stalling.  When your head is swirling like s snow globe, creative new ideas for your latest novel are absent.  When your sinuses are swollen like an overdue mother’s belly, any hot marketing ideas for your unreleased paperback do not exist.  When you can’t sit at your computer to write for long periods of time, you are not a writer.  You become just a person.  Because a writer who does not write, is well, not a writer.  Right?  (sorry, it was just too irresistible)

A writer who can’t write lives in a white tunnel of isolation.

Add a back and neck injury from a car accident and you have the makings of any writer’s personal disaster.  The irony of the car accident is that I was in it because I was having dinner with the cast of characters from my book.  I know.  Crazy right?  The Gridley Girls character, Tonya, was driving me from dinner with my husband and the character Jock, to my house where the characters AnneMarie and Kelly were waiting for us, when a texting woman rear-ended the car behind us sending two cars right into our backsides.  It’s not been fun.

The problem is, I’m a mother.

Sure, that’s not a problem, per se, but when you are a mother, there are no sick days.  And even as a mother of a college student and a fairly self-sufficient high schooler, kids don’t care about vertigo and neck injuries.  Kids don’t care about your inability to breathe properly, or to sit at your desk for long periods of time, or your lack of creative ideas to fuel your career.  Teenagers care about food in the house that suits their needs (read:  junk food), rides to their friends houses, being picked up on time at their millions of activities, and having enough spending money to keep their social lives fueled.

So for me, all this illness was an opportunity to teach my kids about empathy and compassion.  It’s so easy for teenagers to take their parents for granted.  As an organized mom, it was pretty easy for me to allow it.  Vertigo changed that.  Vertigo kicked my butt like nothing before.  And vertigo during the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays shut my a$$ down.  Literally.

I had to ask for help.

That was really hard. Exactly two weeks before Christmas, when on the phone with my doctor, they quizzed me on how long my vertigo had lasted and number of days on meds, etc.  Doctor stuff.  That’s when I counted up the five months.  I had had vertigo and sinus infections for five out of the last 15 months.  I was floored.  I had no idea it had been that long because it was spread out.  I realized then that I had been taking the whole thing too lightly and needed to ask for help.

Ask and ye shall receive.

My husband was awesome. He took over all Christmas present responsibilities and did his usual wonderful job of barbecued turkey and prime rib for 20 people. My friends from home (more characters from Gridley Girls) put up our Christmas tree so we would be greeted by it when we arrived in California.  As usual, the rest of my family rallied to bring additional food for both holidays (we host my husband’s family on Christmas Eve and mine on Christmas Day).

My kids rallied to whine less and help more before Christmas, even with cleaning.  They still don’t fully understand what I’ve gone and am still struggling through (I think that’s difficult if you haven’t experienced it yourself) but they have gained some understanding and compassion.  I’ve found that with chronic pain or illness of any kind, even the most compassionate adults struggle to understand.

Chronic anything is a challenge for everyone. That’s why you have to be strong enough to ask for help.  I think we need to spend a little less time trying to look like we’re okay (when we actually feel awful) and more time asking for a little help.

I’m nowhere near 100% yet.  I still see the chiropractor once a week to maintain my 60% improvement in the neck and back injury.  I manage my diet constantly to keep the vertigo away.  It is so intense that a half a cookie can cause a flare-up.

I’m not telling you any of this for empathy or sympathy.  I’m simply sharing my story.  The one thing I’ve discovered in writing books based on true events is that my truth can help others going through similar issues.

Moms get sick. What matters is how we deal with it when we get sick.  It took me a year and a half to figure that out.  I’m hoping by sharing this, it might take you less time if it happens to you.  If I had figured it out sooner, maybe I would have gotten better sooner?  Or maybe I would have gotten help sooner?  The latter is probably more accurate and that would have saved my entire family some grief.

So ask for help.  Your family and friends are there and they won’t mind.

Follow a few simple (they are simple if you think about it)  steps:

Prioritize your life.  If you have a job outside the home, then most likely your duties at home are what are suffering.  Get a notepad out and write it down.  And then slash it apart.  Get down to the basics of life:  your health, running your family and managing your job.  Everything else has to come after that until you are well.  It will be hard but it will get you better faster.  It will help you out of the white tunnel of isolation.
Sit your family down and explain how you feel.  Not just physically but emotionally.  Tell them about your struggle and ask for their help.  Have your expectations clear in your head before you do it.  Clear requests, rather than vague ones, are much easier for husbands and children.
Think of three of your closest friends who can help you.  Before you ask them for help, ask yourself, “Would you do this for them if they asked you?”  If the answer is yes, then go for it.

Have you struggled with health issues (or any issue) and asked for help to manage your life?  I’d love to hear any suggestions you have to help us all.

