Last night was the first night of the Advent season. For years our family has marked the start of Advent the same way, joining with other families from our church to make Advent wreaths and share a simple meal and worship service.
The four of us were a great team as we worked on our wreath each year. We shared a wreath aesthetic, so we easily worked together to create a wreath that pleased us all. As the years went by and Emma started high school, I thought we might get some resistance about attending the Advent dinners, but she was always fully on board. Traditions were very important to her and this had become a family tradition. She would happily work on the wreath with us and when we were done she would work the room, chatting about school, music, her plans for Christmas. She was always one of the readers during the short worship service and her strong, sweet voice helped bolster the often under-confident crowd when we sang Silent Night after lighting the first candle on our wreaths.
We would bring our wreath home and place it on the dining room table. Truthfully, we were very inconsistent about lighting it during the rest of the season. Sundays got busy with concerts and gatherings and it seemed we were rarely home to share a meditation and light the wreath. But making the wreath together was an important act of communion that helped us start the season, as we would end the season, together.
Last night we attended the Advent dinner again, as Emma would have wanted. We made a beautiful wreath, punctuated by some purple tinged hydrangea blossoms, a new and fitting addition to our wreath contributed by another family. Emma was not there to work the room. Silent Night was not the same without her sweet voice. But I felt her presence as we honored tradition, constructing our wreath, lighting the first candle and uniting in prayer and song. We started the season, as we will end the season, together in spirit.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Hide and Seek
This story isn’t really a story about Emma. It’s really just a snapshot of our family life and I thought it might provide a well-needed dose of comic relief.
One evening we decided to play some hide and seek before bedtime. I’m guessing that Emma was about 7 at the time and Sarah was about 3. It was dark and cold outside, so we were playing inside. Emma hid first, then Sarah, and then it was my turn. I ducked inside one of the two closets in our front hall and waited to be discovered. I heard Peter, Emma, and Sarah’s voices get far away. “They’re very cold,” I thought. While I waited for them to get back on the trail, I surveyed my surroundings. Even in the dark, I could tell that the closet needed to be cleaned. Add that to the list of things to do this week. That made me think of a long list of other things I needed to do. I proceeded mentally through my week, prioritizing activities and making lists. It was amazing how easily I could do this mental organizing in the quiet of a dark closet. I was kind of enjoying myself.
I was pretty lost in this train of thought when I heard the voices getting closer. “Oh, they’re getting warmer. Finally!” And it really wasn’t until that moment that I thought about how much time had gone by. I had been sitting in that closet, completely wrapped up in my own thoughts for close to 10 minutes! “Wow, they can’t be looking very hard for me,” I was thinking and I admit, I was a little peeved by the lack of effort. I listened very closely to their voices, trying to perceive whether I had any chance of being found. I was in the hall closet, for gosh sakes. Isn’t that first place everyone looks when you're playing hide and seek? They were now just beyond the hallway in the living room and I could hear their conversation perfectly. They were talking about a board game and I could hear the pieces getting rustled about as the game was being set up. And that’s when I realized they weren’t looking for me.
I emerged from the closet and they looked up at me from the floor where they were sitting around the board game. “What were you doing in the closet?” Peter asked. “I was hiding!!!” I said, quite annoyed. “How come you weren’t looking for me?” “Oh, we stopped playing that game a long time ago,” said Emma.
P.S.
I can’t resist this opportunity to have you all settle a little family dispute. Is it “Hide and Seek” or “Hide and Go Seek”? You can see from the title of the post where I come out on this question.
One evening we decided to play some hide and seek before bedtime. I’m guessing that Emma was about 7 at the time and Sarah was about 3. It was dark and cold outside, so we were playing inside. Emma hid first, then Sarah, and then it was my turn. I ducked inside one of the two closets in our front hall and waited to be discovered. I heard Peter, Emma, and Sarah’s voices get far away. “They’re very cold,” I thought. While I waited for them to get back on the trail, I surveyed my surroundings. Even in the dark, I could tell that the closet needed to be cleaned. Add that to the list of things to do this week. That made me think of a long list of other things I needed to do. I proceeded mentally through my week, prioritizing activities and making lists. It was amazing how easily I could do this mental organizing in the quiet of a dark closet. I was kind of enjoying myself.
I was pretty lost in this train of thought when I heard the voices getting closer. “Oh, they’re getting warmer. Finally!” And it really wasn’t until that moment that I thought about how much time had gone by. I had been sitting in that closet, completely wrapped up in my own thoughts for close to 10 minutes! “Wow, they can’t be looking very hard for me,” I was thinking and I admit, I was a little peeved by the lack of effort. I listened very closely to their voices, trying to perceive whether I had any chance of being found. I was in the hall closet, for gosh sakes. Isn’t that first place everyone looks when you're playing hide and seek? They were now just beyond the hallway in the living room and I could hear their conversation perfectly. They were talking about a board game and I could hear the pieces getting rustled about as the game was being set up. And that’s when I realized they weren’t looking for me.
I emerged from the closet and they looked up at me from the floor where they were sitting around the board game. “What were you doing in the closet?” Peter asked. “I was hiding!!!” I said, quite annoyed. “How come you weren’t looking for me?” “Oh, we stopped playing that game a long time ago,” said Emma.
P.S.
I can’t resist this opportunity to have you all settle a little family dispute. Is it “Hide and Seek” or “Hide and Go Seek”? You can see from the title of the post where I come out on this question.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Through Sarah's Eyes
Sarah loves to sing and dance and this is not something she got from Peter or from me. That came from Emma. By the time Sarah arrived on the scene, it was already a well-established pattern that evenings would be spent in our living room with music on. The furniture in our living room is all concentrated in one part of the room, leaving a big open square of space on the other end. This design element was inspired by Emma’s need for a dance floor and just stuck, even after we renovated that floor of the house and changed everything else.
