New Year's Eve

I have never found New Year’s Eve to be a particularly memorable holiday, but there is one New Year’s Eve celebration with Emma that I remember vividly. If I were at home, I’d dig through our photos to find a picture of the celebration that I am thinking of. But I don’t really need it. The image that would be reflected in the photo is etched clearly in my mind.

Emma is 3. She is wearing her favorite hand-me-down flannel nightgown. It is white with light blue flowers sprinkled over it. It has three buttons at the neck and a ruffle across the chest and bottom. The elastic cuffs also end in a ruffle, accentuating those precious little cookie hands. Emma’s hair still has the fine, soft quality of baby hair. It is just about shoulder length and still has the baby curl that some told me would disappear the first time I cut it. She has bangs which draw your eyes to her pretty blue ones that match the flowers on her nightgown. The photo is taken minutes before we will celebrate the New Year and her face is full of anticipation and excitement. She looks wide awake, which is the first clue that this is not your standard midnight celebration of the New Year.

We were staying with Peter’s parents, as were Peter’s sister, her husband and their two kids. I believe it was my bright idea to stage a kids' celebration of the New Year at 8 pm. I thought that if we played it right they would feel satisfied that they had had the New Year’s Eve experience and would be content to go off to bed. We spent the day preparing for the celebration with Emma and her two cousins. We made a trip to the grocery store to buy sparkling cider for the New Year’s toast. We decorated paper plates and stapled two together, filling the center with dried beans to make noisemakers. We made hats out of construction paper that we had decorated generously. After dinner the kids got bathed and donned their pajamas and nightgowns.  As 8 pm approached, we popped open the cider and filled the glasses, donned our paper hats and grabbed our noisemakers. Then the countdown began. Ten, nine, eight – the feeling of excitement was palpable. Seven, six, five – the kids eyes were darting around the room, trying to capture every aspect of the excitement that would be unleashed in just a few more seconds. Four, three, two, one – Happy New Year!!!

We shook our noisemakers wildly, smooched our loved ones, and drank our cider. Then came the comment from my 7 year old niece which accurately describes the feeling I have had at exactly 12:05 am every New Year’s eve that I have bothered to stay up. “Was that it?” she said. "Somehow I thought it would be more exciting."

Danny Boy

Emma was a very active performer, so the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas was filled with concerts and/or performances from the time she joined the Fairfield County Children’s Choir in 5th grade.  Sarah is also a performer, so between the two girls, we would have a concert or performance every weekend and usually one weeknight, as well.  Part of surviving our first holiday season without Emma was enduring the painful reminders cast by the concerts we attended this year, as well as the pain of the concerts we no longer needed to attend.

Maybe it was this season of music that sparked this memory of Peter’s.

He was in the kitchen, correcting papers or doing some other schoolwork, when he was distracted by music coming from our living room. It was an a cappella version of Danny Boy. He immediately recognized the song, it was my father’s favorite, but he did not recognize the artist. Peter had always thought the song a little sappy and never quite understood what there was about it that could turn a gruff Irishman to mush.  But this rendition was striking a chord in him. The single voice was incredibly pure and plaintive. It was a voice he had not heard before and he needed to identify it. He called into the next room, “What’s that I’m hearing?" Emma appeared around the corner. “I’m sorry. Am I bothering you?” she said. “Emma, was that you?” “Yes, Daddy, but I can stop.” “Don’t stop!” Peter said. “Emma, I didn’t know you could sing like that! Definitely keep singing!”

I don’t know if you would call it irony or coincidence or cruelty, but Danny Boy was performed by two different ensembles at Sarah’s middle school winter concert this December. Others may play it or sing it, but for us it will forever be owned by two that we have lost: my dad, who eyes welled up whenever he heard it, and Emma, who made her dad understand that for the first time.

Snowflakes

Last night I dreamed of snowflakes, but not the white, frozen, crystalline kind. I was dreaming of handcrafted snowflakes, the kind made by folding a piece of paper over, and over and over again; and then strategically cutting shapes out of it by snipping, and snipping and snipping again.

Emma went through a long snowflake phase. For many years she would spend the winter months, when we were holed up inside more than we would like to be, creating these paper gems. The more she made them, the more intricate they became. She learned that if she trimmed around the outside of her folded paper she could alter the shape of the flake. She experimented with different sizes and shapes of snips and marveled at her creation when she unfolded the paper.

Soon the plain paper flakes did not hold her attention. She took to adorning them with glitter glue pens so that they would sparkle in the light just like a real snowflake. When we were lucky enough to get real snow, she would do field research, freezing a piece of black construction paper and then going outside to try to capture individual flakes on the frozen, black surface so that she could examine them more closely. We got one snowstorm when this technique worked particularly well, and the specimens we captured inspired a whole new flurry of snowflake generation.

