My Dirty Little Secret

My office is very clean, at the moment. This is in direct response to the directive from my boss that all staff members must present a professional office space to visitors. There will be inspections on Monday.  Apparently there will be prizes for most improved, best Feng shui, even least improved. Gifts were not the incentive for me, if so I might have done nothing and been the obvious winner of the booby prize for "no change." I instead took this an opportunity to organize my environment and to prepare myself for a few messy months ahead. Heading in to the insanity of November and December with a clean desktop has to be a good thing.

I have to come clean and tell you that I am messy. To those of you who have moved assorted boxes just to sit across from me, this is not a surprise. I usually blame the clutter on my co-workers who leave anything and everything behind my office door. As the Visual Arts director and ad-hoc party planner, almost anything seems to fall into the "give it to Jill" category.  My work space is the last stop for everything from party supplies to holiday decorations; every morning offers a potential discovery of a new pile of "what do I do with that?" Little by little I let things accumulate until I am out of desk top, counter top, even the floor. I do have access to an art closet, but I recently relinquished half to another department and it is also home to various electrical supplies, so there is not an abundance of storage space available. It is also down the hall from my actual office (used to be right next door until I moved) and somehow those extra few steps prolong the amount of time something collects dust in my office vs. the storage shelves. All of this is really just a rationalization for the fact that I am more than a little organizationally challenged. I feel better and work better in a clutter free world, but I have trouble maintaining the management of the mess. Even now, as members walk by my newly sparkling space, opening even one desk drawer would expose my secret sloppy side. My colleagues are well aware that all my drawers are "junk drawers", just ask me for a pencil or a tape measure and you'll witness the chaos within. I dream about the day when a pull on the handle releases a desk tray with clearly identifiable supplies and files with visible color coded tabs, but it won't be this week. The edict was to clean what members’ see, not what they don't, can't change the rules now. My office is also one of the first you see when entering the executive wing, and the doorway that unfamiliar visitors stop to ask for directions, thus my impression is often the first impression. My door is almost never closed, without a window I feel like I'm locked in a closet when it is, and I am not one to shy away from random conversations with whoever walks by. It could be that the whole idea behind the center wide clean up could be just for me, but I've seen a few others that could use some work.

My office is unfortunately indicative of most of my other personal spaces. My closet is something that only a select few get to see, it is my dirty little secret. In my old house I blamed it on a shared space with Jeffrey that wasn't big enough for either of us, and he is no neatnik.  When we built the new house I reconfigured the original blue prints to accommodate my plan for a perfectly organized home for my clothes. Jeffrey got his own space, a fraction of mine, but he was happy to be free of my closet madness. It's probably the size of a small bedroom, no fancy wood built-ins, I'm not sure I'm deserving based on past performance. I vowed that when I kept it clean for a while I would reward myself with finer accoutrements. So far I'm still working with white wire shelving, haven't been able to justify the investment yet. Every month or so I dig in and it looks ok for a while, but one bad day of "can't decide what to wear" can lead to a slippery slope of piles and empty hangers. I have even started to infringe on the unclaimed closet space in the other bedrooms in an effort to manage the overload, but it doesn't seem to have an impact. I have trouble eliminating any excess. Perhaps I have an unnatural attachment to my clothing, but I can't seem to say goodbye to much. I have distinct memories of where I wore each dress, or where I bought every top, which outfits were "feel good" choices, and which ones looked good in pictures. They don't just live there for the flashbacks, I actually wear most of what hangs there, if not this year then next. I do get rid of obvious fashion no-no's (excessive pleats, too high waists, sizes that are way too small or way too big), but the rest is fair game for future use. I've been holding pretty steady at the same weight for a while now, so there are virtually no "when I lose 5 pounds" items and I made a conscious effort to toss the "fat" clothes when I decided I would not let myself need them again. I have tried every closet organizational method, but I can't pare down to the essentials; I will always need more than one pair of black pants. The rest of my house is generally in better shape, or at least what any guest would see. My closet is my own cross to bear, and unlike my office, only I have to suffer its consequences.

I am not a slob in my personal appearance, in fact I am pretty meticulous in that regard. I am not a messy eater; hate to have a dirty face or hands. I hide my messy underneath a fairly well kept exterior; most people would never suspect the disaster within.  I think that makes me a "closet" slob, both literally and figuratively. My parents were fastidious, both in our house and their personal appearance. I guess neatness must skip a generation, or two, judging by my boys housekeeping skills. I figure that in the realm of character flaws, messy is one I'm willing to live with, and to quote Albert Einstein, if a cluttered desk signs a cluttered mind, Of what, then, is an empty desk a sign? We all know my mind is not an empty place, so I vote for clutter.

