I don’t say it much, but I frequently feel like I’m failing- as a person, as a friend, as a mom, you name it. I feel like I’m flailing my way through life trying to be the best I can be, but the little voice in my head says it’s just not enough. We all have that voice to some extent. Sometimes I feel like I’m failing as all of them at once.

Before I sink too deep in that feeling where I almost can’t breathe, life throws me a line. Last night, before her bath, eldest was (and someday she’ll find out I documented this and probably smack me, but it was such a beautiful moment that I’ll gladly take the hit) dancing in front of the mirror. Wiggling her booty, checking out all her bits and parts while singing “naked baby, naked baby” like they both did frequently during bath time when they were wee little ones. It wasn’t some inappropriate dance of an older woman. It wasn’t the self conscious dance of a tween. It was just pure childlike joy of being naked, alive, and free. I totally cried. She didn’t see me, but I did. I worry so much about them growing too fast or having their own voices in their heads filled with doubt.

Dear Sweet, Wonderful Child of Mine,

Love of my life, light of my heart, pain in my tush- I truly love how much you love Doctor Who. I love that you feel compelled to fervently reply when someone posts a hypothesis that Rory was the Master online. Your retort was well thought out and articulate.

Just two tiny things- 1. the internet allows anyone, and I do mean anyone, to write whatever drivel they want about anything, and I do mean anything. Engaging in arguments online is rarely a good idea.

2. If you ever wake me up at the 7am on a Sunday when I’ve been sick and exhausted all week to read me the aforementioned hypothesis and your retort again, I swear on all that is holy, sacred, and Gallifreyan that you will wake up one morning to a giant angel statue at the foot of your bed. You won’t know when, you won’t know how. It will just happen.

And I will not feel sorry.

Love you the mostestest,

Mommy

I remember flying down the isle to see Return of the Jedi. I remember rocking Leia buns on the daily and playing Star Wars all the time. If you would have told little me that one day I would text my dad the trailer for a new Star Wars – a REAL new Star Wars that would make me feel like I was running down that isle in anticipation of Return of the Jedi starting again, I would never have believed you.

But, I so just did.

A Wookiee will forever be my co-pilot and I will always be a Rebel Girl. And now my two favorites are coming home. ‪#‎happyrebelgirl‬

And so are we.

Saturday, May 05, 2007

The beauty of a name
Current mood: content
Category: Life

Growing up in a suburb like mine, having the name Natali was kinda rough. I was pretty much the only person with the name and the only real “famous” Natali’ that anyone would have heard of at the time was the chick from the Facts of Life. I HATED the fact that she had my name. Most of my generation watched that show and she was so frickin’ annoying. Blech. So, I really disliked my name. It grew on me as I got older, when I got to that age where being different didn’t suck quite so bad. Then, I got to the point where I liked it. It was during the time where I guess I finally just started feeling comfortable in my own skin really.

Like, dislike, indifference, all the phases I went through with it, never once did I think it was beautiful until I was 22. Living in California for a while at that point, I had finally gotten used to hearing other people being called Natalie. It took a while for me to stop saying “what?” every time I heard it. It’s commonplace settled in though. I was running a group home for autistic children at the time. My little guys were all amazing and I loved every one of them. One, in particular, was a challenge to me. Ryan didn’t speak at all, except his own name on rare occasion and singing “bah bah black sheep” to his toy radio. There had to be some way to get through to him and I worked my ass off on trying to find it.

After several months of being there, I noticed he used to like to watch whomever was in the kitchen cooking. So, I hunted down a cooking class for those with special needs and started taking him. The third class, the case manager for the company decided to come with me and Ryan. I am so glad she did. We had gotten to class earlier than usual and we walked Ryan to the bathroom. We sat there talking by the sink while we were waiting for him. Not but 10 seconds before he came out of the stall, I heard “Natali.” I just sat there agog, staring at the CM, hoping she had heard it too. “Did he just say your name?” Ryan came out of the stall, looked at her and me and said “Yes, Natali.” I cried. Yup, that’s right. I stood there in the bathroom, watching him wash his hands with tears just rolling down my face. It was the only time I would ever hear him say it, but it didn’t matter. I knew at that time that I had gotten through. Hearing his voice speak it, my name sounded beautiful.