It was actually a perfect performing space. There is a hallway that runs behind the open-spaced part of the living room that provided essential backstage space. The large entry-way from the hall to the living room functioned well as a proscenium arch and allowed for grand entrances. It seemed almost natural that we would use the space that way. I often wondered if our kids looked at more uniformly furnished living rooms and wondered why there wasn’t a dance floor.
Emma and Sarah usually shared the stage, dancing together, or taking turns twirling around the floor while the other waited “backstage.” But I remember one particular night when Emma was the only act on the bill. On this evening, the armchairs were turned away from the fireplace, as they were usually positioned, and now faced the dance floor, providing seats for the audience. Sarah, who was probably about 1 ½ at the time, was sitting in one of the chairs, her little legs sticking straight out, with her brightly colored sneakers barely reaching the end of the seat cushion.
The video camera is rolling again this evening, as it was many evenings. At first the video focuses on dancing Emma, but then it moves off of her to capture Sarah. She is clearly captivated by Emma's performance and her stillness and attention is something that must be recorded. When Sarah realizes that the camera is focused on her, however, she gets annoyed. She points back to Emma. “This is Emma. This is Emma, Daddy,” she insists.
Losing someone the way we lost Emma causes you to look at life's events, big and small, from a new angle. When I review that scene from my new vantage point, I hear something different in Sarah’s proclamation. At the time, I took it at face value - the shy toddler pointing to her talented sister and saying “Do you see what Emma can do?!” But you know, Sarah didn't just admire Emma. She also always had an incredible understanding of the person Emma was deep down. So now I look at it and the message I take is, “See how Emma is in this moment? See the joy that she feels and the joy that she brings? This is Emma.”
Friday, November 27, 2009
Another Moment in Time
I am remembering another video clip that I love. Emma is a little bit older, maybe three. Peter’s parents are visiting. We seem to have just finished dinner. As was our custom in the evenings, we have put on some music, something that Emma chose, and she is getting ready to dance along. She grabs my hands and we start to spin in a circle. Peter is filming and his parents have settled on the couch, content to be spectators. But Emma is not happy with this arrangement. She grabs her grandparents by the hands, first Grandma, then Farfar, and draws them into her circle. She instructs us to hold hands and then she urges us to start circling as fast as we can. And in that moment, as we all held hands and raced around the circle, we abandoned our adult self-consciousness and got to experience the joy of being 3 again: the joy of holding hands, the joy of being spontaneous, the joy of spinning in circles until you’re so dizzy that you collapse in a happy, laughing heap.
This was a gift that Emma had throughout her life. She knew how to twirl through life without being self-conscious about who was watching; and she knew how to grab people by the hands and draw them into her dance.
This was a gift that Emma had throughout her life. She knew how to twirl through life without being self-conscious about who was watching; and she knew how to grab people by the hands and draw them into her dance.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
THANKSGIVING 1994
One of my favorite home videos was shot just before Thanksgiving in 1994, the year we moved into this house. I was excited, and probably a little nervous, to be hosting Thanksgiving dinner for the first time. In the video, 2 year-old Emma is sitting at the kitchen table feeding herself yogurt from a big red bowl. I am sitting with her and while she eats, I am flipping through cooking magazines looking for inspiration for the Thanksgiving feast and running my ideas by Emma. Our conversation goes something like this:
Me: What shall we have for Thanksgiving dinner, Emma?
Emma: What shall we have for Thanksgiving, Mommy?
Me: Well, we should have a turkey.
Emma: Turkey, Mommy.
Me: And stuffing, of course. How about mashed potatoes? You like mashed potatoes, right, Emma?
Emma: I like potatoes, Mommy.
Me: Should we have a squash ring, Emma? Grandma gave me a recipe for a squash ring.
Emma: Yes, squash ring, Mommy.
Something about the way she says squash ring paints her face in a big yogurt-covered smile. And while she seems delighted at the prospect of having a squash ring for the meal, it is also evident that she has no idea what a squash ring is. I would love to see the picture she is tossing around in her mind at that moment. What does she imagine the magical squash ring to be?
At this point, the cameraman makes his presence known to us.
Peter: What are you guys doing?
Me: Emma and I are planning Thanksgiving dinner.
Peter: What are we going to have for Thanksgiving, Emma?
Emma: We’re having a squash ring, Daddy!
And there you have it – Thanksgiving 1994.
Me: What shall we have for Thanksgiving dinner, Emma?
Emma: What shall we have for Thanksgiving, Mommy?
Me: Well, we should have a turkey.
Emma: Turkey, Mommy.
Me: And stuffing, of course. How about mashed potatoes? You like mashed potatoes, right, Emma?
Emma: I like potatoes, Mommy.
Me: Should we have a squash ring, Emma? Grandma gave me a recipe for a squash ring.
Emma: Yes, squash ring, Mommy.
Something about the way she says squash ring paints her face in a big yogurt-covered smile. And while she seems delighted at the prospect of having a squash ring for the meal, it is also evident that she has no idea what a squash ring is. I would love to see the picture she is tossing around in her mind at that moment. What does she imagine the magical squash ring to be?
At this point, the cameraman makes his presence known to us.
Peter: What are you guys doing?
Me: Emma and I are planning Thanksgiving dinner.
Peter: What are we going to have for Thanksgiving, Emma?
Emma: We’re having a squash ring, Daddy!
And there you have it – Thanksgiving 1994.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tiny Dancer
For Emma, music was a contact sport. When she heard music she had to sing along, play along and dance along. And this was true even when she was tiny. She would don a tutu and boa and dance and sing around our house, the yard, the grocery store, everywhere.
When Emma was a little over 3, I called a local dance studio to see when they recommended that children start ballet lessons. They said that they typically recommended that children wait until they were four. All children are different, though, they said, and they suggested that I bring Emma in for a trial class so that they could assess whether she was ready.
