I’m fearful that 2010 will bring on an avalanche of changes and emotions. If ever I needed to keep a check-and-balance over my life, this will be the year. When Dad died in 1994, I wasn’t prepared. I had never buried a parent. I was pregnant with Madison. “One door opens and another one closes” became a worn out mantra. I was facing a storm of life changes. What was “normal” was no longer “normal”. When Mom died in 1996, my soul threw up its arms and said, “For the love of Pete, give me a break!” I struggled with how to find “home” again in my heart. I couldn’t physically go home anymore. I hated transitioning into a new life. My psyche didn’t understand the ebb and flow of finding the new me. Watching both parents go into the ground that close together threw me into the buoyant waters of life.
2010 means my “normal” is changing again. Meghan moves out to find her “home”. I’ve muttered, “That’s the last time we’ll do that before you get married,” about a thousand times already this year (and it’s only January). I’m focusing too much on the calendar. May 29th. The day my 2 pound preemie baby girl walks down the aisle and marries Shannon. Oh, don’t get me wrong. This is the dream all right-thinking moms should have: Elation that their daughter found a wonderful man and has carved out a tremendous life. Believe me, Mike and I say prayers in thanksgiving that Meghan and Shannon are getting married because we feel so strongly in their decision. We count them among the countless blessings we have.
But…change is coming. If the daily “hot flashes” aren’t getting my attention that change is coming, then the countdown to May 29th is. She’s saying goodbye to her home. She’s saying goodbye to her normalcy. She’s re-inventing her life. She’ll be managing rough waters ahead too as she finds her new way.
And I’ll transition into waiting for her to call, and meeting her at her new home, and hearing about her new co-workers and wondering whether they know how precious she is. I’ll transition into asking her what holiday she wants to come home for and where she bought that entertainment center or that snazzy cappuccino maker.
My 2010 goal is to appreciate my old self and embrace the new “me” as I transition into the new “normal”…and all the while remembering the astounding people and memories that I bring along in my heart to remind me how great the old “me” was and how comforting the new “normal” will be.
I let her take care of me. She did a good job of it, no argument from me. She made my bed until the day I left home. Magically, my dirty clothes were cleaned and appeared in my closet and drawers within a few hours of putting them in the hamper (that’s where they belonged if the Laundry Fairy was going to find them). I always had food in front of me. It was like our own restaurant because no matter what we suggested for breakfast, dinner or supper (that’s what we called the night-time meal), ALL the ingredients were in the kitchen somewhere.
I acquired so many of her quirks and qualities, but not that one. I can set out to make a recipe that needed 2 things and invariably, I’ll only have 50% of the ingredients. Let’s face it. She waited on me hand and foot, but it was her job. That’s not callous. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. Her “job” was innate, based on an upbringing from a generation that was foreign to me. She was born at home April 1, 1925 in Monroe City to a German-Catholic woman. You are how you are raised, for the most part. My mother was born to Frances who was born in 1894. I was born in 1960 which is far removed from home-births and the Great Depression. But my mom made a lifetime of waiting on, not just me, but everyone. She was the 5th child of 8. Four older, 3 younger. Shortly after the oldest child, Red, went off to war, their mother died in 1944 at the age of 49. Frances was stout, hard-working and devoutly Catholic. Perhaps she was devout in all aspects of her life. With a widowed father whose occupation was “handy-man”, for my mom, these were leaner times now. 
Born and raised in Centralia, I have a true love affair with this town. In high school (“We’re great, we’re great, we’re great, we’re the Class of 78″) when classmates would grunt the traditional Senior chant of “I can’t wait to get out of THIS town”, I would always wonder what this town had done to them. I never understood that desire to flee from “Anchor City”. My question to them was where they thought they would go that was going to be better, that was going to be perfect, that was going to expect nothing in return? My feeling was that another town would be stark and cold and unfamiliar. I long for familiarity. In relationships, in the way I work, in the way I live. 
I come with many names: My given first name that I only use on official paperwork and sounds odd even to my ears when I hear it said in reference to me. My nickname, which symbolizes my teenage sister’s maturity when Mom let her name me in the summer of 1960. My maiden name, which brings with it a warm sense of pride and comfort like being wrapped in an old quilt, and something I brushed under a rug 24 years ago. My Confirmation name, which I took in my teens to pay honor to my grandmother (although now I can’t remember which grandmother). My married name, which, while borrowed, brings with it a decision to share my past, present and future with a small-town farm boy who thought I was someone the likes of which he’d never encountered before. 
