A couple of months ago I went to Carmel, Indiana to celebrate the life of a friend who passed away just a few short weeks before. She left behind two young teenage sons and a husband, all of whom she helped guide into manhood even while being pummeled by multiple myeloma. The service was a testament to her hard work — her sons were as well-spoken as grieving, hormone-stricken young teens can be, telling stories of their mom chasing them with a wooden spoon to stop them from killing each other and other heartwarming tales. Her husband was able, even in the midst of his overwhelming grief, to paint a picture of a vibrant, bossy, loving and incredible woman with whom he shared — by his own admission — a less than perfect but always passionate marriage.
As I experienced this service and later walked through my friend's home, seeing the photos of her life and sitting on the sofa that she herself had spent hours resting on over the last four years, I thought of what my own children and husband might say if it were me who had been so ruthlessly stripped from their lives. The thought was scary. Not just that I might miss out on weddings and proms and life-altering moments that my children have in front of them. But that I might not give them the right fodder for a slammin' celebration of life...that somehow I will fail to show them how much I love them, the good crazy vs. the bad crazy inside of me, how to "man up", as my friend Pat told her own sons, and how to live life out loud.
After that I tried to provide some legacy, each and every day, no matter how slight. I wanted my family to have something to remember me for other than that I was simply there. This added a lot of pressure, especially in the beginning. I started by putting little notes in Shawn Joaquin's lunch box every day - handmade cards with photos and stickers, trying to make each lunch a memorable meal rather than something he pawed through while spitting milk out of his nose. I took him to anything I thought he might enjoy and someday remember — So You Think You Can Dance at the Oracle Arena, a Cal game, a solo camping trip with me to Tuolumne, Disney on Ice, movies and more. I was going to be the FUN mom, damnit. And I started actually showering and shining everyday before work, hoping that if it were to be the last time he ever saw me, my husband would remember my shining hair and bright eyes rather than that I had once again stolen his boxers as work attire or had pulled my hair up in a pink flowered toddler hair band. I made a home-cooked, interesting and nutritious meal every night and made sure that Madelena was able to help me stir things, set the table and still have time to sit on the floor and read her the same book 27 times. We enrolled in mommy and me classes and started family game night and new lengthy bedtime traditions. I was super mom, and I would not go quietly into the night.
After about a month of this, I realized it was...how you say...bullshit. And that Madelena loved running errands in Rockridge and seeing the crabs at the market every bit as much as any planned activity. Shawn Joaquin thought a trip to Trader Joe's in which we discussed all the odd imported food was just as entertaining as a trip to the Oracle Arena and more likely to end with some yummy treat from a cafe, accompanied by steamed milk. And that Gregg really didn't care what I was wearing as long as I had some intention, at some point in the day or night, of taking it off in front of him. And maybe that my legacy is just that I love my family and somehow they do see that every day in the truly little things like bedtime stories, breakfast for dinner on Friday nights and taking the kids to ride the elevators in an air-conditioned Target on hot, hot days.
The kids might remember that I would sit in the blue plastic baby pool with them, that I howled in our favorite tunnel as loudly as they did, and that no matter how many times I may have used my mad voice, my loving voice was always used exponentially more. That I could not keep my hands off their arms and cheeks and heads, always wanting to touch their warm, brown skin and kiss them whenever they would allow me. And maybe Gregg will remember that I laughed obnoxiously and loudly and often and at inappropriate YouTube videos. That I had to read every night and every morning, even if it meant just reading the cereal box or a twice-read magazine, just to keep my brain active. And that behind the scenes I kind of kept things running - bills paid, service providers coordinated, doctors appointments and school meetings completed, food in the fridge and the house usually bright and with semi-living flowers, and all gift giving for all relatives and seasons handled and hassle-free. And that I would wear his boxers or shirts not just from laziness or super-sizeness but because I love the smell of him.
So now my legacy is just to be: be happy, be loving, be angry, be crazy, be emotional, be me. And that will, in some way, be enough.
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