Emma was very excited to be at the class. They let each child pick out a tutu, which Emma loved. They had all different color tutus, so the choice was really hard, but she finally picked the perfect one and I helped her put it on. In the meantime, the teacher had lined up the rest of the children in front on the mirror. Emma took her place in line, but lines are really very anti-social. There’s no way to get to know the children on the other end unless you move around a bit, so Emma did a little line hopping. The teacher patiently directed her back to her assigned spot and she relented. Then the teacher began demonstrating ballet positions and asking the children to copy her. Emma did a nice job of copying the teacher’s movements, but always added a signature move of her own. First position is really so much nicer with a little hand flourish. And the only thing better than third position, is third position followed by a pirouette!
At the end of the class Emma ran ahead to get a drink from the water fountain and the teacher caught up with me to give me her assessment. I was prepared for her to tell me that we should wait a year, so I beat her to the punch. “ She really wants to do her own thing. She’s probably not ready yet,” I said. “I don’t know,” she responded, “she’s awfully enthusiastic. I’m willing to give it a try if you are.”
In the end we decided that, at least for the time being, Emma should continue dancing for joy and not for a dance teacher.
When Emma was a little over 3, I called a local dance studio to see when they recommended that children start ballet lessons. They said that they typically recommended that children wait until they were four. All children are different, though, they said, and they suggested that I bring Emma in for a trial class so that they could assess whether she was ready.
Emma was very excited to be at the class. They let each child pick out a tutu, which Emma loved. They had all different color tutus, so the choice was really hard, but she finally picked the perfect one and I helped her put it on. In the meantime, the teacher had lined up the rest of the children in front on the mirror. Emma took her place in line, but lines are really very anti-social. There’s no way to get to know the children on the other end unless you move around a bit, so Emma did a little line hopping. The teacher patiently directed her back to her assigned spot and she relented. Then the teacher began demonstrating ballet positions and asking the children to copy her. Emma did a nice job of copying the teacher’s movements, but always added a signature move of her own. First position is really so much nicer with a little hand flourish. And the only thing better than third position, is third position followed by a pirouette!
At the end of the class Emma ran ahead to get a drink from the water fountain and the teacher caught up with me to give me her assessment. I was prepared for her to tell me that we should wait a year, so I beat her to the punch. “ She really wants to do her own thing. She’s probably not ready yet,” I said. “I don’t know,” she responded, “she’s awfully enthusiastic. I’m willing to give it a try if you are.”
In the end we decided that, at least for the time being, Emma should continue dancing for joy and not for a dance teacher.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Love Letters, Too
Emma learned the power of the written word very early on. As soon as she learned to write her name, we found it stamped all over the house. We would get little notes on our pillow that were somewhat unintelligible other than the bold signature: EMMA.
Over the years we received many notes from her. They were spontaneous and sought no action or reward from us. They would be waiting for us on our pillows when we went to bed or be sitting at our place at the table when we came down for breakfast. I came across one to Peter from a first grade Emma. It read, “Dear Daddy, I Love You! Love, As Allways, Emma.” I found one to me of approximately the same vintage that said, “Mom, I love you. You’re terifec! No hmphs for you. You’re the best mom in the univers.”
Sometimes, however, she was not so happy with us. Emma was an early riser and on the rare weekend morning when baby Sarah let us sleep in, Emma would have to wait patiently for one of us to get up and fix her breakfast. One morning she was running low on patience and kept coming to our room to see if we were awake yet. Finally she couldn’t take it anymore. She marched into our room and dropped a note right on top of her sleeping dad’s ear. It said, “When are you getting up for goodness sakes.”
Another time, we got a special delivery note after Emma felt that she had been unfairly reprimanded. It said, “Meany, meany, soskateeny! Do not be mean and I mean it!” After we got over our delight in the cute little rhyme and clever word play, we realized that she was really steamed. The printed hearts that ran down the side of the notepaper she had used weren’t even colored in, as they usually were on her notes. We’re talking mad!
I think there’s an anger management lesson in there somewhere. Next time you’re mad at someone, and I mean really mad, try looking the person straight in the eye and saying emphatically “Meany, meany, soskateeny!” I think you’ll both feel a lot better.
Over the years we received many notes from her. They were spontaneous and sought no action or reward from us. They would be waiting for us on our pillows when we went to bed or be sitting at our place at the table when we came down for breakfast. I came across one to Peter from a first grade Emma. It read, “Dear Daddy, I Love You! Love, As Allways, Emma.” I found one to me of approximately the same vintage that said, “Mom, I love you. You’re terifec! No hmphs for you. You’re the best mom in the univers.”
Sometimes, however, she was not so happy with us. Emma was an early riser and on the rare weekend morning when baby Sarah let us sleep in, Emma would have to wait patiently for one of us to get up and fix her breakfast. One morning she was running low on patience and kept coming to our room to see if we were awake yet. Finally she couldn’t take it anymore. She marched into our room and dropped a note right on top of her sleeping dad’s ear. It said, “When are you getting up for goodness sakes.”
Another time, we got a special delivery note after Emma felt that she had been unfairly reprimanded. It said, “Meany, meany, soskateeny! Do not be mean and I mean it!” After we got over our delight in the cute little rhyme and clever word play, we realized that she was really steamed. The printed hearts that ran down the side of the notepaper she had used weren’t even colored in, as they usually were on her notes. We’re talking mad!
I think there’s an anger management lesson in there somewhere. Next time you’re mad at someone, and I mean really mad, try looking the person straight in the eye and saying emphatically “Meany, meany, soskateeny!” I think you’ll both feel a lot better.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Achy Breaky Heart
I've shared only one story so far, in which music had a part, a funny thing, because music really played a starring role in our life with Emma.
I'm not a musician by any means, but there was something about having kids that made me want to sing. Especially when they were little, I went through my days with them using the events and conversation of the day as lyrics and setting it to whatever tune I'd heard on the radio or the cassette we'd been listening to. As the girls got older, this became a little more embarrassing to them and I tried to restrict my performances to our home. Emma especially loved when I sang in my pseudo-opera voice. I could tell by the way she rolled her eyes and held her head.
