It was a weekend full of emotion, and I feel raw. In just two days we packed in parties and traveling, swim lessons and breakfast for dinner. Summer camp open house and playing “store” at home. In other words, it was exceptional and ordinary, all at once.

We planned and arranged and rearranged so that Sweetie and I could go to a wedding Saturday. It was a gorgeous day. I found a dress that (mostly) fit and shoes that my daughter was concerned might cause me to “fall over.” I ironed Sweetie’s shirt and helped him choose a tie. The thought went through my mind that this was so old-fashioned of us. Getting dressed up. Going to a wedding. As a couple!

Our day-to-day reality is much more casual. Jeans and T-shirts. Socks dried on the clothesline. Sweetie and I get in bed directly after we put the kids to bed and hold hands while we watch TV or read. We don’t get dressed up and go dancing, and I like it that way. Sure, a night out is fun. The anticipation. The time spent together. But, really, sometimes an impromptu breakfast together on the morning that all three kids are at school is even better. We’re not exhausted at 9 a.m. It’s nice to start the day together. It’s intimate. It’s our exceptional within the normal.

But this past weekend I wrapped myself into the dress, wished I’d had double-sided tape to prevent wardrobe malfunction and hobbled out on high heels beside my Sweetie, decked out in a suit and dashing as ever. We walked across a lush lawn on a gorgeous afternoon, having arrived at the very last possible moment for the wedding of my cousin Ben and his soon-to-be bride Liz. We sat, I exhaled, the music began. And then I looked down at the program. I am drawn to the printed word; I read the program as the groomsmen walked up the aisle and took their places. And there it was: John Grow.

I am sentimental. But I am not easily surprised by emotion. I cried at my daughter’s ballet recital and, no doubt, will cry at her little sister’s end-of-the-year pre-school performance. And I cry at weddings, too. Whether because I’m touched by the beauty of the moment or a specific phrase in the vows. A gorgeous day, the whole family together in one place, or a particularly stunning bouquet. Tears of joy slide out of my eyes and I dab them away. But on Saturday, my father’s name stopped my heart for a moment. All that air I had just exhaled got caught. I couldn’t breathe, and the bridesmaids were walking down the aisle, smiling in their beautiful chocolate-colored dresses. I looked straight ahead, almost directly into the sun, just beginning to set. I found myself calculating how long it’s been (almost 13 years). How old the groom–my cousin–was when his Uncle John died (13?) I got lost for a bit, trying not to cry too hard, wishing I’d had a tissue, wanting to defend myself. Wanting to say to anyone noticing my sniffles and my hand at my eyes before the ceremony had even started, “No. You don’t understand. That’s my father there. Right there. In front of me. And my grandfather beside him.” GG’s father, who died so soon before her own husband. Did she know two of the most important men in her life would be here with us? Was she feeling the same way? This loss at a time of such celebration.

I was crying. And it wasn’t out of sentimentality or the breathtaking beauty of the moment or the occasion. Or even because I missed my father right then. I was crying because I was so very grateful. I am so very grateful that my father was there. His name on the program. Most of us who sat on the groom’s side of the aisle have a memory of John Grow. Some of us have a lifetime of memories. And maybe someone from the bride’s family asked a question when they read his name. Maybe they’re reading the program now, the weekend over, real life back to normal and wondering who John Grow was. What did he do to merit this place in a wedding ceremony, 13 years after dying so abruptly and leaving such a gaping hole in a family that extended far beyond his own parents, siblings and children.

Every year–for the past 13 years–the end of May comes too quickly, and as everyone around is celebrating the beginning of summer on Memorial Day Weekend, I am anticipating June. June. June. On June 20, my father died. He was buried on June 24, 1999, one year to the day after Sweetie’s and my first date. So much sadness and celebration all at once. Every year. And here we are again. Ten days left in May, and this year I’m catapulted forward as if it’s June already. I wasn’t prepared for dad to be taking up residence in my heart full time yet. That’s not supposed to happen until next month. I wasn’t prepared for all of this emotion. For the tears and the sentimentality. The memories of him. The what-ifs flooding my thoughts. I’m trying to slow it all down. To take back control of that part of my brain, to regain my ability to cope. But the lump in my throat is there still, a day and a half later. And I’m pretty sure it’s going to last for a few extra weeks this year. I miss my father often and acutely. But I allow myself the indulgence to dwell on missing him only in the month of June. (And sometimes on October 1, his birthday.) Except this year, my dad’s unexpected presence at a family wedding accelerated my annual mourning of him. And it’s throwing me for a bit of a loop. Exceptional and expected yet again.

