What Could Have Been?

Some days are just harder than others to get up and get moving. Today, I am trying to push myself through the sadness and the despair I feel for my brother Mark who died four years ago today. His absence makes me feel the sting of all that I have lost in my life. I can’t seem to escape the self-pity that is currently hidden behind the empty rooms of my house as my husband goes off to work and my children are tucked safely away at school. I have been trying to pull myself together for hours this morning and still, I can't seem to make it out of the house as I watch the flicker of the Yartzhiet upon my windowsill.

Mark, Stacy & Brad (1970s)

 When I think of my brother Mark, I think of a man who never had a chance in life. Born to a mother of 20 and a father preoccupied with his own selfish fantasies that spanned his whole miserable life, my brother was left behind. Someone should have seen the good in him and helped him to live up to his potential. I don’t think anyone ever told him that he mattered, that he could do whatever he wanted in life. Though I know he felt the love of our dysfunctional family, his life was empty and sadly never fulfilled.

At 45, he was too young to die. He never got to start a family or see the world. He never had a job that paid more than minimum wage. He never got to build that dream home with his own hands or have another 1960 mustang sitting in his driveway.

Now, as I look at my own life, I think, how can I leave an indelible imprint in this world? How do I show my children that no matter how long you live, you must strive to make a difference in this world, make it better, make it a place that brings happiness to the ones you love and the ones that need your love.

I see the hope of tomorrow in eyes of my children. Looking back at how they are growing, I can’t help but stop and think once, my brother too was a hopeful, playful little boy who deserved a chance in life and sadly what became of him was just not what a mother wishes for her child. As a living testament to what was very good in my brother, I will keep his memory close to my heart, share it with my children who will learn from me and all that I am because of my sweet, loving, strong brother Marky.

Conquering Asthma!

Since the time my son Henry could turn over, he was cursed with the genetic dysfunction of asthma. He simply didn’t have full use of his lungs like we do. He was diagnosed with asthma by the time he was two. Before Henry was four years old, we had already had 18 hospital visits for sickness, exercise, smoke or cold weather induced asthma attacks.

Henry started preventative medications for his condition by the time he was four which included a daily nebulizer treatment of 1mg Pulmicort, a 4mg tablet of Singular and one dose of Nasonex per day. And for the most part, the medication limited his hospital visits to once or twice a year until he was seven…with an occasional Albuterol treatment here and there when he did have an attack. For these reasons and the fact that Henry has never been the competitive sort, I kept him out of organized sports…until yesterday.

Now that Henry is eight and has been six months free of all asthma medications, his doctor told Henry, “I think it’s time for you to join a team.” My immediate internal reaction was to scream “NO!” because of all the times I watched Henry struggle to breathe. But I had to remind myself that he was doing great and that he just might be ready to conquer his asthma and a team sport.

So we signed him up in the same league as his brother and sister, Keith Van Eron, and I told his new coach, Ziggy, that this was Henry’s first experience in a team sport and that he was asthmatic. The coach replied, “No worries, I have asthma too, I will take care of him.” And with that, Henry went off to play a full hour of outdoor soccer.

My reaction…tears…lots of them. I was so relieved. So proud of my boy. So happy to see him enjoy himself without fear of the repercussions. Of course, Henry wasn’t the fastest or most talented kid on the field, but he was ON THE FIELD dancing about and having a great time while learning how to support other children and make new friends.

Sigh…time can heal all wounds…physical and psychological. It’s a miracle…but then again, Henry has always been my miracle baby. Love you boy!

Toothy Grins & Baby Hands

I wake up almost every morning with a half naked five and half year old little boy wedged between my husband and me. This has been an ongoing ritual since my little redheaded, bright eyed, Stanley could walk out of his bedroom. It all starts with a kiss and a snuggle good night in his own bed and by 2am, we have our third partner. Now, I know I am probably going against all psychology manuals of parenting, but it feels right. Stanley is my last, my littlest, my baby…and if he still wants to snuggle with mom and dad, I am going to let him.

Most mornings after I turn over and see Stanny’s porcelain white skin and peaceful slumber, he wakes to tell me, “It’s time for my chocolate milk mommy.” And after three or four last kisses and squeezes…Stanny turns over to kiss a sleeping daddy, just one kiss…informs dad to get up and turn around so Stan can hitch a ride on his back into the living room for Stanny’s morning latte. Relaxed and appreciative, I watch my husband shuffle away with one of the three loves of my life on his back on the way to his morning routine…bare feet, tiny pajamas and hugging his daddy. It’s a sight I look forward to witnessing like a happy Ground Hog’s moment to be replayed and replayed as long as Stanley desires it.

These moments and one’s like these are what makes the ages of 5, 6 and 8 the best ages of all time. All three of my kids have almost all their baby teeth, even my second grader still has a baby face smile that makes me want to keep him this way forever. Their hands are a constant reminder of how young and precious they all are…even when they are doing grown up things like homework and dressing themselves. There are some things that just can’t hurry time.

Though my responsibilities as a dutiful mom are diminishing because of my children’s own increasing independence, I find myself savoring the small things that keep them my babies. A snuggle in bed, a kiss on their tender hands or an angelic smile with all the promise of today. I love, love, love this age. I wish I could bottle it up and from time to time as I grow old and gray, take it out and relive these moments again and again.