When she was little, however, she genuinely liked these songs. Here's a story I told at her memorial service of one the first songs I created for her:
The summer Emma was born, believe it or not, the song that was topping the charts was Achy Breaky Heart by Bill Ray Cyrus, now known to most as Miley's dad. The song was on the radio constantly, so I guess it was inevitable that it made its way into our daily routine. To keep Emma still while I was changing her I would sing “Don’t be slow, so very, very slow, changing my diapers and my clothes. Cause when you are so slow, so very, very, slow, it makes me very angry don’t you know.” Surprisingly, it worked.
I'm not a musician by any means, but there was something about having kids that made me want to sing. Especially when they were little, I went through my days with them using the events and conversation of the day as lyrics and setting it to whatever tune I'd heard on the radio or the cassette we'd been listening to. As the girls got older, this became a little more embarrassing to them and I tried to restrict my performances to our home. Emma especially loved when I sang in my pseudo-opera voice. I could tell by the way she rolled her eyes and held her head.
When she was little, however, she genuinely liked these songs. Here's a story I told at her memorial service of one the first songs I created for her:
The summer Emma was born, believe it or not, the song that was topping the charts was Achy Breaky Heart by Bill Ray Cyrus, now known to most as Miley's dad. The song was on the radio constantly, so I guess it was inevitable that it made its way into our daily routine. To keep Emma still while I was changing her I would sing “Don’t be slow, so very, very slow, changing my diapers and my clothes. Cause when you are so slow, so very, very, slow, it makes me very angry don’t you know.” Surprisingly, it worked.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Love Letters
Peter recently had a birthday. It was a difficult reminder of all that we have lost – not just Emma’s presence, but also everything that she contributed to the events of our lives that made them memorable and special.
Peter’s birthday was almost always celebrated with a family dinner served at home. The girls would help cook the meal. We always baked a cake and Emma and Sarah would decorate it. It featured lots of frosting and over-the-top decorations. There was very little advance planning of the design. They would just dive right in squirting colored gel on every square inch of the cake top and then adding sprinkles, like confetti, on top of the gel. The cake often looked a bit like a New York street after a ticker tape parade.
Emma always liked to have her own gift. Sometimes her gifts were things she had made herself and other times they were carefully chosen purchases. Either way, they were always a perfect reflection of the recipient and made you feel known and appreciated.
Her gifts were always accompanied by a handmade card. When she was little, the cards were usually sweet expressions of her love and appreciation. A fan of A.A. Milne’s House at Pooh Corner, Emma ended her cards for many years with the very Pooh-like, “Many happy returns of the day. Love, Emma.” Later she would personalize Peter’s cards, in particular, with drawings of his favorite things: a Redskins jersey or Orioles cap. Two years ago his card featured a stunning colored pencil drawing of the Adirondack mountains, a place that is special to all of us.
These handmade greetings, all carefully preserved, have taken on new significance for us since Emma died. Photos show the face that we loved, but these cards show the spirit and reflect how wonderful it felt to be known and loved by that spirit.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The Anti-trooper
If Emma was the trooper, baby Sarah was the anti-trooper. Our second little miracle arrived just a few weeks after Emma’s 4th birthday. Sarah was born 6 weeks premature and with an attitude. She spent her first 6 days in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit where she was constantly setting off alarms because she would pluck her c-pap out of her nose and kick and kick until she dislodged the pulse-ox monitor on her heel. This kid was a fighter and I had to admit, that gave me some comfort.
The first several months with Sarah were a little rough, though. She had feeding issues and never slept more than two hours at a time until she was 8 months old. And she absolutely hated riding in the car. She would scream and cry from the moment you buckled her car seat into the car to the moment you took it out again.
For a while, we dealt with this by avoiding taking her anywhere, but eventually we had to bite the bullet and get back to our lives. Our most frequent car ride was a blessedly short trip to take Emma to and from nursery school. Emma had some sound sensitivity, so being cooped up in a car with a screaming baby was really very trying for her. Nothing we tried to calm or distract Sarah worked. She spit out the pacifiers, threw the rattles, and screamed even louder if we played music, apparently wanting to ensure that we were hearing her over the darned music! Emma desperately wanted to soothe the savage beast, so she kept trying new things to settle down her backseat-mate. One day she discovered that if she sang Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star to her, she would quiet down. From then on, every time we would get in the car she would say, “Don’t worry Sarah. Big sissy’s going to sing to you,” and she would sweetly distract her with the song until we got to our destination. When Emma had a friend come home with her from school, she would explain the drill to them. “My sister cries a lot in the car, but she likes it when I sing Twinkle, Twinkle. You can sing too if you want to.” And then two sweet little voices would serenade us for the trip home.
For the record, Sarah grew out of her car aversion in short order and became an equally good traveler. She has handled one of the biggest challenges life can throw at you with courage, grace and faith, earning her the title of Trooper Extraordinaire.
The first several months with Sarah were a little rough, though. She had feeding issues and never slept more than two hours at a time until she was 8 months old. And she absolutely hated riding in the car. She would scream and cry from the moment you buckled her car seat into the car to the moment you took it out again.
For a while, we dealt with this by avoiding taking her anywhere, but eventually we had to bite the bullet and get back to our lives. Our most frequent car ride was a blessedly short trip to take Emma to and from nursery school. Emma had some sound sensitivity, so being cooped up in a car with a screaming baby was really very trying for her. Nothing we tried to calm or distract Sarah worked. She spit out the pacifiers, threw the rattles, and screamed even louder if we played music, apparently wanting to ensure that we were hearing her over the darned music! Emma desperately wanted to soothe the savage beast, so she kept trying new things to settle down her backseat-mate. One day she discovered that if she sang Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star to her, she would quiet down. From then on, every time we would get in the car she would say, “Don’t worry Sarah. Big sissy’s going to sing to you,” and she would sweetly distract her with the song until we got to our destination. When Emma had a friend come home with her from school, she would explain the drill to them. “My sister cries a lot in the car, but she likes it when I sing Twinkle, Twinkle. You can sing too if you want to.” And then two sweet little voices would serenade us for the trip home.