Newer research even suggests a few piles here and there may be beneficial. Authors Eric Abrahamson and David H. Freedman's book, A Perfect Mess: The Hidden Benefits of Disorder - How Crammed Closets, Cluttered Offices, and on-the-Fly Planning Make the World a Better Place, illustrate through various case studies the useful role mess can play in business and personal lives. Abrahamson and Freedman demonstrate that the moderately messy use resources more efficiently and often yield better more creative solutions. I think I have reached the perfect compromise at work and at home: neat desk and messy drawers, tidy house and sloppy closet; my personal Ying and Yang of organization. I may in fact win the prize for "most improved" office, but the trophy won't stay on the shelf for long. Give it a few months and it will be lost amidst new piles and un-filed paperwork.

Can I Take Your Order?

Earlier this month I read the sad news that Friendly's was in bankruptcy and closing all their restaurants. I have to say, I was a little sad. Besides the fact that I don't know another place that serves a burger on toast, or has a butter crunch ice cream that got me through 3 pregnancies, it was also the home of my first waitressing job. It was not my finest fashion moment, blue and white polyester dress, tied with a bow at the back, and completed with a pair of white nursing shoes, but for some reason I didn't care. I ended each shift covered to my elbows in ice cream and nauseous from French fry eating (not from the customer’s plates, just the ones that "fell off" the customer’s plates). My friends didn't complain either when I handed "complimentary" cones and snacks out the takeout window. Did I just admit to low-level embezzlement? If so, I'm hoping the statute of limitations has run out on my petty theft.

I had part-time jobs all through high school and college. It was never a parental requirement; I just liked making my own money and the camaraderie that came with the territory. I did stints in the retail world as well, an inaugural employee when Loehmann's opened nearby, but waitressing was much more fun. As much as I love clothing, picking up someone else cast offs from the floor was not the best occupation for a girl whose own closet was littered with unhung garments. I also felt the need to give customers an honest opinion on potential purchases; they should have thanked me but apparently many were not ready to take fashion and fit advice from an 18 year old. The biggest problem with my retail career was that by the end of the week it was essentially a volunteer job, my paycheck went right back to the register, week after week. At least as a waitress it was nearly impossible to "eat" my pay.

In college I did a short run in a coffee shop beneath the dorm. I primarily served Bran muffins and Sanka freezes (think coffee milkshake) to BU girls on a high fiber, caffeine free diet. The tips weren't great and I moved on to a full service restaurant. The checks were bigger, but so were the hassles of food cooked improperly, rude customers and overly friendly bosses. This particular job taught me to not piss off the wait staff; bad things do happen in the kitchen, and to tip well. The server often pays the price for any screw up behind the scene, and in this place it was a nightly occurrence, so off I went. Next stop, the local college bar, Fathers Too. Every campus has a place just like it; this one was down a few stairs, dark and narrow, music courtesy of a jukebox upfront and filled over capacity most nights. I sold mostly pitchers and long island ice teas and rarely took a credit card. The money was good; college kids get progressively more generous and forgetful with each round served. Boys try and impress with big tips until an unhappy girlfriend pipes in, and girls, well, I wasn't counting on them for a big payday. It was fun and easy, no menus, no food, no cranky kitchen staff and the bartenders were like a row of big brothers watching over me from behind the counter. There was one in particular that I watched back; the best part of every shift. At the end of the night, when the last of the “stumblers” made it out the door, the staff would grab a stool and finish the night with a round or two. I know my parents were never very happy that this was my chosen place of employment, but I don't think they ever asked me to quit, and I don't think I would have anyway.  It ended with graduation, never waitressed anywhere after that, but for a long time I missed the easy pattern that came with long nights at the bar and the sleepy days that followed.

Waitressing, in theory, requires all of the same character traits that I continue to use professionally, even now. You have to be friendly and able to make conversation with anyone and everyone, to think on your feet, to react quickly, to occasionally be thick-skinned, to sell more than a person intended to buy, to be kind and respectful to the people who support you behind the scenes, and to make sure that each and every customer interaction ensures repeat business. For the ten years I sold residential real estate, those were skills I used every day and in my current position in the non-profit world, customer satisfaction is essential for survival. All in all, I would say all those years carrying a tray was time well spent. 