Flash forward to present time and my name spawns a story that sums up the residents at the facility I run now. They are all amazing in their own way as well and I love the hell out of them too. While most of them call me Natali, there are three that have their own name for me. Robert calls me Natasha, Michael calls me “Antanette” (yes pronounced like that) and Will calls me Nadia.

About three weeks after I started the job, I was in my office one morning while Michael came running up. “Antanette, Antanette, I didn’t get my hug yet this morning.” The next thing I know Robert is standing there “Michael, you’re nuts, her name is Natasha.” Then Will “You’re both stupid, her name is Nadia.” A heated argument ensued. I attempted to diffuse it by saying “Actually guys, my name is Natali.” Will turned at me and yelled “Shut up, Linda!”

And Robert still calls me Natasha, Michael still calls me Antanette and Will still calls me Nadia. As for Linda, I’m still trying to figure out who she is.

As a single mom, there are many big questions I get asked that I have to answer on my own. I tried to co-parent those answers with their father, but well that’s a whole other story. Some I have successfully dodged, some I have not.

Today Eldest turned nine. Nine going on ninety, which is what you get when you have girls who are old souls with huge, active minds. One of the most amazing things to me as I have watched them grow is, even when they were in my belly, I could feel their personalities. So different, yet so similar. Proud, strong, loving, inquisitive.

And little forces to be reckoned with.

They tackled me last summer and made me tell them about sex. Eldest, my Spock of sorts, always pulls out the logic that I can’t refute. Even at 7 (almost 8). She said “Mom, you’ve avoided it long enough and kids are starting to talk. Would you rather we learn from you, or from them? Some of them aren’t so smart.”

Today they asked me what religion we are. So I thought about it and I talked it out with them.

Neither one of the girls are baptized, which is something that bothers my parents. I was raised Catholic, but the Catholics and I definitely do not see eye-to-eye. I refused to pick a random church to have them baptized in to appease other people. There are cultures and faiths that wait until the children are old enough to choose to be baptized. Also, I don’t believe that there is a God that that would fault children for the choices of their parents.

But, that doesn’t mean they lack in beliefs or spirituality. They’ve been to church. They know who Jesus is. And Ganesh. We have a giant Buddha they call “Our buddy Buddha.” And they love to celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah. And to make a Thanksgiving Tree every year filled with the names of people we are thankful for.

All of this has one thing in common: Love. Love is the recurring theme in our lives. The cornerstone by which all the decisions I make are made. When they were one and two, I created a family motto and rules that all go back to that motto.

Our motto? “We’re All About the Love.”

It is our foundation.

We believe in love. In the power of it. We believe in not saying goodbye when we leave, but “giving love.” We hug people we just met. We hold doors open for strangers and give them random compliments. We donate to and help those in need. We believe in showing love to those we barely know and especially those that don’t seem like they deserve it. We believe that love is the most important thing in this world. We believe that everyone has the right to be loved and to love whomever they want. That every human being is worthy of love. That love has the power to save lives and change the world.

Our religion is love. <3

If you’ve met my girls, there is no doubting where they came from. I couldn’t deny them if I tried. If you’ve met the rest of my family, you may wonder about me though. All the people that I take after have passed away. One of the most important ones, my grandma Katie, would have been 95 today.

Not a day goes by where I don’t miss her.

My gram was not like most grandmas. Yes she embroidered and crocheted and made the best soup ever. Her Matzoh Ball soup was my absolute favorite. But, she could also drink like a fish, smoke like a chimney and cuss like a sailor. Well, to be more accurate, she had made sailors blush.

My grandpa died young, but she always wore her wedding rings. In fact, my engagement ring was a replica of hers. If you tried to tease her about needing a man, she’d say she had one. If you said “one that’s still alive” she’d say “What the Hell for? So he can sit on my couch and make me fetch him beer? No thank you. I need another man like I need another goddamn hole in my head.”