For the record, Sarah grew out of her car aversion in short order and became an equally good traveler. She has handled one of the biggest challenges life can throw at you with courage, grace and faith, earning her the title of Trooper Extraordinaire.
Friday, November 20, 2009
The Trooper
Emma was always a great traveler. I guess she had to be. As you already know, she spent her first night in a hotel when she was only two days old. The next day we took a 3 hour drive to the next suite hotel, where we stayed for a month awaiting clearance to go home. And when we did finally get to head home with one-month old Emma, that was a 12-13 hour drive that we broke up into two, more manageable chunks.
Our most frequent trip over the years was the trip to see Emma’s grandparents. That was theoretically a 6-hour drive door to door, but since we had to travel down the I-95 corridor, it frequently took 8 hours and sometimes even 10. We had many memorably hairy trips over the years, like the time we got caught in a blizzard and had to get off the highway and find a motel; or the Mother’s Day weekend trip that it took us 3 hours just to cover the mile of road that approached the George Washington Bridge. But Emma always took these trips in stride. When she was small, I would sit in the back with her and we would read or color, sing along to our favorite songs, nap a little, and snack on the large selection of goodies we would bring along. Later she and Sarah would read on their own, watch a movie together, sing along to songs and, of course, snack. No matter how long or frustrating the trip, Emma never seemed to get crabby, even when her grown-up travel companions did. That’s what earned her the nickname, “The Trooper.”
I remember one particular trip home. Emma was probably going on 3. It had been a really long drive and all three of us were really looking forward to just being home. As we rounded the corner onto our street and our house came into view, Emma piped up in her sweet little voice, “Home again, home again, jiggety jig!”
P.S. Bonus points to the reader who can correctly name the nursery rhyme that that phrase is from.
Our most frequent trip over the years was the trip to see Emma’s grandparents. That was theoretically a 6-hour drive door to door, but since we had to travel down the I-95 corridor, it frequently took 8 hours and sometimes even 10. We had many memorably hairy trips over the years, like the time we got caught in a blizzard and had to get off the highway and find a motel; or the Mother’s Day weekend trip that it took us 3 hours just to cover the mile of road that approached the George Washington Bridge. But Emma always took these trips in stride. When she was small, I would sit in the back with her and we would read or color, sing along to our favorite songs, nap a little, and snack on the large selection of goodies we would bring along. Later she and Sarah would read on their own, watch a movie together, sing along to songs and, of course, snack. No matter how long or frustrating the trip, Emma never seemed to get crabby, even when her grown-up travel companions did. That’s what earned her the nickname, “The Trooper.”
I remember one particular trip home. Emma was probably going on 3. It had been a really long drive and all three of us were really looking forward to just being home. As we rounded the corner onto our street and our house came into view, Emma piped up in her sweet little voice, “Home again, home again, jiggety jig!”
P.S. Bonus points to the reader who can correctly name the nursery rhyme that that phrase is from.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
She Reads!
Emma had an instant love of books and I’m really not exaggerating when I say “instant,” as the picture to the left shows. I love this picture. Emma is only about a week old, but already she is staring intently at the brightly colored cardboard book that Peter is holding up to her. You can see by the intensity of her gaze that she is soaking in every little detail her newly developing brain will allow.
She loved to read with us and we would spend hours and hours snuggled together on the floor or couch working our way through a selection of favorite books. When she found a book she liked, and she pretty much liked them all, she would want it read again and again and again. So it was not surprising that by the time she was two, there were a fair number of books that she could pull from the bookshelf and recite word for word.
By the time she was three, the number of books she had managed to memorize was pretty impressive. If I was busy cooking dinner or got a phone call, she would entertain herself by “reading” a book out loud to herself. Her dad and I loved trying to listen in on these recitations but we had to be sneaky. If she caught us spying on her she would march right over, hand us the book and demand (very politely, of course) to be read to, “Read this, peese.”
One night when she was three we were capping off our dinner of Chinese take-out with the customary fortune cookies. We took turns breaking into our cookies and reading the fortune, Peter first, then me, then Emma. When it was Emma’s turn she broke open the cookie and pulled out the fortune. I expected her to hand it to me so that I could read it for her, but instead, she looked at it herself and recited a very authentic sounding fortune. Peter and I looked at each other, then back at her, a little bewildered by what had just happened. “ Wow, that’s a cool fortune, Emma. Can I see it?” She handed me the little piece of paper and there, word for word, was the fortune she had just recited – just read! When had that happened? When had she learned to read? And not just little first words like “cat” or “dog”; but Chinese fortune words, like “amazing” and “future.”
Fortunately, learning to read did not mark the end of reading together and we spent many more years snuggled together sharing a good book. More stories to come…
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Another Willow Tale
One early evening I let Willow out in the yard to attend to her business. A few minutes after letting her out she was scratching to be let back in. I opened the door and the smell of skunk assaulted me – Willow had been sprayed. But it was too late to grab her. Horrified by what had happened to her, Willow had made a beeline to Emma’s room and had disappeared under her bed. I ran after her frantically calling her name with 3 year old Emma trailing close behind me, also calling her name. When we got to Emma’s room, Emma and I continued our frantic pursuit with me on the floor on my stomach, trying to grab the dog from under the bed and Emma bouncing on top of her bed, still frantically calling, “Willow, Willow, Willow!” After a few minutes of this, it became clear to me that I was going to need to try something else and I ran downstairs to get a broom to flush Willow out from under the bed. When I got back upstairs, a very out of breath Emma paused from her jumping and yelling Willow’s name and said, “Mom, why are we doing this?”
That was quintessential Emma, always right in the middle of whatever was going on, even when she wasn’t sure exactly what was going on.
