Dear daughter.

After my dad died this past summer, my mom, sister, Angus, Mike, and I had to take on the ugly task of cleaning out closets, donating clothes, organizing the office, locating important paperwork, and making the necessary contacts to take care of financial and logistical issues. Digging through the personal items of someone so close to us was an odd experience. We learned some things about my dad those few days - he saved EVERY bank statement, received $.49/month in royalties from his father's brief music career, and bought into the healing power of magnets. And, what we already knew about him - his immaculate fashion sense, matching colognes and deodorants, and plethora of golf gear - was reaffirmed.

Many of his belongings still remain in the house because it just didn't seem right to get rid of it all - especially the lefty golf clubs, his prized possessions, which are propped in the corner of the garage just how he left them, now collecting dust and waiting for the next lefty in the family to pick them up. For me, it was his contact lenses and glasses that I couldn't dispose of. Part of me hoped he'd come back and knew he'd need them when he did.

Over the holidays, we were back in my parents' house for the first time since the summer. A few more "secrets" were uncovered like the Rubbermaid tubs of Beanie Baby bears my dad collected for his future grandchildren. As we searched and rummaged, I kept daydreaming about finding some sort of written letter from my dad, a sort of documentation of his love. (I watch way too many sappy movies.) This would be a bonus, I realize, because anyone who knew my dad understood that his love for his family trumped all else. And, I know that, too. I think the part of me that longs to hear from him, talk to him, and hug him, other than in the occasional dream, has conjured up these fantasies to fulfill those desires.

I'd like to think if I did find a letter, this is something how it would go:

Dear daughter,

If you are reading this, I am probably gone from this life, and while that makes me sad, it also brings me peace because I am no longer suffering. To be honest with you, I don't really want to talk about those days other than to say, thank you - for being there with me, for holding my hand, for comforting me and Mom, for being you.

When we found out we were pregnant with you, we were ecstatic. I still remember the moment Mom told me she was pregnant; I cried tears of joy. And then when you turned out to be a little baby girl, I couldn't contain myself. I had always wanted to have all girls, and when it was time to name you, "Keri" seemed just perfect. (I thought of your name, by the way.) I loved your big eyes, chubby cheeks, and contagious smile. I loved seeing you splash in the yellow plastic bathtub and laying with you on the floor surrounded by stuffed animals and toys. I made silly faces at you, talked in funny voices, and watched you light up. For the first time in my life, I felt truly purposeful and needed, and I vowed I would protect and watch over you always.

Watching you grow up and become a child, so curious about the world around you, was breathtaking. Even though I traveled a lot for work, I tried to become involved in as many areas of your life as I could. I remember coaching your basketball and soccer teams and cheering you on. "Hustle, Ker!" I'd yell from the sidelines as you pushed yourself to be better. I meant to cheer you on, but sometimes you frustrated me. All the time, my actions stemmed from my love for you and only ever wanting the best for you. You wanted me there and were proud of your dad, and I felt that. I don't know if words can explain how it feels to know that your daughter thinks her dad is cool.

One day, when you were around 10 years old, we were shopping at Staples. Mom needed crates for her classroom, but they were on a really high shelf. I thought I could reach them, and when I did, I lost my grasp, and the crates came crashing down on your head. You were alright but had a slice of skin hanging from your cheek and were bawling. I looked at your face and felt sick; I did this to you. I cried that day. I'm not sure if you saw me, but I felt terrible. I had hurt my baby girl. We went to the video store later that week, one of your favorite things to do, and I let you pick out three movies. You smiled and touched the scab on your cheek as if remembering then letting go.

When you got to high school, you went through the typical teenage drama. Looking back, I probably should have stepped in more often, but I didn't know what to do. I had a rough childhood in some ways, so I didn't do much of the discipline with you and Katy for fear of being too harsh. I always tried to tell you how proud I was of you and that it wasn't worth worrying about the petty things in life. I'm not sure how much sank in then, but I think telling you this advice over and over again into your adult years had to help somewhat. I was amazed at your perseverance, hard work, and goal-oriented attitude as a high schooler. You always seemed to have it together, whether in school, on the field, in the pool, or on the track. You gave it your all, and I stood and watched and was so proud of you. I remember standing at the end of the lane of the pool with my stopwatch trying to contain my excitement as you'd come close to winning a race. The timers weren't supposed to cheer for anyone in particular, but I always gave you a thumbs-up or high-five. Man, those were the days.