Y.A.L.,

Meredith

Don’t Fall For the Hype: Polarocalypse Weather Fear

Everybody knows I’m a Californian living with dual Minnesota citizenship.  What they can’t figure out though, is why I love Minnesota.  They can’t figure out how, after six winters in the Land o’ Lakes (yes, we really do count our time here in winters, duh) I still love it.  And that’s fine by me.

Everybody knows I’m crazy.  Most don’t say it to my face, but really, you knew, right?  That should be enough for you to realize why I love it here.  But really, the cold isn’t that bad.  Or as we like to say in the Sacramento valley in reverse, “it’s a dry cold”.  And I say that with a straight face.  Cuz it is dry.  I’ll take a Minnesota winter over a Sacramento winter any day of the week.  I’m not completely insane though:  only for three months.  That’s the main problem with Minnesota winters — they’re too darn long.

This morning was the day that has been hyped for weeks:  Polarocalypse (yes, I had to look up how to spell it).  It is the coldest it’s been in 17 years.  That’s saying a lot in Minnesota.  The Governor canceled school in the entire state (also saying a ton since we’ve only had 1.25 snow days in six winters in our district).  Temps at 21 below and up to 60 below with windchill.  While that’s no laughing matter since you can get frostbite after just five minutes of exposure, I get why the Minnesotans are hearty and why they laugh at the hype.

If only our thermometers could track the windchill. This reading is SO deceiving!

There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.

That’s my favorite Minnesota saying and I’ve fully embraced it upon moving here.  Sure, my husband complains (a lot) about my coat, boot, hat and glove addiction habit affection, but he’s not the one out there on the front line keeping the family running.  He goes from his heated house to his heated garage to his heated car to his company’s heated garage to the skyway (hamster mazes that keep Twin-Cities workers from ever going outside and keep the pharmaceutical companies flying high in Vitamin D sales) to his office, without ever cracking out a coat, let alone a hat or gloves.  I, on the other hand, while being lucky enough to work out of the house, have to do everything else out there.  In the tundra.

So today, with all the hype, I should have been in bed, sleeping through the hype.  Instead, I had an 8:30 doctor’s appointment twenty minutes from the house.  Not far enough to any heated garages or skyways.  Just far enough to deal with traffic and “dangerous, bitter cold” as they’ve been calling it on TV.

But thanks to my coat addiction habit affection and Jimmy Stewart, I was prepared.  How, you ask, could the late, great, Jimmy Stewart save my boney arse from frost bite?  I have a full-length raccoon coat bought at a second-hand store right here in the western suburbs of Minneapolis.  Yes Virginia, PETA does not exist where it is very, very cold.  And you know why?  Cuz she died of frostbite!

Jimmy Stewart keeping me warm during 60 below windchill.

But the California girl in me requires that my fur be purchased used.  That way, I’m not perpetuating animal cruelty.  Instead, I consider myself a top environmentalist for recycling and reusing.  And if the herd of deer who were actually bedding down (honest, they were laying down!) in my back yard this morning (a first in 6 winters!) could speak, I’m sure they’d ask for a Jimmy Stewart raccoon coat too.

Pretty sure this deer is making eyes at my Jimmy Stewart.

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First time in six winters that we’ve seen a herd bed down in our yard. They didn’t even move when our “herd” of goldens got near them.

I’ve been an avid second-hand store lover since college and the Twin-Cities selection is amazing.  Yes, I used that tired, old word because, in this case, it’s necessary.  Seriously, they are as good as Paris.  I haven’t been to a second-hand store in Paris since 1987, so that’s probably an over-statement, but I stand by my use of amazing.  Jimmy Stewart was my first foray into fur.  I call him that because he reminds me of the raccoon coats worn in old black and white movies.  He reminds my friend of the big coats worn by Sharon Stone in the movie Casino and that sometimes makes me wonder if she thinks I look like an old 80s coke head, but I choose to ignore that when I wear Jimmy.

Sometimes I do still feel a wee bit guilty when wearing fur.  Mainly because I’m pretty sure I almost hit Jimmy Stewart’s family the first time I wore him and that freaked me out.

The first night I wore Jimmy Stewart, it was ten below (in Minnesota, you can’t wear your fur unless it’s around zero – if it’s above 20, you’ll get looks – not kidding) so I needed him.  We were barely away from the house when the world’s biggest raccoon jumped in front of my car.  I slammed on my brakes and he stopped and looked me dead in the eye before running to the other side.  My heart was beating out of my chest and I screamed in my best Will Ferrell-elf-voice, “Did you SEE that?” and my husband and I yelled in unison, “THE COAT!”  Never before that and never since, has a raccoon run out on any member of my family.  I’m not saying that raccoon who did jump out was sent by some Tony Soprano Raccoon Mafia Rep, but it was awfully suspicious.