When my dad was big and scary, she told him to go to Hell. When he told her not to use the “f word” around him, she told him to fuck off. When the world told her she needed to stop working at 65, she lied her ass off and got a job. When my parents told her there was an e on the end of my name, she told them no. Katie was feisty as Hell.

And, as I predicted for years, when God told her it was time to go, she cussed his ass out all day long before she went.

She was the only grandparent I’d ever known and the only strong female role model that was consistently in my life. In middle school I used to miss the bus on purpose so I could walk to her house and wait for my dad. He would be mad, but I got to hear story after story of her life from raising my mom and aunts and uncles to riding to work on the back of a Harley. Getting screamed at was so worth it.

She was the one that taught me not to take shit from anyone and that I could be and do whatever I wanted as long as I put my mind to it and “you don’t have to use your tits to do it either, you’re a smart one, you use your brain.” This is the same woman that set her mind on teaching her bird to hate Frank Sinatra and by George every time ole blue eyes came on, her bird Louie would BITCH up a storm. If you were to tell me she had a fling with Frank that went bad and that’s why she hated him, I would not be shocked at all. My grandma was a Hell of a woman.

I have a million grandma stories I will eventually find the strength to write, but for now, I’m easing into it. Her death is a wound that’s never really scabbed over. I look at my daughters and know how much she would love the Hell out of them. They’d come home dropping four letter words like crazy and hopped up on Brach’s candy, but I wouldn’t care.

It’s time for me to make my annual Brandy Old Fashioned Sweet (her drink of choice the last couple of decades of her life) and toast her. I will leave you with this…

When I moved out to California, I would call her once a week to check in. She’d ask how I was and I’d tell her the soup sucked. One time I called and she sounded kind of funky so I asked “Grandma, is that you?” True to form, her reply was “No, it’s Mrs. Fitzimmons, who the fuck else would be answering my phone?” From that point on, I would call and ask for Mrs. Fitzimmons and she’d laugh and say “This is Mrs. Fitzimmons, how’s my favorite little smart shit doing?”

I miss you Mrs. Fitzimmons.

That beauty in pink with the glasses is my Katie. The woman to her left is my mom. The woman below looking ready to knock my Uncle Gene the Hell out? Yup, my Katie. That gorgeous red afro belongs to my ever-amazing Aunt Carol. She’s the one from my #BoobieWed post. The two of them together would make the perfect woman.

It may look like just an ordinary table. Sadly, some may think it ugly. Both couldn’t be further from the truth. What lies buried deep within the wood are years and years of memories. Of laughter. Of love.

Once upon a time, this table was the only table in my grandmother’s modest little apartment.

If you’ve read my “Yup, I’ve Got Boobs” (http://lifeinmonkeyland.blogspot.com/2009/10/yup-ive-got-boobs.html) post, you have caught a small glimmer into the awesomeness that was my grandmother. Her and my aunt were the first and only real strong female role models that I had growing up. Whenever I look at my family and wonder how I fit in, I think of them and it begins to make sense. She was also the only grandparent I’ve ever known.

Grandma passed away December 30th, 1999 of Pancreatic Cancer. Fuck you very much again Cancer. I remember someone looking at me and saying “Awww she just missed seeing the new millennium.” She was the feistiest 85 year old you would have ever met and I know exactly what her response would have been “New millennium, same shytting thing.” Someday I plan on writing a series of posts on her. Not only because the stories are great, but because they need to be preserved so I may hand them down to the girls and they can hand them down. To listen to them tell their children how great grandma rode to work on the back of a Harley and made the best Matzoh Ball soup ever is something I hope I live to hear.

Someday. But not today. I don’t have the strength in me today to open that all up. This last year has been one continual fight against the very type of beast that took my grandmother and my aunt. And it has gotten overwhelming. There have been days where I am so tired I just want to curl in a ball and cry. But then I think of them, take a deep breath and think “I’ve got this.” I miss them both so much.

Today I stood in the pouring rain, holding the door open as my parents brought it out of the back of their minivan. As soon as the first chair came out, I caught my breath. By the time the table came out, the lump in my throat was huge. I kept trying to swallow it, hoping the rain would help me wash it down. I haven’t seen it since before she passed.