During Emma’s snowflake phase we would find snowflakes scattered purposefully about the house, taking the place of the little love notes she customarily left. We would find them on our pillows, our bedside tables, and at our places at the table. She would post a particularly beautiful one on the refrigerator or bulletin board. And the teachers she had during this phase got an occasional dusting of snow, as well.

When I was dreaming of these snowflakes I understood anew the fascination that they had held. Each one was, it occurred to me, a little like seeing real snow for the very first time. You never knew quite what to expect when you unfolded that paper. The artistry and individuality of the creation was a surprise even to the creator. And I suppose the dream was also a reminder of an important lesson that Emma taught me: to look at all of creation with the wonder and awe it deserves.

A Rose by Any Other Name, continued

I thought of two more nicknames that should have been on my list:
Eve
and
Evie
And thank you for the two sent in by readers:
E.J., Jr
and
VonBon

Car Ride Conversations

We had a long drive to visit Emma’s grandparents today and it reminded me of the car rides we used to take to the camp in the Adirondacks that Emma and Sarah attended and where Peter and I worked for 5 years. About halfway through our trip to camp we would pass by the town of Half Moon, New York. I just love the name of that town and I could never resist commenting on how I thought Half Moon would be the perfect place to own a horse farm. For one thing, it inspired great horse farm names. I leaned towards the name Galaxy Farms. Galaxy Farms in Half Moon, New York – it has a ring to it, right?


The conversation would inevitably wind around to me conceding that I knew that at this stage in my life, I was unlikely to establish a horse farm in Half Moon, New York or any other town for that matter. It was at this point that Emma would say, “I’ll have a farm for you, Mom. I’d love to have a farm.”


The farm of Emma’s dreams, however, was not a horse farm. Emma wanted a more well-rounded farm, a sort of Little House on the Prairie-type farm. She’d have small numbers of lots of different kinds of animals. She planned on growing a wide variety of crops, but on a scale that would probably be considered a large garden in any place more rural than the suburbs where we live.  She would have a small orchard with lots of different kinds of fruit trees and would have blueberry and raspberry plants, too.  Of course, she would make good use of everything she raised or grew. She would make homemade jams, pickle vegetables, spin yarn and weave cloth. And she promised us incredible homemade farmhouse meals when we visited.


In part to lure me into her embracing her vision of the dream farm, she also planned to have three horses on her farm. She said that one of the horses would be all mine, and even allowed me to pick out the name. I said I would name it Sylvester McMonkey McBean and call it Sly, for short. She said Peter could have his own horse, too. He specifically requested a nag, something whose highest gear would be walk. He planned on naming his Buck-buck McPhee. Emma was going to have a horse of her own that she was going to name Honey. Sarah didn’t want a horse, but Emma said she could ride Honey whenever she visited.


That farm in Half Moon will always live on in my imagination. And when I visit that farm, Emma will be always be right there, waiting for me at the farmhouse door and beckoning me inside to sample her fresh baked biscuits and homemade raspberry jam.

Christmas Traditions

I love hearing about people’s Christmas traditions. It seems each family puts their own special stamp on this holiday.

In our family, Christmas Eve is spent at Gram’s house with lots of cousins and aunts and uncles. The Christmas Eve dinner features lobster and swordfish and is a major production, especially considering that there are more than 20-25 people in attendance. Back at our house, the Christmas Eve ritual begins with the ceremonial hanging of the stockings. This event was based on the tradition in my family and is always filmed. Each member of the family dances into the living room with his/her stocking and hangs it from the hearth. Enthusiasm and dramatic flair are a must.  This is followed by the writing and the reading of the letter to Santa. Snacks are placed on the coffee table for Santa and his reindeer and then off to bed.

In the morning no one is allowed downstairs until everyone is up. Peter gets the video camera ready and then we all go down together to see what Santa has brought. Santa does some special things at our house. He always brings balloons. There are a dozen green and red balloons floating above the hearth and two giant mylar balloons, one for Emma and one for Sarah. The stockings are jam-packed and new packages have been placed under the tree. And Santa always places candy canes on the tree. He’s eaten his muffin and the snacks for the reindeer are gone. He has read the Christmas letter and always writes back, showing a special appreciation for the goodies that were left and the sentiments that have been expressed.

This year Santa clearly understood how difficult this holiday would be for us and expressed that in his note to us. He left the balloons, the candy canes were on the tree and the packages were beneath it. But this year Santa did something new; at least we think it was Santa. Our tree was sprinkled with beautiful white butterflies and Santa left three delicate purple ornaments in Emma’s stocking.  It is little things like that that helped keep Emma in our Christmas this year. And that is the best gift we could get.