I'm not sure when Friendly's will close its final door in my town, but I'll be sure and have one last visit before they do. I can't say I’ll miss it all that much, haven't been there in years, just feels like the end of an era. I’ll have a burger on toast, fries, and a Fribble, and say good-bye with a butter crunch hot fudge sundae. Maybe if I'm nice they'll let me scoop a cone or two for old time’s sake; I wonder if my right arm still has the skill? The waitress will not be wearing blue and white polyester, they got cooler uniforms after I left, but she will probably have ice cream stuck to her arm and smell like French fries, and I will make sure and leave her a big tip.

Save The Date

I am in an excellent mood today. I have slept soundly the last two nights; which I could attribute to how tired I was from the days prior or to the fact that my thoughts are once again making it from my brain to the page. Either way, the end result is a better rested and happier Jill. In actuality it has been a pretty good week overall, other than the few sleepy days in the middle. I had a great time in New York (Tevya crowd this time, sorry BU girls), I saw two old friends, got the VIP tour (from my VIP friend) at ABC and hung out backstage at The Chew. I met Clinton Kelly (What Not to Wear) again, who actually remembered meeting me before (not sure I believe him, but felt good anyway). I talked for a few minutes each with Mario Batali and Michael Symon, both warm and friendly. I tasted the Lobster Thermador they made on the show, delicious even at 10 am. I literally bumped into the second friend on the street (we had plans to meet, but hadn't picked a time or place, so this was totally random). We had the best and longest coffee date I've had in a long time and caught up on the last decade or so. Other than not being able to fall asleep, I enjoyed the quiet, alone time in my mom's NY apartment (nice to have a hideaway sometimes). I had quality phone time with an old friend and a cousin I've been meaning to connect with and an easy, rain-free drive home late Thursday. I didn't leave the house until 4:30 on Friday when I picked up Scott at the airport. Jeffrey was working a night game so dinner was delivery for me and Andrew. A last minute plan for a late evening drink with friends was just what I needed to start the weekend. An ice cold beer, no makeup, no pretense; just good conversation and a few laughs.

Today was another easy one; coffee, the paper and laundry filled the morning. I think there may have been a 5-minute period where there was actually no dirty laundry in my house. Jeffrey left midday to Ref a game and I ventured out to do a few things. On that drive I spent time reflecting on the past few days and that's when the happy wave washed over me. My disposition was further lifted with the accompanying sound of Andrea Bocelli serenading me with "Canto Della Terra" (I have no idea what he is saying, but I am sure he is singing directly to me) which was immediately followed by Cheryl Lynn's disco hit, "Got to be Real". If you were driving anywhere near me you would have (a) cursed me out for having the volume so high, car shaking ghetto loud and (b) made fun of me for both singing along to an Italian aria and dancing while driving (probably not a good idea to use the brake or gas pedals to keep the beat). Besides the obvious concern, that the person who chooses these two consecutive songs must be a bit schizophrenic. Judge if you want to, but my soul was smiling.

Next stop on the happiness tour, Pinkberry lunch, and the joy continues. After which, I decide, why not share the love and surprise Jeffrey at his game. I take a nice drive out to the "country" (only a few miles away, but looks and feels further) and show up for the last quarter. The smile on his face when he spots me confirms that I have succeeded in making it a great day for the referee too. Currently, I am minutes away from a sushi dinner with the four of us, which will close out this picture perfect Saturday. A day full of nothing, and everything.