That was quintessential Emma, always right in the middle of whatever was going on, even when she wasn’t sure exactly what was going on.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Emma's Room
Emma’s bedroom is the nicest in the house, just ask the dog. We moved into this house when Emma was two. But it wasn’t until Emma was 3 and got her first big girl bed that our dog Willow discovered the virtues of Emma’s room. You see, Emma’s new bed got bathed in the midday sunlight, which made it ideal for basking. And the bed-top perch offered different views of the street from her bedroom’s three windows, making it the perfect place for a pooch to conduct afternoon neighborhood patrols.
Emma tolerated her roommate pretty patiently until Willow started messing with her stuff. When Emma would go up to her room and find her precious Beanie Babies flung from their rightful spot on the bed, she started to get annoyed. And Willow did occasionally leave behind unwanted gifts. Sometimes it was just her smell or dirty paw prints, but occasionally the gifts were more offensive.
I think Emma was 6 years old when she finally decided she had had enough. She started closing her bedroom door to keep Willow from getting in. But the door kept finding its way open again, so she had to take more extreme measures. She made a sign and posted it on her bedroom door about 2 feet from the floor, right at Willow’s eye level. The sign said “Keep Out!” And then, because Willow was not known to be a particularly smart or obedient dog, she added, “That means you, Willow!”
Emma tolerated her roommate pretty patiently until Willow started messing with her stuff. When Emma would go up to her room and find her precious Beanie Babies flung from their rightful spot on the bed, she started to get annoyed. And Willow did occasionally leave behind unwanted gifts. Sometimes it was just her smell or dirty paw prints, but occasionally the gifts were more offensive.
I think Emma was 6 years old when she finally decided she had had enough. She started closing her bedroom door to keep Willow from getting in. But the door kept finding its way open again, so she had to take more extreme measures. She made a sign and posted it on her bedroom door about 2 feet from the floor, right at Willow’s eye level. The sign said “Keep Out!” And then, because Willow was not known to be a particularly smart or obedient dog, she added, “That means you, Willow!”
Monday, November 16, 2009
Cookie Hands
For some reason, when you lose someone, your mind recalls them in isolated details: their hair, their voice, their eyes, their laugh. Maybe it’s because that’s all the heart can take – missing one detail at a time. Today, I am missing Emma’s hands.
I have lots of memories of those hands at work: knitting, baking cookies, playing the flute, striking a pose, gracefully punctuating a dance routine. But one of my most vivid memories of her hands at work is from when she was a baby. If she was being held by someone other than me or her dad, she would extend her hands out to us, curling and uncurling her fingers to try pull us close and saying “come-a, come-a.” Each time she folded and unfolded those tiny fingers she tugged on my heartstrings.
There is nothing quite so sweet as the soft, round, dimpled hands of a baby or toddler. My sister calls them cookie hands, because they look puffed up, like freshly baked cookies. Emma’s hands stayed small and soft and rounded all through her life. As a teenager, she would sometimes look at her hands with disdain and say, “Look at these tiny baby hands” to which I would respond, “Those are you cookie hands. I love your cookie hands!” and bend over to give them some big, loud smooches. How I wish could kiss those sweet little cookie hands again. Come-a, come-a, Emma Jane.
I have lots of memories of those hands at work: knitting, baking cookies, playing the flute, striking a pose, gracefully punctuating a dance routine. But one of my most vivid memories of her hands at work is from when she was a baby. If she was being held by someone other than me or her dad, she would extend her hands out to us, curling and uncurling her fingers to try pull us close and saying “come-a, come-a.” Each time she folded and unfolded those tiny fingers she tugged on my heartstrings.
There is nothing quite so sweet as the soft, round, dimpled hands of a baby or toddler. My sister calls them cookie hands, because they look puffed up, like freshly baked cookies. Emma’s hands stayed small and soft and rounded all through her life. As a teenager, she would sometimes look at her hands with disdain and say, “Look at these tiny baby hands” to which I would respond, “Those are you cookie hands. I love your cookie hands!” and bend over to give them some big, loud smooches. How I wish could kiss those sweet little cookie hands again. Come-a, come-a, Emma Jane.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Knitting
For Christmas the year before last, Emma gave me a shoe box with a ball of yarn, knitting needles that she had whittled herself out of some sticks she had found in the yard, and a coupon that she had artfully designed on the computer to look official. The coupon could be exchanged for knitting lessons from Emma herself.
I appreciated the gift on so many levels. First, I appreciated that she had taken the time when she was really so very busy to make a gift herself. Second, I appreciated that she was pledging more time that she didn’t have to try to teach me something. And, third, I appreciated that she had confidence that I could learn to knit, a confidence that I thought might be misplaced. Emma was always good at whatever she tried and was particularly good with her hands. Me – not so much. I’ve just never had the patience, focus or creative vision for crafts. But here she was telling me that she was confident that I, too, could learn how to knit.
Well, though the box sat right beside my bed for the next year, I never did cash in that coupon and have Emma teach me how to knit. So when she died much too early, it was a nagging regret. She had wanted me to learn and I didn’t find the time to do it. I promised myself and Emma that I would learn now. And I hoped that knitting might give me a sense of connection and comfort while I was desperately missing my little girl.
My sister-in-law offered to teach me and after a couple of lessons, I found that with a lot concentration, I could knit. I tried to move on to purling, but it turns out, that was overly optimistic. Nevertheless, I think Emma would be proud of me. I imagine her gazing at the pathetic square of stitches that has taken me way too long to create and I can hear her saying, as only someone who really loved you could, “See Mom, I told you that you could do it!”
I appreciated the gift on so many levels. First, I appreciated that she had taken the time when she was really so very busy to make a gift herself. Second, I appreciated that she was pledging more time that she didn’t have to try to teach me something. And, third, I appreciated that she had confidence that I could learn to knit, a confidence that I thought might be misplaced. Emma was always good at whatever she tried and was particularly good with her hands. Me – not so much. I’ve just never had the patience, focus or creative vision for crafts. But here she was telling me that she was confident that I, too, could learn how to knit.
Well, though the box sat right beside my bed for the next year, I never did cash in that coupon and have Emma teach me how to knit. So when she died much too early, it was a nagging regret. She had wanted me to learn and I didn’t find the time to do it. I promised myself and Emma that I would learn now. And I hoped that knitting might give me a sense of connection and comfort while I was desperately missing my little girl.
