My Grandma Died Today

The memories of my childhood look more like a collage than a novel. Pieces floating around rather than connected thoughts and timelines.  Sensations.  Smells.  Sounds.  Flashes of clear imagery amidst hazy details.  I remember specific events, sure, but many other memories are simply pieces of events that occurred more than once.  They flow together and yet aren't a congruent tale.   Most of it feels happy and nostalgic.  I had it pretty good I think.

Grandpa Don holding my little sister.  Me with Grandma Chris, sticking my tongue out for some juvenile reason.

 Here is what I remember about my Grandma Christine:

The warm happy feeling of being at the farm and coming down the stairs to the smell of egg pancakes.  Grandpa and Grandpa at the table playing rummy or gin.  Envelopes that used to contain bills long since paid, now used as score cards for their games.  The slant of the handwriting written in thick pencil.  The taste of the homemade jam.  The sound of the old rotary phone. The puffs of dust as we ran down the road so we could be spun around on the wagon wheel type mailbox.

High School Graduation (the hair is still fluffy)

I remember the feel of Grandma's fluffy hair as we brushed it with the world's oldest plastic hairbrushes.  The wrinkled skin on her hands.  The smell of dust and dirt and farm as we rode in the pickup.  The feel of being squished between two of my favorite people as we drove to church, or town or antiquing.  The taste of the fish and chips from Spuds whenever they drove to our side of the mountains.  The smell of Grandma's coffee that she drank like water throughout the day in a giant metal thermos.

Picking peaches, canning peaches, eating peaches.  Eating canned peaches literally every time we were at the farm because Grandma's canned peaches made the world a better place.  So did eggnog with sprite and orange juice in blue thumbprint depression glasses.

The excitement of Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  Hearing actual sleighbells and knowing Santa was coming.  Sometimes sleeping in the cold parlor on Christmas Eve.  The rattle of the parlor's french doors and their ancient glass that sometimes broke.  The rocker glider with the fascinating mechanics. The summer we sat on the porch eating beets that I hated and flinging them at the side of the house to see them leave bright purple streaks on white painted wood.  Never getting in trouble for it. The nervousness I felt when I told Grandma I wet the bed one night during the summer before middle school only to have her make no big deal of it.

Me and Grandma at the Lake (I can't find the making out picture)

Summers at the lake.  Icy cold water and walks to the store for strawberry licorice Nibs and Charleston Chews.  Zucchini casserole.  Grandma teaching me how to make it and telling me her recipe was better than her sister's because she used more bacon.  The way she never used measuring cups and though was an excellent cook, her confession at not liking it.  "I don't actually like to cook, Stephanie.  I just like to eat."  She and grandpa making out in the kitchen while I took a picture so Grandpa's face wasn't in the photograph.

Grandma with Baby Serena

Dusty images on the wall of long past relatives I would never meet.  Grandma telling me their stories with amazing detail and dates all pulled from memory. Photographs of all the grandchildren pinned up to homemade bulletin board made just for the purpose of grandchildren school pictures.  Calling Grandma from college to get the recipe for Norwegian Sweet Soup and her telling me just the kind of tapioca balls I needed.  Calling her for advice on how to can peaches or make egg pancakes.  Grandma telling me the best kind of pectin to make freezer jam.    Never really wanting to call her on the phone because she didn't really like to talk that much and I never quite knew what to say because I'm not a phone person.  Feeling badly about that.

The love she and Grandpa shared.  Him telling everyone he was married 50 years to the wrong woman and her scolding him while they both laughed.  Grandma joking about Grandpa helping her in the shower after a surgery just because he wanted to see her naked. The shudders and giggles from the teenage grandchildren.  The light that left her eyes when Grandpa Don went home to Jesus more than a decade before she did.  The Thanksgiving in Utah after he died when she celebrated with my little family in a random house that my sister in laws lived in with their weird roommates.

The joy on her face each time she held one of my babies.  The snuggles she gave each one of her great grandchildren.  The sparkle in her eyes as she watched these precious little ones play and grow.  My children may not have known her well, but she LOVED them.

The last time I saw her.  A year and a half ago at the lake cabin where she confessed to everyone she was 90, when she was in fact a decade younger.  I administered her insulin for her diabetes for two days while she assured me I was doing it correctly before realizing on the third day, I had not been giving her insulin at all because I was in fact not doing it correctly.  Her moments of lucidity in the morning while she drank her coffee before she took about a gagillion pills and a fog came over her.  Reminding her to pee before she went to bed so she wouldn't wet it.  Taking care of her wet sheets as she once did mine and not making a big deal of it.  The far off look she had as she watched her crazy young posterity play in the same place her children did.  The guilt and sadness we all felt knowing it would be her last time at the lake with us because it was so much work and stress to care for her.