At some point during my travels a thought occurred to me. I have no idea why, but I started to think about how I wanted to celebrate 50, when I get there. From the beginning I told Jeffrey I only wanted to be with the kids, maybe a family trip. I definitely didn't need or want jewelry or presents; I have enough stuff.  I want something I can hold in my heart, not around my neck or on my finger (not that I am opposed to any of those things, just not what I want at this point in my life).  And then today, out of nowhere, I figured it out. I want to throw a party, for myself. I have hosted 3 big Bar-Mitzvahs, planned large-scale events for work, a few parties for assorted friends and family, but never a night just for me. This whole concept surprised me, threw Jeffrey for a loop too, it is completely outside my comfort zone. As much as I like to be the center of attention, after all I am the girl who has invited all of you to share every moment of the 365 days until I turn 50, I am not a person who has ever thought about throwing a party that is all about me. This event, as I envision it, is all about you. With every post and every story I tell, you meet the people who fill my life. The thought of bringing all my people together for one night, in one place, is the way I want to mark my passage to 50. As it happens the big day is a Monday, and no one wants to party on a Monday. So, mark the calendar for Saturday, August 11th - time and place to be determined (but I'm thinking NYC). If you're reading, you're invited, but the details will come to you more personally in the months ahead. I figure if I start to celebrate on Saturday night, I could easily (with a few naps in between) celebrate right until I really hit 50 on Monday. In my fantasy world, there could be a flight to Vegas involved if you're interested. By August I will be finished with 2 out of 3 tuitions and we get a year off before Andrew, so it's my turn to have some fun and I want you there.  I'm committed to making this happen, so Save the Date, I intend to make 50 unforgettable.

It's now 9:57 and the bliss is still holding; excellent dinner, ice cream in bed and no second thoughts about the big event. I'm hoping for another night of peaceful slumber (if I can manage not to dwell on party details all night) and a Sunday as simple and satisfying as today.

What's the Problem with Balls?

Two things struck me in the news today; more than likely completely unrelated, but time will tell. First off, radio evangelist Harold Camping who wrongly predicted doomsday back in May, thinks the real end of the world could be today. Secondly, the much anticipated new Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavor, Schweddy Balls, is causing uproar in the supermarket world. Is it even remotely possible that fudge covered rum balls buried deep in Vanilla ice cream could lead to the end of the world? At least for now we appear to be safe, the doomsday moment has once again come and gone. As long as we are all still here, I’m going to go back to the “Balls.” Seems the Mississippi based One Million Moms (OMM) group is putting the pressure on supermarket chains not to carry the elicit flavor, even asking consumers to write to Ben and Jerry and ask them to stop production. The Moms feel the product name is “nothing but locker room humor that's not appropriate for young children.” I needed to know why the “One Million Moms” found this to be a worthy cause for concern, so I did a little research.

One Million Moms, is a ministry of the American Family Association, and are working hard to rid the world of numerous “threats” to America’s youth other than offensive ice cream flavors. Another recent target of OMM was Dancing with the Stars, the ABC Network and all product sponsors. What was the problem you might ask? The Dance competition “had the audacity” to air a definition of "transgendered” while showing a childhood picture of Chas Bono. Even the child friendly Sesame Street has not escaped the watchful eye of the Mississippi Moms. They recently urged their members to “Sign a petition to the Public Broadcast Service encouraging them to keep Bert and Ernie's relationship as it has been since 1969 (I’m assuming they mean in the closet). "The characters should remain just friends, and PBS should not even consider a gay wedding on Sesame Street or adding a transgender character to the show.” And Ben and Jerry aren’t the only ones having their “Balls” attacked; OMM is also taking aim at Unilever, the makers of AXE body spray for their ad campaign. The AXE commercial has two females discussing how men clean their balls. One replies that they can have more fun with clean balls. “The commercial is aimed at cleaning sports balls, but s*xual innuendo is obvious," states OMM, the anti-ball organization. They go on to complain that the entire advertisement “alludes to men's g*nitalia while the females have smirks on their faces and handle and play with sports balls. One female asks the other, "Go ahead and play with these clean balls." The other responds with, "I could play with these balls all day.” The best part is that with each “issue” the OMM include a direct link to the offensive material and often describes in graphic detail the content which disgusts them. I would even go out on a limb and say that their website may in fact be dangerous for young children. I could literally go on and on with this, but I will assume that you can Google it on your own and peruse their top 26 issues.

I should move on before the Moms decide to find me and boycott my Journey,although I am pretty sure they would have numerous other reasons not to “follow” me. I’d rather talk about the “Balls” anyway. Ben & Jerry’s newest flavor references a 1998 Saturday Night Live skit featuring Alec Baldwin as baker Pete Schweddy, who promises, "No one can resist my Schweddy Balls." Alec’s character is being interviewed in a spoof of NPR radio show “Delicious Dish” about holiday treats. Baldwin arrives with his specialty Rum Balls for the hosts to sample. The entire 5-minute parody is full of ball humor; not only are they “Schweddy”, they are also misshapen and they smell good. If I remember correctly there was a similar skit dedicated to muffins with Betty White, which the female hosts discuss in great deal their desire to eat muffins, how great they taste and their aversion to dry or yeasty muffins. I don’t recall a similar public outcry against muffin production; maybe that one slipped by the ladies from Mississippi? (Shoot, did I go back to them again). As long as I’m here, I hope that none of the southern Belles has a husband named “Dick” or he’s got some explaining to do. I also would like to know if it’s just “balls” that they have a problem with or if “salty nuts” and “cocktails” are also off their menu. I can safely assume that their children are never allowed to order the chicken “breast” at a restaurant and that the roosters on their farms have been trained to start the day with a simple “...A Doodle Do.”