Jimmy Stewart can’t take care of you by himself though.  He needs his accessory friends.  In my case, on days like this, I crack out what I call my suit of armor:  the over-the-knee Hunter shearling boots.  Yup.  They’re practically as tall as me and I can’t cross my legs in them, but they do the trick.  Shearling from the tips of my toes to the mid-thigh.  If I could buy a full-bodysuit of shearling, I would.  The rest just needs to be whatever warm stuff you prefer, unless you’re spending lots of time outside, in which case you need to refer to a completely other blog, cuz I’m still a Californian, I have no desire to actually spend more than five minutes in this cold.  Really, what would be the point?

This pic doesn’t do them justice but you do get to see the bottom of Jimmy Stewart!

My shearling suit of armor and Berit and Marit, my best vintage shopping friend who found me the boots!

JImmy Stewart and his partner Hunter, saved my hide (pun intended) this morning, so much so that I actually got out of the car to get the mail.  Saying that as if it’s a bold statement probably proves to my California friends that I am certifiable.

But really, it’s a dry cold.

*** BREAKING NEWS:  School is canceled tomorrow too! ***

To Glenys, With Love from the Indebted Exchange Student

In 1987, I was an exchange student at the University of London.  There were around 35 of us from universities in the Pacific Northwest.  My roommate was from the University of Washington.  I was a student at Oregon State University.  We were assigned to the Penny family in Pinner, the village where Elton John and Simon LeBon (Duran Duran was a big deal in 1987) grew up.  We quickly found out that we had won the lottery for exchange students.  Not just because we lived in an affluent suburb and lovely home, but because we were assigned to a warm, loving and hilarious family, run by a woman who was a Godsend to me.

On our first day of school, they taught us about “culture shock”, told us about the warning signs.  Reassured us it would pass.  I didn’t think culture shock would happen to me as I was a Californian going to school in Oregon.  I felt like I already knew what it was like to live in a land where they had disdain for my kind.  Oregon is a wonderful place, but like their weather, they can be cold to Californians.  They really like their “don’t Californicate Oregon” jokes.  Like most other states in the US, Oregonians lump us in the same category:  if you are a  Californian, then you are from the beach, pretentious and different.  The only thing I will agree with them on is different.  That we are.  If only they could see a little deeper and see that different is good.  Different is fun.  Just let us in, you’ll see.

English culture shock hit though.  It wasn’t because some random, unattractive English guy with bad teeth told us to “sod off and throw some tea in the sea” though that was really odd to us since it had been a long time since the Boston Tea Party and he knew we were from the west coast.  It wasn’t because my bible-thumping roommate was nice to my face but talked behind my back the rest of the time (well, yes it had a lot to do with that).  It wasn’t because I was running out of money too fast (yeah, it was that too).  It was all of those things.  I was homesick for everything American.  How could a country that was supposed to be so American be so very not American?  Naivete has always been my strong suit.

During the thick of my culture shock, I stayed home from school.  I didn’t feel well and spent the day in bed.  Peter, our dad, worked very long hours.  He had come home early that evening and came up to our room with Glenys to try and cheer me up.  They gave me a pep talk about culture shock (they were experienced exchange student parents) and strong personalities.  They had never hosted a Californian before and said my personality and accent was very different than all the north westerners they had hosted.  They told me stories of times Glenys had stuck her foot in her mouth at parties.  When they told the stories, they alternated parts like the longtime couple they were.  When I was shocked, they gave me more details, putting me at ease, showing me that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t a freak of nature.

I watched them tell the stories, felt their sincerity and love for each other and felt much better.  They reassured me that even though my roommate was being a two-faced girl, did I really care?  They pointed out the hypocrisy of a bible-thumping, back-stabber and that made sense.  They pointed out my other friends, new friends that also went to Oregon State, whom I never would have known had I not gone on this exchange program.  They treated me like my own parents would have:  they pointed out the obvious that I was missing, pointed out that everybody has flaws and told me to get over myself.  It was just what I needed.  A little kick-in-the-butt of confidence.

A few weeks later, I totally ran out of money. I had been spending money like a sailor on leave.  Seriously.  All out.  The next morning before school, I called my parents to tell them and they told me what all good public school teachers with no money should tell their self sufficient daughters, “Figure it out.”

That evening, on the way home from the tube station, I saw a “Help Wanted” sign in a pub and went in to check it out.  The first thing I noticed was a few older waitresses gathered around a new computer, complaining.  In 1987, computers were just coming to restaurants and the older servers were not happy about it. I took the sign out of the window and asked to see the manager.  When he came downstairs, I handed him the sign, pointed to the women kvetching at the terminal and said, “I’m an exchange student at the University of London.  I have no legal right to work in England, but back in the US, I’ve trained all of our servers on that computer system and I love it.”  I pointed to the sign again.  ”Are you looking for servers?”