When you were looking at colleges, I drove you up to Connecticut in the fall of your junior year. The colors of the leaves were vibrant, and I watched you worry about what it would be like to be that far from home. When we went to Elizabethtown, I saw you immediately feel at home, and I just knew you would be accepted and go there. Tuition was more expensive than we wanted to pay, but I decided that I'd pay a bill for the rest of my life to see you happy and embarked on your chosen path. Even though Etown was 45 minutes from home, we didn't see you all that often. I loved coming up to visit you, but I hated leaving and knowing you were homesick. I remember feeling that way the summer I was 15 and worked in Wildwood, NJ at the sub shop. It was fun and exciting to be out on my own yet lonely at times, too. I could see this in you: a desire to be independent yet an intense longing for familiarity.

You graduated and moved to Baltimore, and I was scared shitless. My daughter, the one I vowed to protect and watch over, was moving to inner city Baltimore full of crime, and God knows what else. One night, your cell phone called our house. It must have been in your pocket or purse. It called our house over and over, and all we could hear on the other end was screaming and loud music. I frantically tried to call you back again and again, but you never answered. I knew you were in trouble, and I couldn't do anything to help you. I cried and laid on the bed and envisioned all the horrible things that must have been happening to you. In that moment, I thought I lost you. It was the worst moment of my life. I started putting on my sneakers and was about to drive to Baltimore when our phone rang. It was you. You were happy, probably drinking, and asked what was going on. I couldn't even talk to you, so you talked to Mom and told her you were at a concert with some friends. I curled up and cried and thanked God that you were OK.

You got your first job at Hopkins, and I loved telling people that you worked there. "Wow," they responded, just in awe of you as I was. You had been through your fair share of high school heartbreak, and apparently were dating someone you met through work. I met him, and I didn't like him. I could see from the way that he looked at you that he wasn't in love. He wasn't the one. He left you and moved to California, and you were distraught. I told you over and over again that summer that you deserved better. "The man you will marry will think you walk on water," I said. I knew that there was at least a shred of you that believed me and hoped you would hold out and never settle for less.

Then, you met Angus. We met him for the first time at Woody's Crabshack in Maryland for dinner. I knew from the moment I saw you two together that this was it. He was special, and he looked at you like you were the only person in the room - the only person on Earth. You were yourself that night, smiling and happy, very proud to introduce us to Angus. On the way out of the restaurant, you walked to our car with Mom because she brought you a bunch of her old clothes. I stood with Angus, and we shook hands. I hoped and hoped...and hoped that you wouldn't let this one get away.

Angus drove up to Lancaster one night without telling you. Mom and I had a feeling there was something up. He told us he wanted to take us to dinner. My heart was pounding that night as I got ready for his arrival. Could this be the moment every father fears/dreams of? Before going to dinner, we sat in the living room, and Angus started his speech. His voice was a little shaky, and he was nervous, but he told us that he loved you, wanted to be with you forever, promised to take care of you and asked us for your hand in marriage. Mom cried, and I tried to hold back my tears - you know, to play the Dad role - and asked him if he knew what he was getting into. He laughed, said yes, he was sure you were the one. We had dinner together, and I really felt in that moment that I had gained a son, and you had gained a husband who would be your soulmate and friend.

I loved Angus's parents. They were some of the nicest people I had ever met, and they embraced you as their daughter. I thanked them for that in my toast on your wedding day. The day you got married, I was in my glory. I danced and sang and partied my ass off. It was one of the highlights of my life. A lot of fathers feel sad to "give away" their daughters, but I felt only joy. I had no doubt that Angus was the man for you; you finally got what I'd been saying you deserved. That said, you'll always be my little girl. ;)

In your adult life, you called me a lot for advice or to chat, sometimes in tears, other times with good news. I am a man of few words, and our phone conversations were never lengthy or drawn out. But, I promise you, I was listening. I always had faith that you would figure it out, whatever it was you were going through. You and Angus were careful with your decisions, and though you didn't really need me, I was flattered to be involved.