My sister-in-law offered to teach me and after a couple of lessons, I found that with a lot concentration, I could knit. I tried to move on to purling, but it turns out, that was overly optimistic. Nevertheless, I think Emma would be proud of me. I imagine her gazing at the pathetic square of stitches that has taken me way too long to create and I can hear her saying, as only someone who really loved you could, “See Mom, I told you that you could do it!”
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Emma Time
With all the news of Sesame Street turning 40, we couldn’t help but stop to think of our favorite characters and episodes. When Emma was about 3 years old, she had a particular segment that she just loved. It featured a hammer that danced around pounding in nails. Sesame Street always throws a little something in there for the adults, and in this segment it was using a take off on M C Hammer’s U Can’t Touch This as a backdrop (get it, MC Hammer – a hammer pounding nails?).
Perhaps to fully understand this story you need to see the segment for yourselves, so click here
Okay, are you back? I’ll continue with the story. Of course, Emma had no idea who MC Hammer was. The double entendre was doubly lost on Emma, however, because she misheard the lyrics. When she heard it for the first time she began jumping up and down and chanting along with the chorus, “Go Emma, Go Emma, Go Emma!” And no matter how many more times she saw it, she was always convinced that they had developed that segment just for her.
And, in case you wondered, that story was the inspiration for name of the blog.
Perhaps to fully understand this story you need to see the segment for yourselves, so click here
Okay, are you back? I’ll continue with the story. Of course, Emma had no idea who MC Hammer was. The double entendre was doubly lost on Emma, however, because she misheard the lyrics. When she heard it for the first time she began jumping up and down and chanting along with the chorus, “Go Emma, Go Emma, Go Emma!” And no matter how many more times she saw it, she was always convinced that they had developed that segment just for her.
And, in case you wondered, that story was the inspiration for name of the blog.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Another Kindergarten Story
About three weeks into the start of her Kindergarten year, Emma came home with big news. “Mom,” she said, “Did you know that there was a thing called recess?" I said, “Yes, haven’t you been going to recess all year?” “No” she told me, “I went for the first time today. Mrs. S. told me if I ate my lunch a little faster, I would get to go out and play with the other kids. I didn’t know that they were going out to play when they finished their lunches. No wonder they eat so fast!”
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Halloween 1997
It would be neater to proceed through my memories in tight chronological order, but the mind doesn’t store memories in neat little file folders marked with the day and year and organized in ascending order. Rather, a phrase, a smell, a song, a season, will set a memory free and you have to snatch it and pin it down before it escapes from your reach.
We just “celebrated” our first Halloween without Emma. Actually, “survived” would be a better word. Emma loved to dress up in costumes and loved to eat candy even more, so it was surprising to some that she was not a fan of Halloween. The costume parades were fun and she did like getting candy, but the ghoulish decorations that appeared in the neighborhood as Halloween approached each year made her anxious and uncomfortable.
The fall that she started Kindergarten, she had been off to a fine start until sometime in the beginning of October, when suddenly she seemed a little clingy and out of sorts. We were having a difficult time getting to the source of her anxiety until I finally realized that it had begun about the time the Halloween decorations started appearing in our neighbors' windows and on their doors. I asked Emma if she was feeling a little nervous because Halloween was coming and the story spilled out. It turns out that her music teacher had put some Halloween decorations up in the music room. One of the decorations, a cardboard figure of a cartoon=like vampire, was scaring the daylight out of Emma. We devised a plan. Over the weekend we made a cornucopia basket out of brown construction paper and then Emma carefully cut out multi-colored fruits and vegetables that she pasted into the basket we had created. On Monday, she presented the cornucopia to her music teacher and suggested it might be a nice substitution for the vampire which, she told her, was really quite scary. The music teacher quickly exchanged the decorations; horrified that poor Emma had been frightened. At the end of the day, Emma bounded off the bus with a big smile on her face and a noticeably lighter demeanor. Problem solved!
We just “celebrated” our first Halloween without Emma. Actually, “survived” would be a better word. Emma loved to dress up in costumes and loved to eat candy even more, so it was surprising to some that she was not a fan of Halloween. The costume parades were fun and she did like getting candy, but the ghoulish decorations that appeared in the neighborhood as Halloween approached each year made her anxious and uncomfortable.
The fall that she started Kindergarten, she had been off to a fine start until sometime in the beginning of October, when suddenly she seemed a little clingy and out of sorts. We were having a difficult time getting to the source of her anxiety until I finally realized that it had begun about the time the Halloween decorations started appearing in our neighbors' windows and on their doors. I asked Emma if she was feeling a little nervous because Halloween was coming and the story spilled out. It turns out that her music teacher had put some Halloween decorations up in the music room. One of the decorations, a cardboard figure of a cartoon=like vampire, was scaring the daylight out of Emma. We devised a plan. Over the weekend we made a cornucopia basket out of brown construction paper and then Emma carefully cut out multi-colored fruits and vegetables that she pasted into the basket we had created. On Monday, she presented the cornucopia to her music teacher and suggested it might be a nice substitution for the vampire which, she told her, was really quite scary. The music teacher quickly exchanged the decorations; horrified that poor Emma had been frightened. At the end of the day, Emma bounded off the bus with a big smile on her face and a noticeably lighter demeanor. Problem solved!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Our First Night Together
Our first night together was spent in a hotel room far away from home. I remember talking to my mother and trying to describe this incredible little being who had come into our lives – so beautiful, so perfect. And she had been a complete angel since we had left the hospital – rode peacefully in the car, drank her bottles enthusiastically, burped with gusto and then drifted off to sleep. Peter and I were feeling quite confident in our parenting skills. So what that we hadn’t really had much time to read any parenting books? This baby stuff was a breeze. My mother, a pediatrician and mother of seven, asked us if we wanted her to fly out to be with us and help out during the first week or so. She had done that for my sister and brothers when their children were born and they considered her a baby whisperer. We told her we’d love her help, but there was no reason to hurry. We had everything under control. “Take your time,” we reassured her, “we’ll be fine.”