The Origin of Fabulous - Christmas Edition

Thank you for keeping Emma and us in your thoughts and prayers this Christmas. Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas.

Letter to Santa

Every year our girls write a note to Santa that they place on the coffee table in our living room beside the muffins and coffee that they leave for Santa and the apples and carrots that they leave for the reindeer. They never outgrew this tradition. They did it last year when Emma was 16 and we will do it again tonight in her honor. It will be good to feel a little bit of the spirit of a girl who was never to old to enjoy the magic of Christmas.


When Emma was 9, this is the letter she wrote to Santa:


Dear Santa,
I'm terribly sorry but the only things I want for Xmas are peace, love and joy.


Love, Emma


P.S. Each reindeer gets 2 carrots and 2 apples


Santa wrote back. This is what he said:


Dear Emma,


What a wonderful wish for Christmas. That has always been my dream as well. You and I will just have to try to spread as much joy as we can. Thanks for the treats.
Love, Santa


Wishing you a Christmas full of peace, love and joy.

Pardonnez Mois

Emma started taking French in 7th grade and she was a natural. She had a great ear for languages, just as she had a great ear for music. That good ear, coupled with a lack of inhibition, meant that she soon became a fluid, if not fluent French speaker.

Emma took every opportunity to speak French, even if she had to create those opportunities. She was frequently chattering in French as she went about her business around the house and this scene played out rather frequently at dinner.

We’d all be sitting around the dinner table having a lively conversation and Emma would pipe in with an emphatic point – in French. Of course, that would bring the conversation to a screeching halt. We’d all look at her a little puzzled and one of us, usually Sarah, would say “What did you say, Emma?” Emma would then repeat what she had said a little louder and a little more slowly, but still in French.  The look of amusement would spread around the table, reaching everyone but Emma.  Then someone would say in a slow, reminding tone, “Emma, we don’t speak French.”

And this is when the smile would hit her face. “Oh yes, I forgot,” she’d say. "Quel dommage!"

A Rose by Any Other Name

I think every parent has at least one nickname for their child and we were no different. Neither of our girls are called by their given name very often.  Emma, however, has a particularly long string of nicknames that I thought I would share with you. I’ll throw in the nicknames her friends called her, too.

Some of these names will seem very strange and convoluted and you will be tempted to inquire about the story behind the name. Don’t. We wouldn’t be able to explain. The names are like a jazz riff on a melody that we love. 

So, without further ado, I bring you Emma Jane, AKA:

E.J.
Ejer
Ejer JJ
E.J. Jazzy Emm
E.J. Jehossenfeffer von Hoosey Magoosey
E.J. Jehossenfeffer
E.J. Jehossenfeff
Jeehoss
Emster
Emmie Lou
Emmie Lou-ya
Lou-ya
Lou Kazoo
Boo
Boo-ya
Emma von
Von
Christelle
Fabulous

I have a feeling that this list is incomplete, so don’t be surprised if there are further installments on this theme. And maybe you had your own special nickname for her. If so, send it in.

The Origin of Fabulous

Peaches and Cream

It’s bitter cold today and the snow is piled high outside. It is bringing back a very specific memory of Emma – not a story, just a memory of a little part of her.

Emma had the most beautiful skin. It was very fair, almost white, but was brushed with pink undertones, the definition of a peaches and cream complexion. And it was so soft. There was nothing so delightful as placing your cheek next to her soft cheek, or giving her a kiss on those soft cheeks.

I’m thinking of those cheeks because I remember what those cheeks would look like on a day like today, when she would bundle up and head outside to play with the neighbors in the snow. Her cheeks would get very red and she would get a very small, flat, raised bump under each eye, an indication that her tender skin had had enough of the frigid conditions and it was time to come in.

We’d bring her in and warm her up with some cocoa and I’d put my face next to those cheeks to be sure they were okay. And they were – still soft and sweet, but very, very cold.

Voila, My Scar

Those who know the story of Madeline, know that she had a scar from an appendectomy that she was very proud of. The Madeline doll bears that same scar. But Sarah’s Madeline doll has had an additional surgery. About 5 years ago, Madeline had a serious thinning of the fabric of her scalp. It was clear that a graft was needed. The only question was who would perform this delicate surgery.

It really didn’t take Sarah long to choose Madeline’s surgeon. Peter and I were quickly eliminated from consideration - too great a chance that we would botch it up. She could ask Pat, but that might mean handing over Madeline and maybe even being without her for a night – out of the question. Emma was the obvious choice.

Emma gladly accepted the job and took it very seriously. She combed through her fabric scraps and found some red fabric that pretty closely matched the color of Madeline’s scalp. She cut a square that was just the right size and neatly folded down the edges so that the patch wouldn’t fray. Then she stitched it to Madeline’s head with tiny, precise stitches. It was perfect.