The day you Skyped Mom and me to tell us you were pregnant goes down in history as being one of the most exciting of my life. Then, I found out I was going to have a baby boy grandson, and my heart soared. Those 9 months were the longest of my life. By the time your due date drew near, I had to resist calling you every day to find out if it was "time." When you finally did call us, early in the morning, to let us know, every ounce of my body wanted to jump on the next plane and see you in the hospital. But, you told us you needed some space, and I understood that, although you felt guilty for feeling that way. We arrived when my baby boy was only a few days old, and I remember climbing up your stairs, meeting you halfway down the hallway, and holding you and Calvin in my arms as you cried tears onto my shoulder. That week I will cherish forever. Staring into his tiny face as we sat together day after day on the chair in your loft, I fell in love. I found myself reliving my days as a new father, only this time from a new vantage point. If I thought I felt pride as a father, this was a million times more intense. Calvin and I were connected, there's no doubt about it. When Mom and I left after that week, you held onto me for a long time, not wanting to let go. All the feelings of "needing your space" melted away, and you felt homesick. I looked at you and said, "You can do this, Ker. You are a great mother," and I meant it.

I was not perfect. I know you thought I was for a long time and maybe still do. But, I was not. I was just a father who did his best to love his daughter with every bit of his heart and soul, support her goals and dreams, and pick her up when she fell. I hope that was enough for you. I hope you can always hold onto who I was and how much I loved you and still do.

I'll see you soon, baby girl.

Love,

Dad

Frozen blueberry, anyone? Anyone?

The moments where everything changed.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about moments in my life where everything changed. Much of this thinking has been prompted from reading Journey of Souls: Case Studies of Life Between Lives, a book about our soul's past lives as well as life in the spirit world. I'm sure most of this won't jive with some of you who hold strong spiritual or religious beliefs of your own, so feel free to stop reading now. Honestly, I'm not sure what I believe to be true, but for sure, the author offers compelling information about life beyond "here" that I'm open to considering or at least writing about. One of the most fascinating ideas the author presents is that we are all a part of a "soul group" - a group of souls we encounter in most of our lives on Earth who are meant to teach us something which moves us closer to the "Source" (God). Apparently, in the spirit world, between lives, we meet with these souls and decide on "signs" that will occur on Earth that will tell us, "This person is important. This moment is significant. I need to stop and pay attention." We may not know it's a sign in our human body on Earth, but somewhere deep inside, we are called to notice and respond.

Deep stuff, eh?

I kind of like this idea of certain people, places, moments being pre-arranged by our souls to teach us something which is essential to helping us on our journey. Whether or not I believe all of Michael Newton's ideas is to be determined. But, I do, and always have, believed that certain things are just meant to be. Sometimes I've known in the actual moment that it is going to affect me for a lifetime. Other times, I haven't known it until later when I look back and can say, "Ah, NOW I see why."

***

Here are just a few of mine:

Leaving my mother in the hospital after she had Katy. It was the first time I felt the pain of separation from those we love. I saw Katy's tiny red face and didn't ever want to leave her side. I rode out of the hospital on my dad's shoulders screaming and crying to go back.

Writing and completing my first story as a middle schooler. It was called "Naomi", and it was inspired by Dances with Wolves.

Witnessing a horrible act of racism in my high school and having no idea how to handle it. Witnessing a horrible act of racism as an adult and knowing - at least a little bit - how to handle it.

Learning that adults can hurt children deeply. They can even hurt children that they love. Standing in our garage that fall night before the football game and hugging my best friend as she cried tears of anguish and shock.

A discussion about God and all things bigger on a golf course at night in Lancaster County helped me to see beyond my closed-off view of the world.