His face lit up.

I went on to have the best experience of my time in London.  Going to school with a bunch of Americans in an English University is not exactly immersing yourself in the English culture.  Learning how to properly pull a Guinness in a pub full of regulars who will make you cry if you mess it up, that’s properly immersing yourself in English culture.  Serving the pensioners their roast dinner every Sunday afternoon is English culture.  I knew the culture shock had worn off when I was told to “sod off” by a regular (in his defense, I deserved it – it was a bad pull) and instead of crying, I laughed and said it back.

I knew I had arrived the day I had made so much money that they had to take taxes out of my paycheck.  Instead of complaining like the rest of my coworkers, I shouted in glee, “I’m a subject of the Queen!  I’m a subject of the Queen!”  I was thrilled to pay taxes even though I have no idea how I paid taxes or under who’s number?

That was because of Peter and Glenys Penny and the confidence they gave me.  Glenys liked to tell the story of my getting a job because she was so proud of my dad for saying, “Figure it out.”.  She liked the part where I had that job twelve hours after my admission of being broke.  I like to think about the fact that none of that would have happened without the love and confidence they gave me.

Life got busy for my family and me.   The last time we visited her was 1997 when my 18-year old son was 20 months old.  In that visit, they got to meet my husband and son at the same time.  She pulled out all the stops that night.  Her best lamb, mint jelly, yorkshire pudding and my all-time fave, her chocolate bread pudding that took her three days to make.  She knew I would appreciate the work it took her to make that meal.  She knew I’d feel special because I knew that was a special Sunday meal that she was making on a Tuesday.  That was love.

We haven’t been back to England since 1997. The Pennys have never met my 15-year old daughter, Alice.  I hate that.  My new goal is to get some English rights to Gridley Girls sold as soon as possible so I’ll have an excuse to get to England straightaway.  I shouldn’t need an excuse though.

In 2011, exactly 24 years after I moved in with the Pennys, I got a call asking if we would host a Dutch exchange student.  They were desperate, as he had been in our district for four months and his second semester housing had fallen through and they didn’t want to make him change schools.  He was friends with our son Cole, so it seemed like a no-brainer.  I thought about Glenys every time I wanted to say no.  We arranged a dinner to meet Youri the moment we arrived back in Minneapolis after spending the holidays in California.

I knew Youri would come live with us the moment I saw his face light up when I told him Cole and I were allergic to dairy and he said, “Me too!”.  My husband knew when Youri asked us “what the house rules were” before we had even made a decision.

When Youri struggled with homesickness (I still have no idea how a 17 year old can spend an entire year away from his family!) I tried to channel Glenys.  When he didn’t clean up after himself and I didn’t want to say anything, I remembered Glenys and her firm, but loving hand on house rules.

Youri is forever a member of our family.  He even came back to spend last summer with us.  He and I have long talked about our family going to Amsterdam to meet his family and my dream of taking him to London to meet the Pennys.

When I first had kids and tried to balance my workaholic husband’s life with family life, I tried to channel Glenys and remember how she kept her family together with a workaholic husband.

I may have only lived with Glenys and Peter for three months, but their impact on my life will be with me forever.

Three nights ago I found out Glenys Penny passed away from a  brain tumor.  I felt even worse that she passed away two years prior and I was just hearing about it.  That’s how disconnected I had become from a family who had meant so much to me.  Did I ever really tell her what she meant to me?  She told me once that she was grateful that I stayed in touch with them, that I made the effort.  Always sending Christmas Cards keeping her up on my family’s comings and goings.  I used to call them once a year just to catch up.  When did that stop?

In the last two years since Glenys’ passing, Peter has climbed 13 mountains in her honor, raising money for The Brain Tumour Charity.  Read about it here:  http://www.getwestlondon.co.uk/news/l...

When I started this blog a year ago, it was to support the launch of my ebook, Gridley Girls.  I didn’t have a focus to the blog.  I decided to let it take me where it wanted.  I wanted to treat the blog like a living thing, just as I did with my writing.  I’ve always felt like my writing is not really mine.  Since so much of the dialog and any of the fictional parts of my book came to me in dreams, it can’t be considered my own, can it?

After the initial publication of the ebook, my brilliant director/writer friend (and fellow Gridley Guy) called to give me his “notes” on it.  He said something that struck me, even though it would seem obvious to anyone who knows me well.  ”Everything you do in your life is based on your fear of sudden death.  Everything.  Figure that out and there you will find the theme of your writing.”  I told you he was brilliant.