But I am grateful. I am grateful that my father is remembered. By so many. No matter the month. Or the occasion. That he made an impact far beyond the importance he held and continues to hold in my own life. I am so sad for all that he has missed this past 13 years–one-third of my life. I’m sad to have to be feeling this way. I’ve become good at pushing away the devastation that my children will never, ever have known this extraordinary man. But then, there he is. His name included on a simple wedding program. My father. With me even when I least expect it. Surprising me still. There because he is remembered by the family of one boy whom I’ve known my entire life. Cousin Ben. Who included John Grow’s name among a list of other loved ones who should have been at the beautiful ceremony on the green lawn on a breathless spring day in upstate New York, just a few small towns from where my father grew up.

A day can be tedious or extraordinary. Overwhelming. Seemingly endless. Emotionally taxing. Memorable. Challenging. Fulfilling. Saturday was all of those. It was, in great part, a day with my extended family. Siblings and in-laws. GG and Nanny. Aunts and uncles. A cousin who is really more of a niece. A cousin who is all grown up and married now. The next generation in utero. Which is to say, it was like any other family party in a way. It was all of us together, this time celebrating a wedding. It was a beautiful day to pause for a moment and feel the emotions that come with acknowledging the loved ones who came before, who brought us together to this place, who remain so fully within us. It was a beautiful day to start a life together.

You cannot imagine how frequently (weekly?)

I am asked this (amusing) question:

“How is your last name spelled?”

How do you think, I think.

But, I spell. Letter by letter.

And then, each is repeated back,

often with visible puzzlement. As if

I am pulling a fast one.

Don’t try so hard, I think.

But I smile, let it go.

It’s true: Life can be complicated.

But sometimes: A name is (just)

four letters, strung (familiarly) together. G-R-O-W.

It’s Six-Word Friday. Go visit Melissa!

It’s morning. I know by the light coming around the window shade in soft waves, somehow getting beyond my eyelids, squeezed shut.

It’s morning. I know by the weight shifting beside me, Sweetie sitting up, reaching for his T-shirt discarded in the night.

It’s morning. I know by the sounds of the birds. I wish I knew exactly what kind of birds.

It’s morning. I know because my mind is more awake than I wish it would be. Full of all there is to do.

It’s morning. And soon I must get up from my bed and start the day.

But first I will lie with the covers pulled up and listen to more of the morning sounds:

The television in the other room, a recap of last night’s Celtics game.

The padded steps of my son trying to come downstairs quietly.

The coffee grinder in the kitchen.

The refrigerator opening and shutting.

Juice filling a plastic cup.

The back door squeaking on it’s old hinges.

Footsteps on the deck.

The squeaking hinges again.

A newspaper being slid out of its plastic bag.

Air being blown, heaved almost, into the bag.

A burst of shredded plastic, air released.

The cushions of the couch, strained from children’s jumps, as my two boys settle in together.

It’s morning. A new day before us all. Beginning slowly. Predictably.

I lie.

I listen.

I wait.

And then…

“Mommmmm-yyyyyyy!”

And I rise, reach for my glasses and take in the day with my eyes.

___________

It’s morning. Just Write with Heather.

Wow. Thanks to all of you for joining in last week’s festivities. Sarah and I are almost ready to come up for air, and when we do we’ll share some of our favorite posts from the hundreds we were privileged to find linked here.

Five for Five was such a wonderful week of reading and commenting and chatting online. I feel that my own community has grown, as I’ve met new bloggers and re-established broken connections with others. Life is busy, and sometimes it’s necessary to disengage from things like the Internet. But sometimes, as we saw last week, a busy life can expand to make room for more community. For a place to meet others and share ideas and expand one’s own experience through the experiences of others. As much as my eyes are still burning from the late nights of reading blog posts, I’m so glad to have again taken the leap of offering our place as a spot for so many of you to roost for a few days.

Thank you, thank you again and again.

We’ll be back later this week to share more specifically a few things we learned last week. In the meantime, we encourage you to keep supporting each other. And most important, keep writing.

Shortly after her older sister and brother begin music lessons, my 3-year-old daughter asked when she can start guitar lessons. There’s simply no written translation that does justice to her 3-year-old dialect. If only I had a sound byte to share.

Her dad and I told her she has to be 7 or 8 before she can take lessons. She knows we have a number of guitars in the house already and I know she’s smart enough to challenge us and, I wouldn’t be surprised, succeed at a quick melodic riff. But she didn’t challenge us directly. She stood before us, looking down  at her hand——not so chubby anymore, I noticed——and popped out her thumb, index finger and middle finger. “One, two, free,” she said. Then she looked up at us, grinning, and said, “EIGHT!”