I love to look at that patch on Madeline’s head because it tells a love story. A story of the trust one sister placed in the other.  A story of the care one sister took to do something just right because she knew how much it mattered to the other. Madeline has always been important to Sarah, but now I am guessing she is even more so – a gift from a precious sister, with a patch that symbolizes the love they shared for each other.

Madeline

As soon as Sarah learned to walk she seemed to be magnetically drawn to Emma’s room. In the evening after dinner, I would carry Sarah upstairs to begin the bath and bedtime routine. I would put her down in the upstairs hallway and turn my back to put the gate at the top of the stairs. When I would turn back around, she would be gone. I always knew where to find her, though. She would be in Emma’s room hunched over Emma’s basket of stuffed toys, deciding which one she would steal away with that evening.  And the toy she almost always chose was Emma’s Madeline doll.

This scene repeated itself night after night. Each time I would come into Emma’s room and find Sarah with the doll in her hand about to make off with her. Each time, I would tell Sarah that Madeline belonged to Emma and she needed to put her back in the basket. One night, Emma intervened in the scene. As I was telling Sarah once again that she needed to put Madeline back, Emma interrupted. “That’s okay, Mommy. I think Sarah likes Madeline more than I do. She can have her. Go ahead, Sarah. You can take her.”

I think Sarah would count that as one of the best gifts she has ever received. When Emma gave Sarah Madeline, she was a beautiful rag doll, with a sparkling clean embroidered face, red yarn hair, a red-checked dress, little white socks and the signature blue overcoat and yellow-brimmed hat. Now, most of Madeline’s hair is gone, the stitching on her face has worn off, the fabric on her legs is paper thin or gone, and her color, well, you don’t want to know. She has been a very loved little dolly from a very loved and loving big sister.

Good Night, Sleep Tight

Starting when the girls were babies, straight through the elementary school years, we had a rather long and elaborate bedtime ritual. It started with bath time, followed by a long story hour and ending with the custom tuck-in. Sarah liked to be rocked and then have her back rubbed. She had just one lovey, her Madeline doll, who went with her everywhere and was always a part of the tuck-in ritual.

Emma was another story. Emma had lots of loveys and they all needed to be included in the tuck-in routine. Emma’s main squeeze was a soft pink stuffed bear named Sparky that she had been given as a baby. She also had two blankets. First there was Soft Blankie. Soft Blankie was the older, more worn blanket. All the binding was gone and the blanket threads were fraying and tangled. At one point I had taken it away and replaced it with a new blanket because I thought she might get tangled in it in her sleep. Emma called the replacement blanket Cold Blankie because it still had the satin binding that she thought felt cold on her face when she snuggled with it. And, Emma had a large collection of Beanie Babies, each with their own name and significant place in the tuck-in ritual.

The tuck-in would start with the Beanie Babies. They would get tucked in, one by one, at the foot of Emma’s bed. There was a certain order that they were placed in the bed, which I don’t remember, but Emma probably would. Each would get a kiss and then be placed under the covers and pushed to the bottom of the bed. Next Emma would get in bed, clutching Sparky. We would tuck in Soft Blankie and Cold Blankie next to her and then, depending on whose turn it was, Peter or I would squeeze onto the edge of the bed and keep her company until she got sleepy, chatting a little about the day that was and the day that was to be.

I know these separate, and personal bedtime rituals were important to each of the girls. It was their own time. In fact, I think it was during one of these quiet moments, not long after Sarah was born, me squeezed next to Emma on her bed, lights off, waiting to get sleepy, that Emma said to me with a sigh, “Remember the good ol’ days…before Sarah was born.”

Christmas Carols

This isn’t a memory of Emma, but it is definitely a story of Emma. It happened just two days ago.

One of Emma’s friends had arranged to stop by on Monday evening to bring us something. A little past 6:30 pm the doorbell rang as expected and we opened the door to find Emma’s friend with a box in her hands. We invited her in, but she hesitated, placing the box just inside the door on the floor and then stepping back. “Well, I have a surprise for you,” she said. With that, two more of Emma’s friends rounded the corner and walked up our front steps, singing a Christmas carol. The tears started streaming down my face as they sang. It was so sweet that they were trying to bring us a little Christmas joy.  We urged all three to come in, and the first friend piped up again. “Well,” she said, “there’s more.”