Grandma with my three girls

I have been reflecting on Grandma's legacy today as well as my own.  I have been asking myself what am I leaving behind that my children will remember with fond warm feelings?  What will my future grandchildren love me for the most?  I don't remember many physical gifts from my childhood.  I don't remember caring that the house wasn't clean (and I know at the farm it often wasn't.)  I cherish and remember the feelings and the moments.  The hugs and the card games and the egg pancakes.  The time spent together cooking in the kitchen or snuggling on the couch during a movie. All the love.  I know it wasn't always roses and sunshine, but the good times still stand out to me the most and I hold onto those.  As I think about these things I realize I need to slow down and stop stressing about things that don't matter.  Forget about the backpacks in the entryway. Forget about the clutter in the garage and the clothes on the floor.   I need to make more cookies with my children and care less about the mess and more about the memories.  

A bit blurry, but look how happy!  Elsa, Mom and Grandma

I hope to do better and to be better and to honor her legacy.  My grandmother, Ellen Christine Filan Heilsberg was a simple farm wife who raised four children and drove school bus part time in a small town.  She didn't have a fancy or important title but she knew what was important.  She loved Jesus and her family and she did her best to do right by them. She canned the world's best peaches and made fantastic zucchini casserole.  She wasn't glamorous but she was beautiful.  She was the kind of beautiful that we need more of in this world.  I will miss her, but I will not forget her and I will hold tight to the wonderful times we had together as I go out and try to replicate it with my children the best I can.  

I love you Grandma, I hope heaven has all the kinds of food you like and that you don't have to cook them yourself.

Bad Mom

I yelled at my kids today.  The rage yell.  The yell they didn't deserve because I was crazy hormonal and the four year old had pooped in her pants yet again in spite of me putting her on the toilet several times today and reminding her and bribing her with stickers and technology.  I didn't even yell at the four year old, I just put a diaper on her and sent her to bed. I yelled at everybody else because the house was a mess and I was tired and I am tired of the poop.

And I just went total psycho witch and said things no kid should hear their mom say.

Then I went in my bedroom closet and asked God to just make it stop.  I asked him to make me stop having PMS ever and I asked him to make the four year old start pooping where she should.  Then I laid on my bed staring off into space feeling like a bad mom.

The twelve year old (my only son) comes in my room and says, "Mom, I know you are having a bad day, but I read an article that says your pets can help you with stress." I said thank you and apologized for yelling.  He pushed the cat towards me and left.

I called my ten year old daughter in (who I yelled at the most and who is most affected by that kind of thing) and she laid on my stomach and we hugged.  I asked her if she thought I was a bad mom.

"Sometimes you are," she said.  "Right now you are a good mom."  I told her I was sorry.

The twelve year old came back and said, "Mom, I know you are having a bad day, but I want you to know that I love you.  Even when you yell at us, I still love you.  I just wanted you to know and I hope you start having a better day soon."

"You're a good son," I said.

"I know," he replied.

I called the eight year old in and asked her if she was doing her piano homework.  She said she was, and she left.

The naughty sauce preschooler comes in my room.  I am lying on my back staring at the ceiling and she climbs on me and gives me a hug.  I tell her she needs to start using the potty for pooping.  She gives me a bunch of adorable reasons for why she didn't use it and then as I give her another hug, I feel that she has no diaper or anything on her bottom.  Which of course was funny to me, and then justified by more four year old nonsense from her.  Her diaper was discarded on her bedroom floor.

The kids ate most of the blueberries I bought at Costco today, but when I went downstairs I found this:

(I had eaten a few before the picture, but there still weren't many left)

Sometimes I feel like a bad mom.  Sometimes I probably am a bad mom. Sometimes I feel like I am not the right mom for my kids, like someone else would be a better fit for them and their personal struggles and their shenanigans.  Sometimes I worry that I have dropped all the balls and am failing drastically and it's never going to work out for them to grow into good people and functional adults.  I want them to grow up to be kind and considerate and not to have their inner negative voice sound like my voice (I want to strangle whoever started that internet meme...) But today, after feeling like such a failure and feeling like such a bad mom, I realized, I must be doing something right to have kids like these.  I may not always feel like the right mom for them, but today they were the right kids for ME.  

I'm pretty sure my four year old will poop in her pants again, fairly certain the PMS isn't going away, and try as I will, I will probably yell again.  I will keep wiping the bums, making mistakes and apologies and will continue to pick up all the pieces and try to put them together again.  I am fairly certain my kids will turn out just fine without too much emotional scarring and am hopeful that my good mom days will outnumber my bad mom days.  As long as these people keep saving the last of the blueberries for me on the bad days, I think we will all get along just fine.