Finding out a good friend was gay and was struggling with her identity and staying by her side through it. Meeting new friends who are gay and loving them intensely for who they are: friends to us, aunts to Calvin, mothers to a sweet baby girl, so much more.

Meeting my special college friends. It all started with a movie in a dorm room. Then came pong, and the rest is history.

Making eye contact with Angus in Mad River on that Saturday night, I knew my life was about to change. I knew I had to know him, and I wanted to be near him. He says he knew I was the one he wanted to marry that night. Now, literally every time we touch, make eye contact, or connect in other ways...I still get butterflies.

Dancing with my dad on my wedding day. Singing the words to the song as we danced. Feeling a strange sense of sadness for losing him even though he wasn't gone. Listening to the same song at his funeral five years later.

Being in Taiwan. Eating the food. Experiencing the culture. Holding Angus's hand through it all. Loving every minute of it.

Taking a course at CU titled "African American and Latino Issues in Education." I learned about our country's history of oppression, was able to relate that to our current educational situation, and finally saw the truth.

Being outside with my friends as a kid...all the time. Using our imaginations and PLAYING. Loving the water. Hiking Mt. Rainier in Seattle with Angus. Moving to Boulder. Being outside as an adult...all the time (I can). Nature is my sanctuary.

My best friend and I know each other's thoughts without a single word. She can sense when I need help and when someone or something is there to help me. I really can't explain it, but she will know what I mean. How about it, Abe? ;)

A middle school boy wrote a letter to me and read it in front of the class. He hated to read and write before he met me. Now, he can call Reading and Language Arts his favorite subjects.

Meeting her for the first time. Spilling beer on a rug. Talking about running. She was nice. I knew I had met a new friend. Someone who would turn out to be a mentor in so many ways.

Living with my sister and caring for my father. There was a moment over the weekend he died - 4th of July weekend - where fireworks exploded outside his bedroom windows. He laid in bed, and Katy I held him and told him everything would be OK.

Enduring natural childbirth and looking into Calvin's deep gray-blue eyes for the first time. Now, the moments where we look at one another and crack up laughing. It's like we are on the same wavelength. I think our souls have known each other before.

***

Were some of these moments pre-arranged by my soul and others in the spirit world? Or, are they just really cool moments I've had that have changed my life? Maybe they are something in between that can never be explained? I don't know... I do know that every moment, to some degree, was life-altering and that I could probably think of a thousand more.

Random interactions with strangers, the twists and turns of our relationships, huge life decisions, stories we hear: these are the things that make us who we are and help us grow into who we want to become.

These are the moments where we need to stop, take notice, and allow in whatever it is that is knocking.

At the very least, they could inspire...say...an interesting blog post. :)

Proud mama.

Calvin's first word: HAT!

Goodbye, breast pump! Hello, freedom!

A lactation consultant I worked with once told me that she had a client who pumped so much, she started hearing her breast pump talk to her. It would say, "Get your groooove on. Get your groooove on. Get your groooove on." At first I thought she was nuts. But then the more I pumped (especially in a quiet room without my laptop or other distractions), the more I too began to hear the voice beneath the steady robotic-like rhythm. I guess the brain can't help but put words to repetitive sounds like this, but I think it's more fun to assume the pump has a life of it's own. (For a steep $81 bucks a freakin' month, it should.)

I have been renting a hospital grade breast pump for the past 12 months (due to my initial problems with nursing), and today I returned it to the store. I'm still nursing two times per day, but I am done...DONE pumping. DONE feeling like a cow. DONE cleaning pump parts. DONE hearing the little voice from within! Goodbye my trusty yellow Medela Symphony pump! You've been good to my tender nipples, and I will forever remember how you helped me to meet my goal and never failed to cheer me on.

"Get your groooove on. Get your groooove on. Get your groooove on."

The rat race.