The thing is though, people keep dying.  And people keep dying suddenly.  Old people, young people, it doesn’t stop.  How do I reconcile that when it keeps happening?  When I think of that, I remember what another writer friend said to me when I despaired over my son leaving for college (which I now see is much better than leaving for Heaven – talk about a dichotomy there). “Write.  That is your salvation.  Go to your computer now.”  When did I acquire all these writing friends and how do they know just the right thing to say at the right time?

So write I will do.  I’m sorry this post is so long, but to me, it’s still not enough to honor a woman who meant so much to me.

Rest in peace, Glenys Penny.  I know I’m not the only American girl who is grateful for your generous spirit.  God be with you ’til we meet again.

1987, The morning we made breakfast for Glenys. It wasn’t our best work but we needed her to experience American pancakes.

Glenys and me, 1997 and that amazing dinner.

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1997, Glenys, teaching Cole the “Round and round the garden,” rhyme that we continued to teach both kids.

We’ll Miss Your Smiling Face, Jake Anderson

Yesterday, I had to call my eldest son, who’s taking his first college finals this week, and tell him that one of his good friends just passed away at the University of Minnesota.  How do you share that news?  How is it that you spend your last 40 years suffering too many sudden deaths to count — so many that you quit the career of your dreams to write books about them — yet you have absolutely no idea how to help your children cope?

More than that, as is the case with any death, you are helpless.  I’ve written about the hugs you get when people close to you die.  The person looks at you with puppy dog eyes, is speechless and just when you think you can keep it together, they hug you.  It’s a welcome hug.  A hug of helplessness.  But there is no keeping it together once they hug you.  The tears come then and it’s okay.  But it $ucks.  And that is my favorite way to describe it.  It $ucks.  And I use the $ in that case so I won’t get censored because it is truly, the most eloquent way for me to describe untimely death.  It $ucks.

So instead of dealing with death, I will deal with life.  Jake Anderson was a great kid.  I went on two international mission trips with him through our church and he was the kind of kid whose smile lit up a room.  I cannot begin to imagine what Kristi, Bill, Emily and Luke are dealing with now, facing Christmas with this shock and loss to their family.  All I can do is pray for them and be so very grateful for their faith.

When your kids are little, you think parenting will get easier as they get older.  In some ways it does, but I know now, parenting just morphs.  It doesn’t really get easier or harder.  Just like life, it changes.

I am grateful for the strength of our little community who pulls it together in the time of need, our wonderful church without whom I would not survive, and the love of God who makes all things possible.

Just last week I heard someone say “Whenever your heart breaks, it lets in light.”  That struck me.  I loved it.  My wish for the Anderson family is light.  Let the light of your love for Jake into your hearts.  Know that your community, your church and everyone who knew Jake, is here for you.

Let in the light.

PS:  On the Jamaica Mission Trip, at the end of every work day, if you were lucky enough to be in Pastor’s van, you’d get to be a part of a Harry Belafonte (Jamaica’s pride and joy!) singalong. I stumbled upon this video today and realized that the chorus of “Daylight’s come and me wanna go home” is especially fitting now for Jake.  As hard as it is for his loved ones to see him go, he is home now.  Rest in Peace, Jake.

God be with you ’til we meet again, Jake Anderson

Yesterday, I had to call my eldest son, who’s taking his first college finals this week, and tell him that one of his good friends just passed away at the University of Minnesota.  How do you share that news?  How is it that you spend your last 40 years suffering too many sudden deaths to count — so many that you quit the career of your dreams to write books about them — yet you have absolutely no idea how to help your children cope?

More than that, as is the case with any death, you are helpless.  I’ve written about the hugs you get when people close to you die.  The person looks at you with puppy dog eyes, is speechless and just when you think you can keep it together, they hug you.  It’s a welcome hug.  A hug of helplessness.  But there is no keeping it together once they hug you.  The tears come then and it’s okay.  But it $ucks.  And that is my favorite way to describe it.  It $ucks.  And I use the $ in that case so I won’t get censored because it is truly, the most eloquent way for me to describe untimely death.  It $ucks.

So instead of dealing with death, I will deal with life.  Jake Anderson was a great kid.  I went on two international mission trips with him through our church and he was the kind of kid whose smile lit up a room.  I cannot begin to imagine what Kristi, Bill, Emily and Luke are dealing with now, facing Christmas with this shock and loss to their family.  All I can do is pray for them and be so very grateful for their faith.

When your kids are little, you think parenting will get easier as they get older.  In some ways it does, but I know now, parenting just morphs.  It doesn’t really get easier or harder.  Just like life, it changes.

I am grateful for the strength of our little community who pulls it together in the time of need, our wonderful church without whom I would not survive, and the love of God who makes all things possible.

Just last week I heard someone say “Whenever your heart breaks, it lets in light.”  That struck me.  I loved it.  My wish for the Anderson family is light.  Let the light of your love for Jake into your hearts.  Know that your community, your church and everyone who knew Jake, is here for you.