With that a whole crew of Emma’s friends emerged from the shadows and filed into our house, singing as they went. There were fifteen of them in all. They strolled onto our living room stage, the place where Emma had performed her shows for us for so many years, and formed a semi-circle by our Christmas tree. They worked their way seamlessly through a carefully planned repertoire of Christmas music, complete with solos and duets and four part harmonies. There were tears streaming down my face as they sang, but they courageously kept going. They understood the tears. They were prepared for the tears. And they were on a mission.

When they finished, they presented us with doughnuts and Christmas cookies and gladly dug into both when we offered them. They sat in our living room for the next hour telling stories and laughing and being silly and for a little while, my heart felt lighter. Each of us there that night so clearly carries Emma in our hearts. And as we gathered together in our living room, I felt her presence much more than her absence. That, I think, is a Christmas miracle.

Santa Lucia Day

This past Sunday was Santa Lucia day, a holiday that is celebrated in Sweden and several other Scandinavian countries. Since Peter is of Swedish descent, our family tried to incorporate this Swedish tradition into our family holiday traditions.

It’s appropriate that I’m writing the entry about Santa Lucia Day two days after the holiday. That’s how it usually went with us. At the beginning of December, when we were hauling out the Advent calendars and planning how we would spend our holiday season, we would always have enthusiastic intentions to celebrate Santa Lucia Day. However, it would usually be two days after Santa Lucia Day that any of us would give it a second thought.

There were a few rare occasions when we actually pulled it off. Santa Lucia is celebrated in Sweden with a procession led by an older girl who dresses as the patron saint in a white dress and wearing a crown of evergreens with candles in it. Some families will celebrate the holiday by having the oldest daughter dress as Santa Lucia and deliver a cardamom flavored sweet roll to their neighbors.

The first time that we managed to remember this holiday, Emma was already about 9 and was our family’s designated Lucia. This did not bother Sarah who, at the time, did not speak to anyone who was bigger than she was. The visit to the neighbors by Santa Lucia is supposed to be done after nightfall, so the girls and I had time to bake the sweets in the afternoon after school. Instead of the traditional cardamom roll, we made a coffee cake. It was easier to make and I thought it might be more appealing to the American palate. Emma got all dressed up in her white dress and we constructed a crown for her from some artificial greens and Hanukkah candles.

We let her make the deliveries on her own, but watched from the window, trying to imagine the conversations she was having along the route. And, of course, each of our neighbors had a precious story to tell us later of their visit from Santa Lucia.

Our Birds

Emma was 6 when she and Pat began a tradition of working together on surprises for us. For several weeks before Christmas that year, Emma would steal away to Pat’s house after school once or twice a week to work on their top secret project. When it was done, Pat found a box for it and she and Emma wrapped it in Christmas paper. Emma came home one afternoon with her pretty package and proudly placed it in under the tree. She couldn’t wait for us to open it on Christmas morning and when the time finally came, she made sure that her gift was the first one we opened. I can still see the look of excitement, pride and joyful anticipation on her face as we ripped into the paper.

Inside the box was a wall hanging with 3 beautiful appliqué birds: a bluejay, a cardinal and a goldfinch. Each bird was sitting on a little perch made from real tree twigs. In addition to being a beautiful decoration, the wall hanging captured a little bit of who Emma was at that time; a budding naturalist who could already correctly identify more species of backyard birds than most adults. The back of the wall hanging includes Emma’s signature in her 6 year-old scrawl: Emma, December 1998. I remember Peter lifting the wall hanging from the package and exclaiming, “Oh, Emma. This is so beautiful! Did you really make this?” And I remember the big smile on her face as she replied, “Yes, Daddy. I really made that. Do you like it?”

We love it, Emma. And we love you.

Pat

Pat came into our lives because she was Peter’s mentor teacher when he took his first teaching position. Apparently, Pat took that mentor role very seriously, because she became a fixture in our lives over the next 20 years. 

When Peter first met Pat she told him that she and her husband Alan would be his “storm family.” “My storm family?” Peter questioned. Pat explained that her home was closer to school and would be open to him if the weather was ever too bad for him to make the drive home. Pat was also one of the very first people in our lives to throw a welcoming shower for us when we got back home with our newborn Emma. And two years later, it was Pat who made sure that we had the inside track on a house that was coming on the market in her neighborhood. That was the kind of person she was. You always felt a bit more secure knowing that Pat was looking out for you.

We got that house and it landed us almost across the street from Pat and Alan, who became a third set of grandparents for our girls. Pat and Emma developed a very special bond. They loved all the same things: birds, plants, insects, and feathers. And Pat was a brilliant crafter who would invite Emma over to her workshop. They would sew and quilt and create beautiful handmade gifts together. Her influence on Emma was profound.

Pat died very suddenly almost 3 years ago and we all miss her terribly. But sometimes I like to think that Emma and Pat are back together, working on a project. It will be a surprise. We’ll just have to be patient.