It's been awhile since I've posted, so I thought it was about time to reconnect with the blogosphere. A lot has gone down in the past month since we've been back in Boulder. We've reentered what I fondly call "the rat race" now that I've returned to working full time. And while that is sometimes pure hell, it's also been a bit refreshing to get back to one of my passions - teaching middle schoolers. I'm sure some of you just gagged at the thought, but these hormone-charged, awkward pre-teens are my absolute favorite to work with. I just "get" them. Maybe because I'm not afraid to be a little weird along with them. :)

Besides work, we've been dealing with Calvin's adjustment to daycare which has actually gone surprisingly well... for him. For me, it's been much harder, but I'm hanging in there and taking it day by day. He loves the other kids and exploring the play areas, and he's even bonded with one of the teachers (which I initially thought would totally bug me out but is actually quite soothing). He's a bit more snotty and tired than he usually is, but little by little I'm learning to let go. I've decided that the most important things to me are 1. he is happy and 2. he gets enough sleep. My previous obsession with him getting enough calories has morphed into an obsession with him getting enough zzz's. I'm trying to be more flexible, but for the most part, I'm a stickler for the naps and bedtime. Luckily, Calvin is pretty resilient and can even handle being put down at our friends' house, sleep on the drive home, and settle into his own crib quite easily. Maybe it's because on a daily basis his sleep is pretty consistent. Eh, who the heck knows. We do our best.

Both Angus and I are moving at the speed of light to keep up with this life, but we've been able to find some quiet moments that help get us through it, like our Saturday mornings at the farmers market on a blanket in the grass, date nights, snuggling on the sofa watching our next addicting TV series (currently, Battlestar Gallactica and Modern Family), or Friday sushi nights (sometimes in, sometimes out). My sister and Mike have been in town this past week because they're on their way out to Palo Alto for Katy's next nursing assignment. Having them here has been really refreshing in so many ways. I can't believe that come December, they could be living here, and our dinners in and out, farmers market trips, and hikes could be happening on a weekly basis. It's surreal, and part of me doesn't even believe that it will happen, but my sister assures me that it's their plan and they'll be here eventually.

It's been two months since my dad died, and dealing with the loss isn't getting much easier for any of us. In fact, I think I miss him more now than ever. I crave our phone conversations, walks, vacations, and trips home. I can see him in my memory more alive than ever, but then I remember that he's not, and my heart breaks for the millionth time. Dealing with the death of my dad has been a constant emotional struggle because while I am attempting to process my own loss, I am also trying to help my mom process hers. I still find myself stuck in the "it's just not fair" mode or the "what could have we done differently?" mode. I know that these are just stages of grief that I'm cycling through. When I enter one, I try to pull myself out and closer to the point of acceptance, but I often find myself wondering if I will ever really be able to accept a loss this great. I'm angry for my dad, for us, for Calvin, and I constantly wonder if he's OK. I talk to him out loud in the car on the way to work in the morning, and pray to him at night. I know I'm painting a pretty sad picture here, and I don't mean to be negative Nelly, but it is sad for us. That's just a fact. But at the same time, my dad's death has taught us all to really embrace how he lived life. Fully, without regret, dedicated to those he loved, and kind to everyone. I have had the chance to see how many peoples' lives he touched - even people who only met him once or twice - and remembering this has really helped me get through the toughest of days.

Overall, we're chugging along and finding our new rhythm. Sometimes I find myself staring at the mountains in the early morning light or daydreaming about the cornfields at sunset in my hometown, and I feel so lucky to have this life. Although it's easy to get lost in the stress of the grind, I am trying to focus on all the good I've been so blessed with, especially having a dad that showed me every day how to live presently and gratefully through the ups and downs of this crazy life. "It's OK to take a breath, Ker," he'd say. "It may be a race, but you don't have to win."

Back to Farmers Market Saturdays.

This morning we ventured out to the Farmers Market for the first time in two months. It felt really good to be back amongst the fresh produce, food stands, and Boulderites (including a topless woman!!). Calvin ate a spinach tamale, Angus had dumplings, and I had tofu spring rolls. Yummy. The best part was sitting on our towel in the grass together as our little family of three. Calvin's expressions today reminded me so much of my dad and the pure joy he had for life.