Let in the light.

PS:  On the Jamaica Mission Trip, at the end of every work day, if you were lucky enough to be in Pastor’s van, you’d get to be a part of a Harry Belafonte (Jamaica’s pride and joy!) singalong. I stumbled upon this video today and realized that the chorus of “Daylight’s come and me wanna go home” is especially fitting now for Jake.  As hard as it is for his loved ones to see him go, he is home now.  Rest in Peace, Jake.

A Grateful Gridley Girl

I am filled with gratitude tonight.  Not because it was just Thanksgiving.  Not because I’m finally getting well after a month long fight with sinus infections and vertigo.  Not because my son called and gave me enough notice to help him edit his final papers for his first semester at college (he’s planning ahead!).  Not because my daughter is being nice tonight (sometimes a feat for her 15-year old soul).  Not because my back and neck are finally starting to heal after the car accident this summer.  Not just because life is good.

Well, of course, because of all of those things.  But tonight, I’m grateful for you.

That’s right.  You.  A reader.  On December 18th, it will be a year since I was brave enough to publish Gridley Girls, which as you know, is the not-very-fictional novel of my life — warts and all.  In the last year, I have been humbled and amazed to watch my friends, acquaintances and perfect strangers embrace my little book.  So much so that I was brave enough to take it off the market, hire a publicity team and start all over.  For realsies, as I like to say.  All because of you.

I’m in the waiting stage now.  I have boxes (and boxes) of hardback books just waiting to be sold.  I have publishing deals  to think about or the decision to continue with my boutique publishing house.  If I were to let it, it could consume me.  Eat at me.  Keep me awake at night. Instead, I gave it up to God long ago.  The way I see it, since this book came to me in my dreams, I think God wrote it.  So I figure, if God wrote it, he’ll surely sell it too.  Right?

Makes sense to me.

I decided to go out on a limb and sell advance copies for the holidays, to my friends and relatives.  It will raise money for future publicity and it will keep Gridley Girls alive until this summer.  And anyone who’s read Gridley Girls knows, keeping things alive is very important to me.  Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

And what happened from my little Facebook post suggesting that Gridley Girls is the perfect holiday gift for any girl aged 12 to 80?  The requests have come flooding in.  I don’t care if I live at the post office the next few weeks.  Keith over at  the Long Lake USPS is one of my favorite guys and not just because he bought a copy for his wife after he saw me mailing so many copies out.

You guys are great.  You’re awesome.  This has been the scariest ride of my life.  Publishing such a personal story.  Sharing such intimate details of my life with the world is more frightening than walking down the aisle at your giant wedding.  Scarier than having that first baby.  I’m not good with the unknown but you’ve all helped walk me down that aisle.  You’re the proverbial father, holding my arm and telling me “it’s gonna be alright”.  Thank you.  I appreciate each and every one of you more than you’ll probably ever know.

Gridley Girls is a story of friendship, love, betrayal and most of all, hope.  It is my love-letter to my Gridley Girls (and guys) who have made my life so meaningful.  If you haven’t read it, I hope you will and I hope to hear from you when you’re done.  But if you haven’t read it, that’s okay too, cuz as my friend Doug P. likes to say, “You’ve already won.  You did it.  You wrote a book.”  You’re right, Doug.  Thanks.  Thank you, Jesus and thank YOU.

Y.A.L.

Meredith

God be with you ’til we meet again, David Cone…

I just got off the phone with Suzanne Cone, mother of Jennifer Cone, our best friend who passed away just after fourth grade.  Jennifer’s father, David Cone, just passed away.  We’ve known it was coming.  Cancer will do that.  We know he’s in a better place.  Faith will do that.  We know he’s with Jennifer now.  Faith is awesome.

And yet it sucks.

That’s right. It’s not very ladylike, but death can suck.  I’m not a fan.  It pisses me off.  I’m supposed to be grateful that he has a faith that teaches us that he’s in a better place.  I’m supposed to be happy that he’s now with his daughter who’s been gone for 39 years.  And I am happy that he’s out of pain.  I’m happy that he’s with his daughter after all this time.

And yet it sucks.

David Cone was the quintessential nice guy.  A family man to the core.  A great husband.  A wonderful friend.  He and his wife survived the unthinkable:  the death of their oldest daughter.  A tragedy that breaks up most marriages, but his lasted for 50 years.  He will be missed by his family and friends and while I smile at the thought of the reunion of father and daughter, I still cry when I think of his five remaining children, grandchildren and his new great-grand baby living without him.

Because it sucks.