I am going to be as open-minded as I can at the moment and accept that people are entitled to their own opinions and are free to fight for the causes that they believe in. But, you knew there was one coming, I have to believe that even the narrowest minds have something better to be focused on than the name of an ice cream. If anyone is overly concerned that "Shweddy Balls”" or apparently any ball related euphemism is going to corrupt young children, than they should take it upon themselves to safeguard their boys and girls against balls of any kind and let the rest of us enjoy any flavor we want. It’s a free country and some nights I might want "Chubby Hubby" and others "Karamel Sutra", if it’s been a particularly bad day I might head right for the "What a Cluster". This is just the kind of ridiculousness that, combined with a few drinks, could provide an entire evening of laughter. After which I would go in search of a progressive grocer who would be bold and brave enough to sell me some ice-cold "Schweddy Balls" to take back home to my bed.

Back on Track

I'm back. Which naturally leads to the question of where have I been? My best possible explanation is everywhere and nowhere. I am at the end of two short work weeks; which should have provided plenty of time to get my thoughts on paper, but the extra hours left me with too much time to think. Scatterbrained is not an adjective that I would generally use to describe myself, just the opposite would be more likely, and yet in the last two weeks I have lost my car keys twice, lost the claim ticket for a New York City garage, misplaced clothing in my own house, said goodbye to all the photos on my iPhone after I forgot to back up, and on more than one of those occasions, thought I was losing my mind. Each of the last few days when I attempted to write I could not find my way to a clear thought and abandoned the process. Tonight I am going to push through, because maybe it’s what I need to do to get out of this cycle. I am committed to reigning in the chaos in my head, so bear with me while I attempt to sort it out.

I am a planner, not in the organized, detailed, checklist way, it's more about controlling a situation or an outcome. A person like me, who is so busy over thinking everything, has what-if scenarios for almost everything in my life. Not just the big stuff, even day to day activities can play out a thousand different ways in my brain. I run through conversations I haven't had yet, I deal with issues and obstacles that have yet to occur and play out full-scale outcomes for each of them. Some people might find this to be a useful personality trait, but lately I'm finding that I'm so busy anticipating what could happen, that I am preventing life from unfolding on its own. On the small scale, like a blog post, I have always started with an idea and let my words take me where they naturally want to go. Most days I mentally write the opener, sometimes the title will help me define my direction, but I leave the bulk of the word count to happen organically. This week, I wrestled with every word; what story am I trying to tell, what am I trying to say, where do I want to end? I was so focused on the finish line that I could not get out of the starting gate. In the bigger picture, as I encounter new opportunities and challenges I am paralyzed by the all-consuming need to imagine how they will play out and where they will leave me on the other side. Until now, I felt that if I covered all the bases I could control the desired outcome or at least be prepared for the undesired ones. I envision the end result, I work through the road blocks, and I give myself the best chance to get what I want. Or so I thought; my plan is apparently not the only one and I'm seeing that more and more these days. I cannot control or predict all the variables, and I have to stop trying to.

The funny thing is that, at the moment, nothing in my life is terribly off kilter. Life, in the grand scheme of things, is pretty good. With no major dilemmas to dwell on, that leaves the field wide open to contemplate just about anything. I think I was on the right track back in the beginning when I said that blogging was helping me sleep because it gave me an outlet for the stuff that kept me up at night. Somehow I've returned to sleepless nights, unable to turn off the valve when it's time to rest. It’s as if this blog has opened Pandora’s Box and I can't get the unwanted thoughts back to a safe place. This week in particular, probably because I had excess down time, I was so caught up in contemplation that I barely slept. My days were spent in a hazy focus, which would probably account for the aforementioned “scattered” brain activity. Some nights I jump from thought to thought, others I focus so intently on a single thing that I force myself to stay awake to reach a conclusion. There are nights I have fought the urge to wake up and write, just to stay in my bed and attempt to commit my words to memory so that I can transcribe them in the morning. This method never works out the way I planned, my mental shorthand is apparently pretty inaccurate. I have never been the type of person who skips ahead in a book to see what happens, the joy of reading is getting lost in the story and letting the ending unfold naturally. And yet when it comes to the book of my life, I can't stop thinking about what's in store in the chapters to come. Life has certainly given me plenty of examples to prove that you can't always plan for the future and just as many to illustrate that the happiest moments are usually the ones that show up completely unexpected or anticipated. Even when facing a real live problem, hours of evaluation never guarantees a clear solution, sometimes there just isn't an answer. Other times the answer is obvious,but unwanted, and the extra time is spent inventing more favorable options that rarely exist.

