Yakima Mom

All Things Mom

Reminder to Give Thanks

We all need little reminders occasionally, to appreciate all that we have. I try to take a few moments daily…to be thankful for the blessings bestowed upon me… especially when I’m faced with challenges, and risk throwing a little pity-party for myself.

I mean, really. I dare say, most of us who read this-have our NEEDS completely met, myself included. We aren’t hungry or homeless. We probably have at least one car, and while we may gripe about putting gas in it, we don’t have to choose between filling the tank or eating dinner. We have our smart phones and 300 choices to watch on our flat screen TVs. I recently shared in a facebook post that went with this moving photo: 150903120900-restricted-01-migrant-crisis-medium-plus-169

                                     We have no idea. This life isn’t ours.

And yet, in spite of me trying to be continually aware and thankful for all I have, I was recently slapped in the face with the reminder of how much I take for granted.

Our sixteen year old son, Jack, has been having stomach issues. Since he’s still a “child” (all six feet, 195 pounds of him), there was no gastroenterologist in Yakima who would see him, so at our regular physicians request, we took him to Children’s Hospital in Seattle.

We drove over Monday. The closer we got to the hospital, the more “wound up” I became. Perhaps his sensitive stomach was really Crohn’s or IBS? How will this affect his life? By the time we parked and entered the facility, I was nauseous with nerves.

But then, as we waited in the cafeteria, I watched a mother and her less-than-two-year-old son, and got a new perspective. From what I surmised, the mother was accompanied by her mother, and the three of them were meeting with the boy’s dad, who did not live with them.

The child had the wispy hair of the recently chemoed. A small NG tube was taped to his cheek and disappeared into his nose, though it didn’t seem to bother him at all. He climbed on and off of his mother, while she snuggled and petted him and talked to the man. I could hear bits and pieces of what she was saying.

“So, if we do chemo again, we’ll try something different,” floated to my ear, and then she took another bite of her sandwich while the boy watched.

“Nom, nom?” he questioned, eyeing the food.

“Mmmhmm. Nom nom,” Mom agreed.

I had to look away as tears threatened and I realized that for her, sitting in Children’s Hospital, discussing her baby’s chemo while eating a sandwich, was this woman’s normal world. She wasn’t wound up about having to take her child there; it was probably routine. This was her life.

           *                          *                          *                       *                   *

Over the next couple hours we sat in different waiting rooms and I saw other parents, some in situations similar to the one I saw in the cafeteria. Sick babies. Scary treatments. Every day.

And as I watched mothers gently stroking their babies or rubbing a cheek against a downy head, another thought formed in my head.
Some of these mommies know they have a limited amount of those touches and strokes.

Some of those mothers know that a cruel clock is ticking, and that they have to get as many caresses and kisses and inhales of their child’s scent that they can while there is still time.images
I am so fortunate.

It turns out Jack is alright and we have nothing too scary to worry about. He’s okay. And when I said my prayers that night, I was extremely aware and thankful for my healthy children and my blessed life. I prayed for all those parents and babies too, grateful my life is not one of theirs.

1964854_10203125413961876_2869837343778331532_nIf you hear me complaining about anything, slap me.

That Girl

That Girl.IMG_2234

The one I love so much.


The one who took my heart and crushed it.


The one who healed herself and made my soul whole again.


Baby Girl. Kennedycakes. Sissy.

She’s stepping out. Going to university. In CALIFORNIA.


She’s doing it.

I’m not quit sure how I will survive.


Proud and sad at the same time. A cheerleader and a griever.

New England 09 050

You go, Baby Girl.

Grandma? Did you say Grandma??!

I recently signed up for the gym again. I’ve been going two or three times a week, and am just starting to feel a little more comfortable among the grunting, sweaty behemoths and the girls with the beautiful arms. Today I noticed a young 20-something man looking my way as I stretched some sore muscles. He approached, and I assumed he was going to tell me I was doing something incorrectly.

“Hi. Are you Jared’s grandma?” he asked.

indexAll I heard was GRANDMA.

While my confidence and ego began to quietly implode, I heard my voice say, “What?”

So he repeated himself. “Are you Jared’s grandma?”

I think I smiled one of those mouth smiles when your eyes don’t move. “No, no grand children yet.”

GRAND effing MA??

He went on. “Wow, her hair is just like yours. You look just like her!”

What is one supposed to say?

“Nope. Not yet.” More fakey smile.

He went back to his 4,000 bar bell, and I told myself this was no reason to go straight home to bed. It took some serious talk to do another 60 seconds of plank and  30 more crunches before heading to the bike.


I began to rationalize. The guy must’ve been mid-twenties… his friend Jared would’ve be about the same… born when I was 25, which meant I would have had Jared’s mom or dad when I was what…12?

The only explanation I could conceive was that, clearly, the young man was an idiot, and his mother hadn’t taught him, 1) Never ask a woman if she is pregnant, and 2) Never ask a woman who is younger than 80 if she’s someone’s grandmother.

I have decided I need to ensure my own boys are aware of such indiscretions, as I’d hate to make another 50 year old woman feel the way I did.

I will also be calling my hair stylist, first thing tomorrow morning.

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