Perfect Score

Today Sarah is singing with her middle school music group at a school fundraiser being held at a local bookstore. They did this last year at this time, too, and it brings back a vivid memory. 


Last year, while I was watching Sarah perform, Emma was about 45 minutes away auditioning for the regional music festival. Emma had been practicing the music for this audition for months and it played in all of our heads all the time. It was beautiful music and she played it beautifully, though, so we loved listening to her practice. 

This was Emma's third year auditioning for the music festival. Her first year she auditioned for voice, flute and piccolo. She missed qualifying on piccolo by one point and on flute by three points. But she did qualify for voice and sang in the regional festival chorus. The next year she auditioned for all three again and qualified for all three. This left her with a difficult choice. She chose to participate in the regional festival band on flute. This third year she had decided to make it a little easier for herself and she was just auditioning on flute.


Sarah's group had just finished their performance when my cell phone rang. It was Emma. "Mom, I got a perfect score!" I had to ask her to repeat what she said so that it could sink in. "Wow, Emma that's unbelievable. You must be so excited! " "I know. I am really excited," she responded. And she was excited. She was almost singing as she spoke. "You need to call Adrianne (her flute teacher)," I said. "Adrianne is going to be absolutely thrilled." "I know," said Emma. "I can't wait to tell her. Mom, this means I'll be first chair at the music festival" "That's amazing, Emm. But you know what? You deserve it. You really do."



Emma was absolutely on top of the world that day. That's how I like to remember her.

The Nutcracker

One of Emma’s favorite holiday movies was a video we had of a NYC Ballet production of George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker starring Damian Woetzel and Darci Kistler with Kevin Kline narrating. We probably watched that video 10 times each holiday season, until just recently, when we still  watched it at least once or twice during the season.


When Emma was 6, I got tickets to see the NYC Ballet’s The Nutcracker. It was the exact same production, with the same stars, same set; all it was missing was Kevin Kline’s narration. Emma was beside herself. Needless to say we went back several times over the years.


Then, when Emma was in 6th grade, she got the opportunity to actually be in the NYC Ballet production of The Nutcracker. Her role was small, she played a toy soldier, but you can imagine her excitement at being part of a production she had watched for years and years. And all her heroes were there with her backstage, Damian Woetzel, Darci Kistler, Wendy Whelan. It was pretty amazing.


For the next 2 Christmas seasons, Emma was dancing at a studio that did their own production of The Nutcracker, so Emma got to dance as a mouse, a flower and a snowflake. It’s amazing to look back and see how far she took a passion that started when she was 3 with a nutcracker toy from Santa and a Christmas video.

Decorating for Christmas

Yesterday I pulled out our Christmas decorations. I had to sort of force myself to do it, because I thought it was a task that would be fraught with bittersweet memories. I was right.

We are a family of traditions. Traditions in our home are easily created and not so easily abandoned. That’s why I often advise people with very young children to think carefully about the traditions they are beginning. They’ll be repeated for a very long time!

Our Christmas decorations reflect some of our not so carefully thought out traditions. For example, there is the musical Christmas carousel that Gram gave us as a novelty when the girls were small. A few years ago, I suggested that maybe we didn’t need to get the carousel out anymore. The look on Emma and Sarah’s faces when I said that let me know that the carousel, complete with its annoying flashing lights and grating mechanical music, was a permanent part of our Christmas tradition.

Then there’s Frank the Lamppost, a tacky, holiday-decorated lamppost with a human face that sways and sings holiday songs in a pseudo Frank Sinatra voice.  Sarah spotted this beauty at a drug store around the corner from our home. When she asked if we could buy it, I said absolutely not. That was where I drew the line on tacky. But wouldn’t you know it, Frank was under the tree on Christmas morning in all his kitschy glory, courtesy of Santa Claus. I have often tried to “forget” to get him out. But, he always seems to find his way out of the attic and into our front hall where he can accost our horrified holiday guests. Ah, the miracle of the motion sensor!

The other traditional decorations are Emma’s nutcrackers. Santa brought Emma a new nutcracker every year starting from the time she was 3. The nutcracker would be there Christmas morning. It would not be wrapped and there was never a tag saying for whom it was meant. But Emma always knew it was for her. “I knew it. I knew Santa would bring me another nutcracker,” she would proclaim on Christmas morning. She was as excited about the nutcracker Santa brought her last year as she was about the one she received when she was 3. And yes, you read that right. I said the nutcracker Santa brought her. Emma always had room for magic in her life and no one in our house has ever felt the need to question the identity of the magician who transformed our living room on Christmas morning.  Besides, who else besides Santa would bring you Frank the Lamppost?!