I need to start to accept the peace that can come with the unplanned. If I have no expectation of the outcome, maybe the highs will be more exciting and the lows less disappointing. Life can't always be tied up in a neat little package that I wrap up in a sleepless night or a well thought out dream. So I am going to try and let go a little and enjoy the unplanned or at least attempt to take things one day at a time instead of mapping out an itinerary for the foreseeable future. The best parts of even the last few months were not in any game plan I had prepared. Somehow I got off track this week, my mind running in a million directions, none of them heading anywhere. I want to get back to the place where this blog gave me an outlet to say whatever was on my mind. Here's hoping that I've turned the corner; one day, one thought. No need to turn over every stone every day, some days its best to just deal with the pebbles.

In the Middle of the Night...

Andrew didn't feel well last night. At 5 AM we woke up and heard him throwing up in his bathroom; stomach bug, not alcohol. We both got up and went to see if he was OK, Jeffrey moved a little quicker than I did, vomit is not really my thing. Why didn't he wake us up for help if he was sick? When did he get so grown up? Jeffrey did the up-close assistance, as he always has in this case, I handle the aftercare. A bit later I took him back to his bed, put a wet washcloth on his forehead (my mom always did it for me and it still feels good when I'm sick), turned off the lights and sat on the edge of his bed. For the first time in a very long time, I sat there and rubbed his arm and he didn't push me away or tell me to stop. It could also be that he was falling back to sleep, but I'm going to stick with the thought that he needed a little mothering. I asked him if he wanted to come and sleep with us, I already knew the answer, but I thought I'd give it a try. As I walked back down the hall to my bed, without him, I realized that those days are now just memories of a long gone era.

Obviously, I know that this is supposed to happen, it would be odd to have my 6 ft.tall 16-year-old son get in bed between us, but I'm still sad that it's over. Funny how time changes our perspective on things; for so many years I wished that I could get a good night’s sleep without a child crawling in and keeping us up half the night.  I was always a softie when it came to bedtime and middle-of-the-night wake-ups. Partially because I was usually too exhausted to care; easier to let them fall asleep in here and move them to their room later, and also because I loved feeling the warmth of their bodies next to mine and listening to the easy rhythm of their breathing. When they were really little I would sneak my hand under the pillow and hold on to one of their little fingers for as long as they would let me. I'm sure I complained plenty the next day and I know Jeffrey and I spent too much time arguing about it, but sooner or later each boy spent less and less time between us. I guess now that I think about it, it's been at least a few years since Andrew has slept in the middle, but until last night I had forgotten how much I missed it.

All three boys had their share of sleep challenged years, some definitely more than others, but the specifics will stay locked in the mother vault.  Sometimes stomach aches and sometime bad dreams mixed in with the basic "I can't sleep." Whatever the reason, moments after taking a pillow in the center, they would sleep peacefully until morning (or until one of us couldn't sleep and would gently carry them back to their bed). I'm so grateful that I traded all those nights for the sweet memories bringing a smile to my face tonight. How is it that even though that phase ended so long ago, it wasn't until last night that I was struck with the reality that they didn't need "middle-of-the-night mommy" anymore.

I wonder if my Mom felt the same way when I stopped crying out her name in the middle of the night and crawling in between my parents after a bad dream or a stomach ache. I remember every second of my routine, I'd wake up scared, too scared to even get out of bed and walk down the hall to their room. I had a sing-song cry of "mommy, daddy" that I'd repeat over and over until someone came to get me. Usually they'd offer a glass of water or rub my back as an incentive to see if I'd stay in my own bed, but I was not easily convinced, there was only one place I wanted to be. Just like my boys, I fell happily back to sleep between the warm bodies of my parents. I'm sure it stopped on its own eventually, or more than likely when I got my own phone line and would stay up late and talk under the covers. But, even as a grown up I've spent a few nights sleeping happily next to my mother, that must be a girl thing. 