That night Emma was up crying all night – in a hotel – surrounded by people – with only about 2 square feet of walking room – and brand new parents who, as it turned out, did not have a clue what to do. The next morning, after we all got a good nap, we laughed at our over-confidence and put a call into my mother. “Mom,” I said, “how fast do you think you can get here?”
That night Emma was up crying all night – in a hotel – surrounded by people – with only about 2 square feet of walking room – and brand new parents who, as it turned out, did not have a clue what to do. The next morning, after we all got a good nap, we laughed at our over-confidence and put a call into my mother. “Mom,” I said, “how fast do you think you can get here?”
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Beginning
Emma’s arrival in our life ended a very painful chapter of infertility for us. She was a light illuminating the darkness that had descended upon us, and she arrived in a flash. After carefully considering the risks, opportunities and costs, we had decided against a domestic adoption. But as soon as our home study was completed a unique situation arose, and in a matter of weeks, we found ourselves expectant parents. Just one month later, Emma was born and we held her for the first time.
Now let’s be honest, most babies are not that cute when they are first born. They are red and wrinkly and a little ill-proportioned. Not Emma. She was already gorgeous – soft round face, piercing blue eyes and perfectly proportioned. She was also already sweet. In fact, she was such a delightful little package, the nurses in the nursery were not quite sure they wanted to hand her over to us. They looked us over carefully and reluctantly let us hold and feed the precious little baby they had cooed over for the last several hours.
When I held her for the first time, my heart melted, really melted. I could feel the pain dripping away and my spirit lightening. Two months before her arrival in our lives we had considered ourselves miserably unlucky people because it seemed that we would never realize our dream of being parents. Yet here we were holding a beautiful baby – our beautiful baby. Turns out we were the luckiest people in the world.
Now let’s be honest, most babies are not that cute when they are first born. They are red and wrinkly and a little ill-proportioned. Not Emma. She was already gorgeous – soft round face, piercing blue eyes and perfectly proportioned. She was also already sweet. In fact, she was such a delightful little package, the nurses in the nursery were not quite sure they wanted to hand her over to us. They looked us over carefully and reluctantly let us hold and feed the precious little baby they had cooed over for the last several hours.
When I held her for the first time, my heart melted, really melted. I could feel the pain dripping away and my spirit lightening. Two months before her arrival in our lives we had considered ourselves miserably unlucky people because it seemed that we would never realize our dream of being parents. Yet here we were holding a beautiful baby – our beautiful baby. Turns out we were the luckiest people in the world.
Monday, November 9, 2009
About this blog
On June 17, 2009 my precious 17-year-old daughter, Emma Jane, passed away. Emma was beautiful, bright, and articulate, with an effervescent personality. She was a talented musician who shared her musical gifts generously and participated in every musical ensemble she could fit into her schedule. She was a caring daughter, sister, and friend and a bright light in the lives of many, many people.
Emma took her own life.
When Emma killed herself she created a tsunami of destruction that swept up family, friends, teachers, ministers, mentors and neighbors. All of us struggled against the current of guilt, pain, shock and bewilderment. For her immediate family, her father, sister and me, life as we knew it ended.
We will never fully understand why Emma ended her life; what caused what must have been an incredibly deep sense of despair and hopelessness; or why she couldn’t reach out to us or to the many other caring adults and professionals she had in her life. But let’s face it, answers, even if we could find them, won’t fill the incredible hole in our hearts.
What is even more tragic is that this single act of Emma’s threatens to obliterate the almost 17 years that came before it. It was an act so shockingly out of character that it instantly rendered her a stranger, even to those of us who were closest to her. Like a film negative, it recast the darks and lights of our lives together. Suddenly the joyous times are muted in the background and the moments of sadness and defeat are featured prominently in the image.
I can’t let that happen.
So, I’m starting this blog to restore the memory, image by image, story by story, of that wonderful, delightful person that I knew. A person who brought me unparalleled joy - the kind of joy you can only bring others when you feel it yourself.
And I’m sharing it with you to continue her legacy. Emma had a power to touch lives that we only fully understood after she died. We were amazed by the stories that emerged of how Emma had made an impression with her musical gifts or kindness, taught a lesson, rescued someone from loneliness. She touched people’s souls, and I hope that these stories of Emma will touch your soul. In that small way her too-short life can continue to have meaning.
Emma took her own life.
When Emma killed herself she created a tsunami of destruction that swept up family, friends, teachers, ministers, mentors and neighbors. All of us struggled against the current of guilt, pain, shock and bewilderment. For her immediate family, her father, sister and me, life as we knew it ended.
We will never fully understand why Emma ended her life; what caused what must have been an incredibly deep sense of despair and hopelessness; or why she couldn’t reach out to us or to the many other caring adults and professionals she had in her life. But let’s face it, answers, even if we could find them, won’t fill the incredible hole in our hearts.
What is even more tragic is that this single act of Emma’s threatens to obliterate the almost 17 years that came before it. It was an act so shockingly out of character that it instantly rendered her a stranger, even to those of us who were closest to her. Like a film negative, it recast the darks and lights of our lives together. Suddenly the joyous times are muted in the background and the moments of sadness and defeat are featured prominently in the image.
I can’t let that happen.
So, I’m starting this blog to restore the memory, image by image, story by story, of that wonderful, delightful person that I knew. A person who brought me unparalleled joy - the kind of joy you can only bring others when you feel it yourself.
And I’m sharing it with you to continue her legacy. Emma had a power to touch lives that we only fully understood after she died. We were amazed by the stories that emerged of how Emma had made an impression with her musical gifts or kindness, taught a lesson, rescued someone from loneliness. She touched people’s souls, and I hope that these stories of Emma will touch your soul. In that small way her too-short life can continue to have meaning.
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