In another wink from God, the burial will take place the day after I happen to be flying home to conduct the wedding ceremony of one of our other best friends from Gridley.  I know Jennifer will be smiling upon all of us on Thursday as we say goodbye to her dad and on Friday as we congratulate RoseMarie Curcuru and Debbie Freeman on their historic marriage.

Life goes on and we all know, it doesn’t really suck.  Even if it feels that way sometimes.

God be with you ’til we meet again, David Cone.  We’re better off for having known you.

Funks, Empty Nests, Car Accidents and Other Fun Things…

I can’t believe I haven’t posted since my first Book Signing in June!  If I’ve been so flaky this summer, how will I be next summer when Gridley Girls launches for realsies?  I shudder at that question.

In three short months since I last posted I have, watched Baby Boy (BB) graduate from high school, spent the summer fighting with BB in his attempt to separate from me prior to leaving for college, welcomed our beloved Dutch exchange-son, Youri, back home for six weeks where we traveled to our California home and Hawaii to enjoy his presence in our lives (he’s the only one of our three kids – fake or otherwise – who minds, is respectful and acts like he loves us in public), traveled to Jamaica on an eight-day mission trip to work in orphanages with 50 high schoolers (including Baby Girl) from my church, purged my overly-giant house of unnecessary stuff in my ongoing quest for a simpler life, tried to impart all last minute wisdom upon BB in anticipation of his departure, given up on the fact that I will never feel like I’ve done enough prior to his departure, gone to college orientation, watched BB plan his classes and meet with his advisor with maturity and intelligence, picked myself up out of my chair after being shocked at said maturity, fought back tears when I was sad knowing I couldn’t call my mother to share that story with her, got in two car accidents, one of which wrenched my back and neck so badly that I’m in three-day-a-week chiropractic appointments, sent my Dutch-son back to Dutchlandia (it’s so much more fun to say than Amsterdam or The Netherlands – whatever) the same weekend that we brought Baby Boy to college, and finally, cried and cried at the thought that my family, the thing I’ve fought to protect, preserve and cherish for the last 18 years, will never, ever be the same.

Phew, I’m exhausted!  Now you see why I haven’t written.  My apologies, nonetheless.

So now, I’m in a funk.  It’s been coming for quite some time but that dang car accident just sealed the deal.  After spending my 21st wedding anniversary (yesterday) hysterically crying (my anniversary always falls two days after my mother’s deathiversary so it’s anybody’s guess how I’ll be feeling that year), I realized this was a funk and I needed to make some changes, pull myself up by my bootstraps and get to work or the funk could spiral.  And nobody wants a spiraling funk.  Nobody!

So I will leave you tonight with a teaser.  The topic of my next post.  When we were preparing to send BB to college, my husband, in haste and quite regretfully, said, “Cut the cord” at a very inopportune time.

Yes, he very much regrets that.  My answer was, is, and you and I will discuss this at length next time:  When you push a baby out of your vagina, you may tell me how to act when sending said baby to college.  Until then, you should probably keep your judgment to yourself.

Thoughts?  Arguments?  Agreements?  Let’s discuss and I’ll save the story for next time.  Until then, Y.A.L.

Meredith

PS:  This is much of what our summer looked like.  I’m convinced ABC has hidden cameras following me around for their story lines.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CiWzkCWju_o

Saturday, 6/15/13, Book Signing in Honor of Jennifer Cone.

I hope you’ll be able to join us for our first Book Signing Event in Gridley on Saturday, June 15, 2013 from 11:00 to 2:00 at the Ice Burgie in Gridley.  In case you haven’t read GRIDLEY GIRLS yet (and now you’ll not have any excuses as advance copies of the hardbacks will be on sale for $20 each with $3 of each book donated to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital), here’s a little back story for how a Gridley Girl with a computer and a dream became an author.

On Father’s Day, June 16, 1974, one of my best friends passed away, just a few weeks shy of her tenth birthday.  Our little group of friends was never the same.  We didn’t know it but we looked at the world through different eyes after that.  None of us had experienced death yet.  Not even through a grandparent.  Our first experience with death was with our friend, Jennifer.  She was there one day. Gone the next.  I never looked at the end of the school year in quite the same way again.  I walked home from school with Jennifer every day.  That was the last I saw of her – when we parted ways at the Mormon Church – she went west towards her house.  I continued north to mine, cutting through Mr. John’s backyard behind the church as I always did.     Nine days later, I got the call that she was gone.  Poof.  Just like that.

At her grave, her mother Suzanne hugged me, pulled me back and looked sternly into my eyes and begged, “Don’t you forget her.  Promise me, Meredith!  Promise me you’ll always remember her!”  I nodded my head vigorously through my tears.  Was she crazy?  How could I forget a girl I had shared so much with?  How could I forget the girl who taught me how to clean a toilet?  The girl who played checkers over the phone with me? The girl who confirmed I was having a surprise party on my ninth birthday only because I spent the entire walk home from school cajoling her to confirm it because I was convinced I needed to clean my house in time for the alleged party.  I didn’t know life without Jennifer Cone until that moment.  I would never forget her.