My 6-year-old daughter asked me a few nights ago at what age is someone considered an adult. I wish I could remember her phrasing of this question. I told her 18. There is a high school student intern who works in her kindergarten classroom every day, Miss O. “Miss O is 18,” she told me, assuredly. And I thought to myself, I met Miss O, and she’s lovely. But she’s not an adult. No way.

My son just celebrated his 8th birthday. He shares his birthday month with, among others in our family, a younger cousin, Sarah, GG and his great-grandmother (GG’s mom). How absolutely amazing to have a birthday party with your vibrant great-grandmother. I sat in the room as she––my grandmother––opened her gifts, and her great-grandchildren all crowded around to see. I hope when B reaches adulthood he remembers this day, this moment. I don’t expect him to dwell on it now. He’s 8. It’s all about the Legos and the bookstore gift certificates. But he is rich with family.

Our children want to grow up so fast. I want my 3-year-old, in particular, to slow down. She is so capable. So positive. So willing. She is my baby, my last. But of course, she wants to catch up with her older siblings whom she strives so hard to emulate.

I look at my 6-year-old pianist, artist,  dreamer. Her teeth falling out faster than I can keep up. I look at my 8-year-old drummer, book lover and recent master of the monkey bars. All I have to do is close my eyes and I see them in infancy. Those first moments. My first, floppy baby, born just a little too soon and with yellowish skin and a moderate need for oxygen. The robustness of my first daughter, with her red hair and her bright eyes, born a few days after her due date and looking like a different creature altogether than her brother had at birth.

I look at my 3-year-old and I hear the words of a nurse, “She’s big!” as she enters this world. Just a half-ounce away from 10 pounds, she was big. She still is. She’s tall. With big, wide eyes that get bigger with expressions of excitement, anticipation, even sadness. Her voice booms, in a 3-year-old squeaky way, as if she’s talking in front of a crowd. She’s big in ability and ambition. She’s big in this family. And I’m betting that it won’t be long after her speech ability catches up with her physical ability that she’ll be picking up a guitar and teaching herself the basics.

____________________________________

Tell us about age!

(And if you need a reminder, here are the topics for the rest of the week.
Although there’s really just one more day!)

Enter the link to your post below.

And please do visit as many other blogs as you can. Comment. Join in the conversation.

And hey! It’s Bigger Picture Blogs Thursday! Go here to have another day of double linky fun.

It is morning. My son just came downstairs and is sitting one room away, on the couch with his dad. I’m in bed. Computer on lap. The birds that woke me an hour ago aren’t singing anymore. I can hear the sports news from the TV in the other room. The recap of last night’s Celtics game, which I managed to stay up too late to watch. (They won.) (I’m tired.)

Can you picture this life? My life? This small scene, where I haven’t even introduced all of the characters yet? (Two daughters, upstairs asleep. A sister an hour away in Connecticut. A brother a day-and-a-half drive away in Colorado. A mother, this morning waking up in a hotel room in the Adirondacks, a getaway to celebrate her birthday.) Where I haven’t even told you about the oversized sweatshirt I threw on over my PJ T-shirt because it’s COLD this morning? Or the white, wrinkled duvet cover that I have pulled up almost to my chin. (Very cold!)

Oh, now I hear the “beep beep” of Road Runner. (Or maybe it’s “mee-meep?”) Which brings me back to Colorado and the road trip to get there and my brother, who used to watch these cartoons 30 years ago. He, too, was the first child to get up in the house. Is there something about boys? (Sarah, help me out here.) And how is it that the sound of a cartoon coming from a TV a few feet away can bring my mind three decades back, where I see my brother sitting on the floor of our living room in Oneonta, hunched over a cereal bowl, slurping Cheerios and giggling like Woody Woodpecker himself?

This isn’t what I pictured writing today. But now it’s down to the wire. Those daughters will be awake soon. Sweetie will bring me my coffee. (Picture this: He will walk slowly into the room, my favorite coffee mug in hand. I will watch him navigate the inevitable laundry basket at the foot of the bed, the piles of books on the floor beside me. I will see the steam from the mug. He will walk around to my side of the bed and say, “Careful. It’s full.” He will grin. Yes, grin. Our eyes will meet. I will thank him. The coffee will be hot. And perfect. I will set it beside me on the coaster on the bookshelf that serves as a bedside table of sorts, too. I will read or write or just sit in bed, smelling that coffee until I get up in just a few minutes.)