Emma's Tree

Last night I remembered a specific visit to the Christmas Tree Genie. We always went back to the Christmas tree farm to pick up our tree on the first or second weekend in December. The Christmas Tree Genie would have our tree cut and waiting for us. This one year that I am remembering, the Genie had done some trimming of a very large tree he had cut down for someone else and a little tree-shaped top was sitting off to the side of where the other trees were waiting to be picked up. Emma immediately spied the little tree and approached the Genie. "Do you think I could have that little tree?" she asked. He explained to her that it was only the top of a much bigger tree. But she said, "That's okay. I think it will make a beautiful tree for me."


He gladly gave her the tree top and tied it to the roof with our other tree. When we got home we spent much more time trying to figure out how to make her little tree stand up than we did making our big tree stand up. When we finished decorating our big tree she set about decorating her own tree with some small ornaments we had gotten in an Advent calendar and with some ornaments that she sat down and made herself.


I think of this as another quintessential Emma story. What others would throw away, she would cherish. She found beauty in places others never even bothered to look. I am trying to look at the world through those eyes now,  looking for beauty in unexpected places and taking time to appreciate life's smallest moments.

When I Grow Up

Of course, after seeing the Rockettes in action that first time, Emma immediately decided that she wanted to be a Rockette. She stuck with that career aspiration for a long time. In fact, one year we went back to Radio City after the Christmas season was over and took the backstage tour, so Emma could get an insider’s view of the life and times of a real life Rockette.

That was not her first career aspiration, however. When we asked her at the ripe old age of 2 what she wanted to be when she grew up, she had an immediate answer. “A goldfish or a peanut butter man,” she said. “What’s a peanut butter man, Emma?” we asked her. “A man who sells peanut butter!” she exclaimed impatiently. Grown-ups are so stupid sometimes.

Radio City Christmas

Like many families, our family would often take the train into New York City around Christmas time to make the pilgrimage to Radio City Music Hall for their Christmas Spectacular. Emma and Sarah both loved this show and, in fact, we had talked last spring about going back this year. I was touched, actually, that of everything we could find to do in New York, my two teenagers wanted to go back and see the Christmas show that they remembered so fondly.


I’ll never forget the first time Emma saw that show when she was about 4. She was absolutely enthralled by the pageantry. She loved the Rockettes with their high-stepping dance moves and glitzy costumes, the ice skaters, Santa in his flying sleigh. She sat on the edge of her seat wide-eyed and smiling throughout most of the show.


The Christmas Spectacular ends with the staging of a live nativity. While the wise men, shepherds, sheep, cows, and even camels make their way onto the stage, an announcer tells the story of Jesus’ birth, life and ultimately, his terrible death. The story is told in very human terms and ends by asking the audience to consider how amazing it is that 2,000 years later, people all over the world still remember and celebrate the birth, life and lessons of a man who came from such humble beginnings.


The lights came up and I looked over at Emma, expecting to see that same wide-eyed, smiling face, but her eyes were red and her cheeks were tear stained. “What’s the matter, Emma,” I said. “Why did they do that to him, Mama?” she sobbed.


I have to admit, I have sat in church and listened to the story of Jesus’ life and death every Christmas and Easter since I was a child. But that year at the Christmas Spectacular, hearing the story as Emma had, it felt like I had heard it for the first time, and I was touched by the human aspects of the story in a way that I never had been before. That is the gift that children give us. – allowing us to see and hear things anew. That is one of many gifts that Emma gave me.

Emma and Gram

A little over 2 years ago my Mom, Gram, moved into a nursing home. It was a tough move for a woman who had always been fiercely independent and whose home, where she had lived for more than 50 years and raised her 7 children, was her sanctuary.

The nursing home that became her new home is just down the hill from where Emma went to high school. A couple of months after her Gram moved in down the hill, Emma was inducted into the school’s music honor society. This meant that twice a month she had brief meetings after school on Friday. The meetings ended before her dad or I could pick her up, so it left her with some time to fill. She could have arranged to meet some friends downtown or done homework in the library but, instead, she chose to walk down the hill to visit her Gram. She would sit and chat with her for about an hour until one of us picked her up.

They always seem to be having a nice, comfortable time together when we arrived. In fact, Peter commented on how much it seemed like Emma enjoyed those visits. And my mom would always seem especially alert and bright after the hour spent with Emma. They did each other good. Kindred spirits.

Happy Birthday Gram

Today is Emma’s grandmother’s 93rd birthday.  Emma and her grandma had a special bond right from the start. I remember watching my mom hold Emma for the first time. Emma was instantly comfortable in her arms. You could almost see the thought bubble over her tiny head, “I like this lady. This lady knows what she’s doing!”

