Goodbye, old friend

We lost a member of the family today, a dear friend. Today, around 5pm, we lost Tiger. Yes, the beloved best friend of Melia. The one she wakes up to, cries on, holds over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, throws at Abby, throws down the stairs and then chases, cuddles with, wears on her head, sleeps with, and can't live without.

Today, while strolling through Union Square on the way back to our car, Melia must have thrown Tiger onto the ground. This has happened before, many times. But in the past, I have always caught it. But tonight, I didn't. I feel like a bad mom for not catching it. I know, I need to cut myself a little slack, afterall, there were hundreds and hundreds people surrounding us, rushing in and out of stores and carrying shopping bags. It was just after I paid for parking and was waiting in line for the valet that I noticed he was gone. Panic struck. Oh no. OH SHIT! I raced back to the elevator, thinking she threw him out in there. Nope. Went to the pay station. Nope. So we retraced our steps 2-1/2 blocks back to Gap, where I last saw him. Nope. I checked gutters, trash cans, stores, the hands of kids, homeless people. Nope.

"Melia, I am so sorry! Tiger is all gone, he went bye bye! I am so sorry sweetie." Melia shrugs her shoulders (she does this when she can't find him) and asks for Tiger. My heart was broken. We made it back to the car, she was looking for him. On the ride home, Melia talked the entire time, but moped. It was awful.

But that Tiger sure did have a good life. He was the most loved little tiger that ever existed. I only hope that wherever he is, he is safe and warm.

Rest in peace, little tiger.

Confessions of a Motherless Mother

There is a defining moment in everyone's life that changes who they are forever. Mine happened late February, 1994. I was spending the night at my then-boyfriend's house when my dad showed up, knocking on the door. It was about 4:30 am. A housemate answered the door, came upstairs and said, "Krista, your dad is here." Huh? I went downstairs, and saw my dad standing in the doorway with tears in his eyes. "She's gone," he said. "She's gone."

The loss of my mother forever changed my life. I knew that her death would define how I was as a mother, but until recently, I didn't know how.

I wasn't the nicest kid. Well, that isn't true. I was a bossy kid. I guess I shouldn't say it like that either. I was assertive. I always knew what I wanted and I went for it. Some might say this is a good thing. But I didn't always use this "talent" in a good way. My family is always telling me stories about how I was so bossy, about how I always wanted my way. Being told this as an adult doesn't really make you feel good.

I am not sure if I appreciated my mother enough. Unfortunately I will never know. I know I made her proud, but did I tell her enough just how amazing and beautiful she was? Did I even feel that way before she died? Because after she died I sure felt it. But it was too late.

After she died my outlook on the world changed. I took things, and continue to take things, day by day. I watch the sunset. I light candles. I like to create peace. I volunteer. I want to make the world a better place. I appreciate the beauty around me. I want family.

I don't know if I did any of this before she died. But if I did, it did it differently.

So why am I saying all of this? I am afraid. I don't know how to teach these life-lesson's to Melia that I learned the hard way. How do I make her appreciate the world around her? How do I get her to not take things for granted? How do I get her to have a love for life? An appreciation for family? How do I teach her these things when I don't have my own mother to tell me how to do it?

Melia is assertive- I am sure you recall me saying in a previous post where Melia's daycare provider said "Melia has managerial qualities to her." That is just great. Like mother like daughter. If my mom were alive she would say "it serves you right." She'd be kidding of course, well, sort of. I don't want Melia to grow up telling people they can or can't play baseball. I want her to be empathetic, to feel joy, to be proud. I want to be a good role model. If I die too early, I want her to remember these lessons, and know that it was because I loved her.

As a family, you can often find us watching the changing colors of the sunset or looking up at the starry sky; we go for lots of walks, sometimes spending an hour just getting to the end of the block; we teach gentleness with the cats; we cook together, looking softly at the textures and colors of food; we light candles and turn on music during dinner; we sing and we dance. I guess this is a start, right?