The day will start in full. It is my day to make lunches, take the kids to school. I have potato leek soup to put in the Crock-Pot, bread to set out to rise. I have work to check in with and, no doubt, laundry that I should do. I have a 3-year-old to spend time with. Puzzles, maybe. Or Play-Doh. Later I will pick up the kids, let them stay at the school playground a bit to run off some energy. I will take my son to his drum lesson, and while he’s with his teacher I will take a walk around what turns out the neighborhood we lived in for a short time when he was a baby. We will run a quick errand after his lesson–a birthday present to purchase for a friend, an ingredient needed for dinner. It doesn’t matter. My son just likes to extend our time together. He never wants to go straight home after his drum lesson, and so I know to plan on a quick errand. We will end up at home, though, where we will eat dinner. The bread out of the oven, the soup turned down to low.

As I sit in bed before the day has begun in full, loud force, I can imagine the big picture in my mind but I cannot know the details until they occur. Maybe we will be out of cream, and the coffee will be milky today. Maybe there will be an argument over who knocked over the Lego supermarket, built two days ago by my daughters. Maybe there will be a note sent home from school about a field trip, or a notice from the library that a requested book is in. (Flat Stanley. We have been waiting for you for a LONG time!)

Surely there will be laughter (along with the Lego quarrel). And lots of noise. And smiles. And children competing with each other for my attention and standing in my way in the kitchen while I’m trying to fix a meal or get a snack or do the dishes.

Today is a day. Still new right now. I didn’t intend to paint you a word picture of it as I imagine it to be. And it certainly might turn out to be a different kind of day, just as this is a much different Five for Five “pictures” post than I imagined myself writing. There might be surprises. (There are always surprises.) But these are the words, and this is what came in the few minutes I left for myself to write. This will have to do. Now it’s time to get on with Wednesday.

(Oh, sitting here, having written that paragraph about coffee? I just reached for it beside me! It’s earlier than usual, though. The coffee has yet to be made. Ah, the power of imagination.)

____________________________________

Share your own pictures. We want to see (read) them!

(And if you need a reminder, here are the topics for the rest of the week.)

Enter the link to your post below.

And please do visit as many other blogs as you can. Comment. Join in the conversation.

On this day eight years ago
at exactly 4:00 a.m.
you were born.

And as much as I could write and write and write all sappy-like about the ways that you have changed my life and made it better and more challenging and more worthwhile…

I won’t.

I will say only this: Never in my wildest imagination did I dream that a child of mine would be a drummer. And that your birthday gift on this remarkable milestone of turning 8 (but entering your ninth year) would be these.

And that is the thing about motherhood. It is full of surprises and new rhythms. Every single day.

Happy birthday, B. You’re one in a google-illion.

Hold on to your hats, people!

Five for Five just got better.

Because we’re joining forces with forces

On Tuesday (topic: WORDS) Just Write

(You can link to both blogs!)

And Friday? (LISTENING) in Six Words!

(Again, double the link-up opportunity! Fun!)

******

Here’s where today’s six words end. But seriously, we are so excited to announce that we’re linking up the linking up with Heather of the EO on her JUST WRITE series on Tuesday, April 24. Check it out!

And next Friday (the 27th)? Yup. It’s Six Word Friday, thanks to Melissa.

More fun. More buttons. More COMMUNITY!

We hope you’ll join in and in and in.

I’m saving all of my creative spark for next week:
FIVE FOR FIVE.
Today, it’s just the facts, ma’am.

The topics for Five for Five are:

Monday: CHANGE
Tuesday: WORDS
Wednesday: PICTURES
Thursday: AGE
Friday: LISTENING

Are you entirely confused, because you have no idea what Five for Five is? Oops. Sorry.

The facts:

Five for Five is a community event for bloggers (you!). It’s simple to participate.
Read. Comment. Write. Link up. We will do the same.

1. Read. Come to Momalom every day and read our post.
2. Comment. On the Momalom post you’ve just read.
3. Write on your own blog–to the topic of the day (see above!)
4. Link your post to Momalom.

At least one of us (Jen. Sarah.) will read and comment on every post linked up here.
(This is where the * comes in.)
*People. If it is anything like Five for Ten, uh, please be patient!
We promise to read and comment on every post,
and we’ll do our best to keep up.
But it may take a while.

Also, you are encouraged to read and comment on as many posts as possible.

Confused? Need more info? Never even heard of Five for Ten?
Try here. And note the links at the bottom of that post for even more info.

And….. Look to the left. See that lovely button over there?
Display it prominently on your blog! Drop it into your posts! Enjoy!

See you NEXT WEEK!

I read this book last weekend.

I want to read it again.
But I have to return it
to the library around the corner.

I love our little, neighborhood library.

I visit and then bring home
a piece of the bigger world
that starts me thinking new thoughts
and experiencing reverberations in my gut
that propel me full speed ahead
toward paper, pen: ideas written down.

When is the last time reading
changed your life, your thinking, you?

(Read The Fault in Our Stars by John Green)