Emma and her grandma shared a childlike enthusiasm for the holidays that didn’t wane with age. Emma loved to get dressed up and Gram was always the one who made sure she was well-outfitted, hats and all. And no one loves a party more than Gram and Emma, especially a tea party, because, of course, you get to wear hats!

But I think the thing that linked them most is their generosity. Both Gram and Emma redefined generosity for me. It’s true that they were generous in the usual sense. Both would gladly give the shirts off their backs to make you happy. They found enormous joy in finding the perfect gift or making a wish come true. But they were also generous in spirit, opening themselves up to people without any expectations of getting something back. Sometimes their openness was perceived as naiveté. They never questioned people’s motivations or intentions. They didn’t fret about getting hurt or cheated. They jumped into people’s lives with both feet. And because they were willing to do that, both Emma and Gram have touched many, many people in ways that they will never forget.

Happy birthday, Gram.

The Origin of Fabulous

Nuff said.

My Family by Emma

I found an elementary school assignment of Emma’s that was probably from first or second grade.  It was a booklet titled My Family. Inside were pages with headings and Emma had filled in answers to describe her family. Here are a few highlights:

Here are some of our family’s favorite sayings:
We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Here are some of my family’s favorite meals:
Steak and beans
Emma’s favorite shrimp
Sarah’s favorite chicken
Fajitas

My family has many talents. Here is a list of them.
Wild hugs
Family hugs
Jazz
Mexican hat dance
Ballet

This section was accompanied by a drawing of our family doing what appears to be the Mexican hat dance. I’ll leave that to your imagination.

Blogger’s Note: I have no recollection of ever doing the Mexican hat dance, but perhaps I’ve blocked it out.

The Origin of Fabulous

Emma’s friends from high school sometimes refer to her as “Fabulous.” This is a reference, at least in part I think, to her fabulous sense of style. Many of her friends showed up at her memorial service in fedoras, one of Emma’s fashion signatures. What her friends probably don’t know, though, is that Emma had a flair for fashion from the get-go, and hats were always an important part of her wardrobe.


I know that I have enough memories and stories to post something every day for a very long time, but my real world obligations may keep me from doing so from time to time. So I’ve decided that sometimes I will post just a picture of Emma in one of her many hats - a glimpse at Fabulous in the making.

The Official Start of the Christmas Season

When Emma and Sarah were little, the start of the Christmas season was not the first Sunday in Advent, it was Columbus Day. That was the day we would head to a local tree farm to select and tag our Christmas tree. The expedition would enthusiastically be led by Gram who, I’m pretty sure, is a direct descendant of a Christmas elf. Uncle John and Aunt Joyce and Emma and Sarah’s cousins, Katie and Eric, would join us.


The owner of the tree farm was an amazing guy – a veritable Christmas tree genie. We would never call ahead, but somehow he would always be there waiting for us. He would remember not only what kind of tree we had picked the year before, but also where it came from on the farm. And he would already have several tree candidates in mind for each of our families. This wasn’t a business for him, it was a calling.


We always, and I mean always, seemed to get a beautiful day for our tree expedition. The property was gorgeous, so we enjoyed hiking over hill and dale exploring the hundreds of potential trees. Along the way, the kids would stop to catch crickets, which always seemed to be in abundant supply. I still remember the time we saw a bald eagle circling overhead, the first time I had ever seen one in the wild. Emma was a little naturalist, so she loved everything about this Christmas tree farm. We all did. It was a little piece of paradise.


We took our search for the perfect tree very seriously. We’d each find trees that we thought had potential and then call the others over for approval. The full tree committee would give a thorough and highly critical appraisal of each candidate. The tree farm owner would let this go on for as long as we all seemed to be enjoying it, but as soon as patience seemed to be running short he would jump in. “You know I had a tree in mind for you. It’s right over, here,” he would say. And then he’d lead our little parade over to a tree that was astonishingly perfect. Just to be safe, we’d measure it and walk all the way around it, checking it out from every angle. But he was always right – the perfect tree – and we’d probably walked past it ten times.


Once the trees were tagged we would head back to Gram’s for some pizza and then Gram did what she did best – bake cookies. She would already have mixed up the gingerbread dough, which needed to be chilled overnight. She would roll out the dough and the kids would help her cut out the gingerbread men and women, put them on the cookie sheets and then decorate them with way too many currants, cinnamon candies and sugar. The best part was eating the cookies right after they came out of the oven, accompanied by a glass of milk -the perfect end to a perfect day.


Some people have to wait until Christmas day and the arrival of Santa to experience the magic of Christmas, but for us, the magic of Christmas began in October with an elf named Gram and the Christmas Tree Genie.

Advent

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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…

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.

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!”

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.

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!”

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.

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!”

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!

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?”

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.

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.