I don't know what it is about that feeling, but it is without a doubt what I miss most now that the boys are all grown.  In my bed or in my arms, the synchronicity of our breathing and the feeling of their skin touching mine; it was intoxicating and I was addicted. I let countless loads of laundry go undone and too many dishes in the sink, just to steal a few minutes lying next to them. If I had known how quickly it would all be gone, I would have done it even more. When I listen to the tired young moms still in the middle of the "middle-of-the-night years" I always try and console them with the knowledge that this too will pass. Now, as the experienced mom imparting the wisdom of time, I tell the sleepy parents that sooner than you think that screaming toddler will put themselves to sleep and stay that way long after you do. Not sure I would have believed me either when every night is a struggle of getting them to sleep and staying that way; back then the light at the end of that tunnel seemed far, far away.

Tonight, around 11 or so, Andrew will walk down the hall and kiss us goodnight; thankfully that still happens with all 3. He doesn't need me to take him to bed, or tuck him in, or turn off the light. He'll set his own alarm and we will meet again at the island at 6:45 am before he leaves for school. I guess that means I did what I was supposed to do; he's an independent, young man who doesn't need his mommy as much as he used to. Unfortunately, she wasn't quite ready to give up that role.
 

No Greater Love ... or Loss

This is going to be a hard one, could actually be the reason I've been unable to write the last few days, too consumed with what I had to tell you today. For those of you who don't know, Jeffrey is an identical twin, I say that in the present tense, even though for the last 7 years he has lived without his biological other half. Jeffrey and Howard, Beffie and Bowie, Zip and Zap, The Boys, The Twins; for 44 years he was a twosome, a shared identity and a shared life. On October 15, 2004, cancer took Howard away from Jeffrey, and left him what is often called a "twinless twin." The way I've come to see it, Howard now exists within Jeffrey, instead of beside him. 

Like any great loss, there are days when it seems unfathomable that 7 years have passed; the details as fresh and sharp as if it were yesterday and other times when it feels like it’s been a lifetime since I heard their laughter in stereo (if you knew them, you know exactly what I mean). If you ever need a reason not take a single day for granted, this would be a good story to hold with you. November 15, 2003, my son David's Bar Mitzvah, perfect in every way, except for the cough. Howard had a cough, a little one, almost a tickle, but it had been lingering. He had a doctor’s visit scheduled, but no one was overly concerned. Fast forward through a few weeks of tests and scans and hospitals and Howard was diagnosed with Kidney Cancer. In December he had surgery to remove the kidney and learned that it had already spread to his lungs. Everyone was hopeful, he was a 43-year-old healthy male, and he would be a survivor. What we soon learned was that kidney cancer does not generally respond to chemotherapy and because of the metastasis he was not a viable candidate for possible new treatment studies. He fought back and found new doctors and new drugs and gave it everything he had until he decided that it couldn't have him. If it wasn't helping (and it wasn't), Howard refused to let the cancer take the last few months he would have with his family. Jeffrey struggled knowing that Howard would be leaving him soon; I think those were the worst months of all. At least while he was getting treatment there was hope, but then there was just counting, the days or months they had left. I can't tell you how often they were together, other than those months were about his brother and I took care of things at home. Jeffrey took whatever time he needed with Howard and we did our best to comfort him when he was here.  If I lost him for a little while it was OK, sadly I knew it was only short term. For me and the boys the hardest part was not only witnessing Jeffrey's unbearable sadness, but also watching Howard, his mirror image, start to look less and less like his twin. As it was written in a college essay a few years later, this was a preview for a movie you never want to see. 

They went fishing, something they both loved and didn't do often enough. Jeffrey chartered a boat and they spent a day on Long Island Sound laughing and crying and talking. I have no idea if they caught any fish. I also have no idea what they talked about; I knew that when I married a twin there were parts of my husband that would always belong only to his brother. I do know that they picked a secret word that would be the "code" if Howard ever "visited" him from the other side, and no, he hasn't and never will share it with me (not that I would ask either). I also know that Howard gave Jeffrey the eulogy he had written for himself and asked Jeffrey to read it when the time came. Jeffrey held that sealed envelope in a lockbox in his closet, never once thought about looking inside; those were words he did not want to read one second sooner than he had to. 

