Anna and Rob in 1980

My memories of my mom are obviously few, since she died when I was just 6 years old. Many of them are things that we all take for granted: her picking me up from school, organizing and flawlessly (in my mind) executing birthday parties and swimming lessons. Those memories are precious and permanently etched on my soul.

There are also a batch of memories that are somewhat painful, but nonetheless important to me now that I am (mostly) an adult and can comprehend the emotions that lie beneath those moments.

In the final months of her life, my mom was counseled by a pastor from the Lutheran church my family attended. His name was Barry. The clearest memory I have of Barry is what he said as he led my mom’s funeral. The second clearest memory I have of Barry is a sunny afternoon in our house a few months earlier. He sat in a chair across from my mom as she sat on a couch that is still sitting in about the same spot to this day.

I don’t remember any of the words spoken between the two of them that day. I only remember that my mom was upset and crying. It seems obvious that she would be upset; she knew she only had weeks left to live. That memory stayed with me, though, because throughout her illness, she was stoic and guarded when my brother and I were around. That memory is one of the few I have where my mom cried so openly.

About 14 years ago, I found myself wanting to know what Barry and my mom talked about that day. I only remembered his first name, and I had no memory of his face. I decided to go to the church and see if Barry was still there (we stopped going to church after my mom died, so it had been more than a decade since I had been there). Barry had left that church a few years earlier, but a nice lady at the church gave me the last contact number they had for him.

I was fortunate enough to speak with Barry for a few minutes on a Sunday (of all days). I told him about my memory of that sunny afternoon in our living room. I told him how significant it was for me to see my mom so upset. He did not remember the specifics of that day, but he offered his thoughts on what might have been upsetting to her at the time.

He told me that the one thing my mom worried about most in her final weeks of life was how my brother and I would do without her (my dad has told Dave and I a similar story). She worried for us as only our mother could. She wondered what it would be like for two boys to grow up without a mother. In some ways, it was probably the most painful thing she endured during her illness. It caused her to seek guidance and counsel from outside her family. Would her children be ok without her?

–

Dear Mom,

We turned out ok. Dad did well. He fed us well and didn’t give us junk food. He made a lot of sacrifices and made sure we were well taken care of while he was at work. He clothed us and tried hard to put up with me when I got a bad attitude in my teens. And he kept the house just as you left it like a good husband (seriously, you should see it).

Carolyn and Roger did an amazing job of after-school parenting. They exposed us to cultures from all over the world and they took us camping a bunch of times. They fed us well too and made sure we got plenty of exercise.

I can’t possibly imagine how painful it was to let go and know you weren’t going to see us grow up. Now that I’m grown up, part of me wishes I could go back and comfort you because I couldn’t back then.

Dave and I are not angels. And we’re both still trying to figure out where we fit in this world. But I think that is normal. We had a solid foundation to stand up on and two beautiful families still watch over us in your absence.

We turned out ok. You did well in the short time you had.

Happy Mother’s Day,
Rob

Pooh underwear and striped socks, FTW.

I don’t know about you, but I’m usually deep in thought, unaware of my surroundings as I change into my workout clothes for a trip to the gym. I’m either reflecting on the day that just ended or thinking about what lies ahead for the next day. I’m pondering this or that meeting or email, not really paying much attention to my choice of underwear that morning and how it coordinates with the rest of my attire. After all, it’s underwear, right? Nobody is going to see it unless you’re a plumber (I’m not) or a male stripper (NOPE!) or my dad (inside joke).

It turns out not paying attention to my wardrobe choices can lead to some interesting moments in the locker room. Last week, a group of guys walked in while I was midway through changing and ended up seeing me with only my underwear and socks on. I know what you’re thinking, “no big deal, just flex and they’ll walk away.” And that may work for you, but it’s kind of difficult to have a masculine impact when you are only wearing red & gray striped socks and Winnie the Pooh boxers (including the word “Pooh” repeated around the waistband). I hope those guys understood the rare moment I provided for them. I hope they will never forget the day they saw a grown man in the locker room wearing only striped socks and Pooh boxers. That would make the whole wardrobe combination…still not worth it.

The (now) longer nails on my left hand.

I’ve been hesitant to mention it here, in large part because of the significance. I bit my fingernails for my entire life. I’m pretty sure I stopped sucking on my digits as a toddler and started to bite my nails off the next day. It was an activity as normal as breathing for as long as I can remember.

What’s puzzling to me about it is the unceremonious manner in which this habit ended. I simply stopped without thinking about it. Seven days later I had to find a nail file and shape my newly-grown orange peelers. (Luckily, I inherited an antique “Diamond Deb” nail file from my grandma. It’s actually coated in diamond dust, making it an amazing file.) My new habit is filing my nails once a week.

Maybe we don’t always need to face our bad habits head-on. Maybe it’s possible to do an end-run around them. Or maybe we should focus on our good habits and they’ll crowd out the bad ones? Maybe there is a lesson here related to identifying my goals. I don’t know for sure, but I’m quite happy to have shed this habit.

Malibu, California sunset, February 13, 2010

Every now and then, something or someone will cause me to ask myself, “where are you going?” (I mean “going” in the metaphorical sense and not the literal sense. Though, knowing where you are going *in life* often means actually going somewhere too.)

Very rarely can I respond to that simple question with a simple answer. That makes me uncomfortable. I wonder about it. Where *am* I going? And the obvious next question is: “what are my goals?”

Does everyone have defined goals? Am I the only one who hasn’t put definitive goals to paper yet? What does that mean?

So, the other night when something spurred me to ask myself, “where am I going,” I decided it was time to get a serious answer down. A simple one derived from a few goals. I might use a few posts here to explore this question more, but I’m determined to get a firm grip on what it means to know where I’m going, why I want to go there, and the inevitable change that comes with knowing where you want to go.

So to start, I’m just going to ask everyone if they have goals. Do you? If you do, do you know where you going? Don’t worry if you don’t want to comment here, I’ll probably ask you in-person.

do you know how hard it is ... by catklein on Flickr

dinner is green and orange and dark green. colors that smell as good as they taste. mind is empty. ish. i wonder what i’ll do before the end of it all? still a few hours to go. maybe less.

strum a bit. i’m glad my guitar is within reach, even if i still only know those same 15 songs. at least a few of them are my own.

wash it all off, the day where little made sense. shampoo it out of my hair too. don’t try too hard to make sense of it. remember the people, not the place. at the end of it all, just be able to sleep soundly, smile about it and leave it there. at the end of it all, is the beginning.