Now it sits in our home where our memories, our laughter, our love can be added to those already within it. Its mere presence has already brought me comfort. I want to hug it, to sit at it and lay my head upon it… listening for her voice, smelling for Matzoh Ball soup.

To many it may look like a simple table. To me it is a piece of my grandma.

So, just got off the phone with my mom. She called to check on how I was taking to all my lovely new meds and how the girls’ weekend went.

Then she busted out this unique gift she has. You know how people play that telephone game? My mom seriously must have screwed that game up for everyone every time she played it. This time was just classic.

Mom: “Oh! Did you hear? They confirmed Obama is dead.”
Me: “WHAT!?!??! HOLY SHIT!!!! WHO KILLED HIM!?!?!?!? WHEN!?!? WHERE!?!?!? OMG!!!!” *booting up laptop*
Mom: “Well we did of course. Long time coming too.”
Me: “WE DID WHAT!?!?!” *light bulb clicks as I realize this is my mom I’m talking to* *deep breath* “Mom, do you mean O S A M A ? As in bin Laden???”
Mom: “Oh yeah, hee hee, him.”
Me: *BIGGEST FACEPALM EVER*

I swear my sister’s years of taunting me by saying I was left in a basket on the doorstep by a bunch of gypsies and mom and dad just kept me because they felt sorry for me cuz I was ugly and all really feels like the truth sometimes. Smart gypsies. Gypsies that know the difference between Obama and Osama. My mom even voted for the guy. Obama that is. At least I hope she got it right on the ballot. If not, secret service are probably monitoring them.

We are now home from our annual Easter brunch at my parent’s house. The monkey’s fave Easter basket item? Yoda kites. I popped our dinner in the oven and the girls began to argue which Star Wars movie we are going to watch.

I should prelude this with the fact that they are 5 & 6 now but have been Star Wars fans since they were 2 & 3. I should also mention that as soon as we got home, lilest stripped off the dress so her half of the debate was argued wearing only her underwear.

I love my little geeklings and am frequently in awe of them when they get in uber geek mode. Fighting they do frequently. They flat out throw down like boys. Then two minutes later are smooching on each other and cooing about how they are bestest friends ever. But, every once in a while an actual debate occurs. Tonight is one of those nights.

For some reason, Revenge of the Sith has always been one of eldest’s favorites. Which doesn’t make any sense to me. She LOVES Anakin. Before it sunk in that it wasn’t really possible, she vowed to one day marry him. You’d think that Attack of the Clones would be her favorite then. Why the one where he turns to the dark side and gets his ass handed to him by Obi Wan? Yet it is. It also happens to be my least favorite of all of them. I understand it is necessary, but it’s all so sad. In fact, given that she is inherited my upset at movies that make me sad and habit of turning them off if they make me cry, I would think she would also find this the least favorite. But, whatever the reason, it’s her go to when we talk the new movies vs the classics.

Lilest is a girl after my own heart. She’s all about the classics. Of them, Return of the Jedi is frequently the one that she pushes for. She also HATES Revenge of the Sith.

And so the debate began.

Eldest declares her choice of Revenge of the Sith. Lilest shoots her down. Her argument is simple- it’s too dark, too scary, too sad. Eldest counters with the necessity of it in the total story line and then busts out comparing it to the story of Easter- Anakin dies. He is resurrected as Vader. Lilest throws her a complete curve ball with Return of the Jedi being much more Easter-like because Vader dies and Anakin is resurrected and redeemed. Eldest counters that Anakin flat out dies then, therefore it is not a story of resurrection. Lilest counters with the fact that Revenge of the Sith ends with Vader being created, but ends with that. There is no “character development of him at that point.” Eldest replies “well played, but Anakin still dies in Jedi.” Lilest “Oh really? Because I’m fairly certain that those that are strong with the Force never truly die and he does appear at the closing of the movie along with Obi Wan and Yoda.” Eldest’s retort? “That’s it, there is only one way to solve this- to the light sabers!”

So which one are we watching?

The Princess Bride.

Yup, they decided that fighting wasn’t the answer, it’s Spring Break so we should just pull a full on Star Wars marathon from start to finish instead.

I can hang with that.