When that day came, just 11 months from the "cough" to the "coffin" - before you think, "Jill, that's awful," I will tell you that (a) Jeffrey heard it first and laughed, and (b) dark humor got us through a lot of this. If you can manage to laugh through the worst of what life throws at you, it leaves less time and space for the tears. And as long as I am looking at the "lighter side”, imagine arriving for a funeral and not knowing that the deceased had an identical twin (the accompanying photo shows you how much so), pretty unnerving for a few people when Jeffrey took his place to read Howard's words. You may be wondering how he managed to read his brothers goodbye, and I will tell you he had two secrets. The first one was a safety pin in his hand that used throughout to lightly stab his other hand in an attempt to feel a different kind of pain and the second, he chose this day to lay to rest their lifelong "brotherly" competition of which twin had the bigger ...., for once Howard couldn't answer back and yes, Jeffrey really ad-libbed that at the funeral. Humor was his protective armor to defend against the worst of the hurt. 

In the years since, Jeffrey continues to laugh and cry whenever we talk about Howard. Birthdays are the hardest, they spent them all together. I am always careful to not "celebrate" the day when he misses him most, they are bittersweet at best. Remarkably the loss of his shared soul, did not leave Jeffrey missing anything, it may have even made him stronger. In his words, "I'm living life for him too”, and he continues to live it to the fullest for the both of them. He tries to be there for Howard's children whenever possible, but worries it may be hard for them to see a face that is so much like the one they are missing. I would never share any part of their story, but I do want to say that my niece and nephew, barely teenagers when they lost their father, are happy and thriving.  Their mother, courageous and brave and stronger than she thought, continued the life and family they had spent twenty years building. Those children, now young adults, are the result of two parents who gave them love and life and support, both still there, guiding them along in one way or another.

I'm going to back-up a bit and tell you that I grew up with "the twins", (friends of my older brother) no romance then, I was the "little sister." It was after college, Howard got married first, then Jeffrey and I tied the knot, and then we became a foursome. I can't explain what it was like when we were together, but obviously I loved Howard for many of the same reasons I loved my own husband and the same held true for each of us. We were four people bound together through life and genetics. Our kids were the same way, they marveled in the uniqueness of their shared fathers. We always wondered if they could tell them apart when they were babies, it was hard for most adults. I had a pretty good handle on who was who, except if they were walking in front of me, but face to face there was never a question.  We had our moments of family conflict, but they always ended with group hugs, until the one that didn't.

In December of 2000, my father-in-law passed away and the Jewish tradition of Shiva was at our home. This usually one-week long period is a time for mourners to visit with friends and family. It is comforting and stressful all at the same time. Anyway, Howard and his family were obviously here (their home was a few hours away), sleeping at my mother-in-laws house. The kids slept here, so we had 5 kids under 12 and no less than 100 visitors every day, in and out, all day long. This followed a difficult few months while he was sick and we all know that the family who lives closest carries the daily burden (we also get the daily benefits). Good or bad, it's just the way it is. I hope I've properly illustrated my potential stress level, because this is when I made a very costly mistake. It is the single biggest regret of my life thus far; an off-handed (bitchy) comment to Howard and my sister-in-law about the "balance" of family responsibility. It set off a verbal showdown between Howard and Jeffrey, and ended with them packing up and leaving. Eventually we made peace, but something changed that day. By the time cancer entered the picture we were back to a better place, but I have always felt that my words took parts of those last years away from Jeffrey and Howard. We have talked about it countless times, obviously today, and I know Jeffrey doesn't blame me; this is a burden I put on myself. In a way I'm glad it still hurts, it reminds me every day to think before reacting. Words that flow so easily out of our mouths in times of anger are the most dangerous and unfortunately, the ones that stick. There was certainly know way to know that this silly fight would take away so much, and that is exactly the point. I've learned that what I say can hurt me and others long after the words have been spoken. If only I had learned that lesson a bit earlier, today would be a tiny bit less sad.

For Jeffrey, today is no different than any other day. He cried when I read him this blog, but for him every day is a day without his brother, makes no real difference that this is the day he died. For me, this was a chance to share a painful story and a painful lesson and to make a silent wish, like I've done every morning for the last 7 years, to keep the other twin healthy. I have witnessed the other side in high definition, and haven't taken a single moment for granted since.