In 1974, when a child died, people didn’t really know what to do (not that they know much more now) so we grieved.  We went to the funeral.  We went on with our lives without much talking about it.  But it was there.  Always there, shaping our lives, our friendships and how we dealt with loss.

In 1978, in Mr. Erickson’s eighth grade English class, we had to write thirty-page short stories and publish them as if we were real authors.  We went through an editing process with little meetings with the teacher – learning how to argue our points for what we wanted to cut and what we wanted to keep.  Mr. Erickson gave me a copy of Debbie LaBarbera’s short story that she had written two years earlier.  It was after my first draft was written.  He wanted me to see what I thought.  In Debbie’s story, the protagonist died.  That triggered something in me.  I wanted my heroine to die too.  I was adamant that she must die.

Mr. Erickson was not just Mr. Erickson to me.  He was my parents best friend.  He spent his whole career teaching across the hall from my mother.  Our families were inseparable.  I had been making him bourbon and cokes since I was tall enough to reach the counter.  I had no problem fighting my point.

“She needs to die.”  I said, without any emotion.

“But why?” he asked.  ”It doesn’t make any sense in the story.”

“I want people to cry when they read it.”  Again, I didn’t say this with emotion.

He left it at that but later discussed it with my mother.  They didn’t know what to make of it or my feelings.  He eventually won.  My protagonist did not die.  My story was a romance.  It was boring.  I hated it.  I got an A.

Normally all about the grade, I didn’t care about my A.  I didn’t like the story.  There was no real emotion in it to me.

I resolved then that I would someday write a book about our experiences and do for us what God could not.  I would keep Jennifer alive.  And no editor would change my story, nor could life.  This would be my story, told the way I wanted it told.

It would take me years before I figured out that in eighth grade, I wanted my heroine to die because I had many unresolved feelings about sudden death.  That is an understatement.  I had no emotion when I said she needed to die because I was a frightened thirteen year-old girl trying to make sense  of a very scary world.

Thirty years after Jennifer’s passing, I started having dreams.  Vivid dreams starring my childhood best friends from Gridley.  The dreams didn’t scare me. They were comforting.  We were all in our freshman year at Gridley High and there was a pretty blond girl who looked familiar but I couldn’t tell who she was for weeks.  I felt like God was talking to me through my dreams and knew I needed to do something about it but wasn’t sure what.  I talked to my husband and explained that it might be time for me to cash in on the career.  We were at a critical point in our child-rearing in that somebody needed to let up on their career as the kids weren’t raising themselves.  In my traditional household, agree or not, I knew that somebody was me.

I told my mother-in-law about the dreams one day and she gave me the best advice, “Pray on it.  And when you do, ask God to pretend you’re not very smart.  Ask him to give you really big signs.  He’ll tell you what to do.”

In a matter of weeks after those prayers, I was stranded on an airplane in the middle of nowhere West Virginia with a publishing director from Random House.  The week after that, I met one of Oprah’s executives who has guided me for the last nine years.  I don’t believe in coincidences.

I left Apple.  I wrote the book.  I moved across the country with my husband and kids leaving my beloved Sacramento Valley, the only home I’ve ever known, behind.  I was brave.  I was strong.  I was scared to death.  But I did it.  I did it for my dear friend who left us too soon and for the promise I made her mother.  I did it for my late mother who guided me from beyond, based on her own dreams of me becoming the next Judy Blume.  I did it for my girlfriends who’ve shared their lives with me.

Girlfriends who aren’t just Gridley Girls to me.  They’re woven into my DNA.  What’s that line in the marriage vows?  Matthew 19:3, “Therefore what God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”  That works for friendship too.  Especially in our case.

So, this Saturday, the day before Father’s Day, the day before the 39th anniversary of the passing of Jennifer Lynn Cone, we’ll be celebrating the birth of a book. The birth of a book that celebrates friendship and Gridley, two of my favorite subjects.  Jayne Ethington Barrow has graciously offered to donate 20% of her sales to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in memory of Jennifer.  Advance copies of the hardback of GRIDLEY GIRLS will be on sale for $20 with $3 of each copy being donated to St. Jude.  We’ll be eating our burgers and enjoying the new Gridley Girl drink at the Burgie.

Afterward, the Friends of the Library event honoring Doris Long will be held at 4:00 and we’ll have a reading and Q & A.  I hope you’ll be able to join us on Saturday to honor our friend and support the kids of St. Jude.  If not, take a little time to celebrate your life and your friendships.  You’re worth it.

Y.A. L.