Tag Archives: dinner table

Let’s Work Together . . .

Workin’ for a Livin’ by Huey Lewis and the News

One of our Dinner Excursions

I know it may sound strange, but my kids actually seem to enjoy spending the time together as a family.  I know I should immediately knock on wood because now that I’ve said that it’s going to change, there will be the argument, the shouting match, the slammed doors, teenage mutant ninja hormones or what have you, but it’s been OK so far.

When I got home from work last night I was getting ready to put dinner together.  I’d bought a rotisserie chicken, nothing fancy, but we’d made some wild rice and corn and made a nice little meal of it.  I hadn’t really thought much more than just putting it out and eating.  No sooner had I turned around but Noah, one of the twins, had cleaned off the kitchen table and was wiping it down with a sponge.

“Grandma showed me how to do this,” he said, huffing and puffing as he reached across to clean off the table.

I marveled at him.  He had put away the stuff sitting out, gently placed his sister’s new Christmas presents onto the bookshelf behind the couch and was already setting out the plates and silverware for the night.

“I like eating at the table, Dad, can we do it tonight please?”

We’d spent the last couple nights, being soup or pizza due to my being sick on the floor in the living room to avoid cleaning the table, and quite frankly, so I could teach a lesson to the kids that they can’t have dinner in the kitchen when you can’t GET to the kitchen because of all the dirty dishes.  Where their sister failed her chores, the rest picked up the slack.

It’s an amazing thing, this last couple months.  We should have had a horrible time.  It should have paralyzed us, hurt us, even brought us to our knees knowing that we were going through Christmas and New Year’s without Andrea.  She was such a huge part of our lives how could we move on without her?  How could we do this?  But it’s back to the adage I’ve said before and the kids are picking up on it.  We’re stronger together than when we’re apart.  No matter what happens, if we don’t have any money, if we’re having to move, if we need to fix the car . . . if we lost our wife and mother.  We can tackle it if we are together.  Where one falls, the other four pick us up.

So when I see Noah cleaning the table, I see Abbi stirring the rice.  I see Sam putting clothes in the hamper.

It’s part of the new year, and the kids are taking it to heart.  If we work together, if I’m not having to clean up the entire kitchen after dinner before I make treats for lunches and put lunches together and get the breakfasts in order for the next day I can get to bed before 1am.  I am happier.  They are able to do more.  If there are fewer chores for me to do, there is more time for ALL of us to do things together, even on a weeknight.  We can play Pictionary on the Wii.  We can listen to old LP’s or new CD’s on the stereo.

We can sit and talk about how funny their Mom was.

Being sick has taught me a few things.  Not the least of which is the fact that no matter how good a shape I think  I’m in, I cannot do everything.  My routine had been get up, cook breakfast, get the backpacks ready, make sure everyone is dressed, head out the door, then go to work.  Work my full day, get home, make dinner, clean up, cook a dessert/lunch treat, do the dishes, run 1-2 loads of laundry, get the showers going, set out the morning’s clothes, midnight snacks, read a chapter, tuck in, get Hannah to bed, go down, make lunches, make breakfast plans, clean up the rest and then . . . do it all over again.

I got very sick because I was stretched very thin.  The kids saw the virtue of my plan for the new year, and for once, in a brilliant magnificence, they agreed.

So we ate at the table, the kids rinsed off their plates, did the dishes (after I cajoled them into it) and we went into the living room and played some video games for a bit.

They finally got it.  They’re taking what they’re given, and working it out on their own.  I couldn’t be more proud!

Scenes of unimportance, photos in a frame . . .

If you talk to most real estate agents, you’ll be told how much they hate family photos and mementos hanging about, on the walls, propped up on the bookshelf. I never understood how having indications that you’re comfortable enough in where you are that you’ve made this part of your family; part of your life.

I always liked a line from an old Genesis song (I know, Phil critics, but I always thought he was insanely talented and oddly poetic, Susudio aside), even though it’s a lyric in a strangely creepy song. “Scenes of unimportance, photos in a frame, things that go to make up a life.”

To anyone else who walks into our home, looks on the wall, sees the photos hanging up, there’s no indication that there’s anything different. I hung up our family photos, the pictures taken by our friend who has a business called Photographer in the Family (her link is on the top of this blog) dotted throughout the house. It’s a snapshot of our lives, a rare moment without exhaustion after the twins were born, even Andrea smiling after half her face suffered paralysis by the virus attacking her nerves.

I worry about what happens next. Every day it’s like we grow a little stronger and our memory of Andrea grows a little weaker. We’ve managed so many major events in our lives, it seems like it’s impossible that in 3 short days it will be 8 months since we lost her.

We made it through her birthday, a day that was always unnerving for me anyway, but the next big holiday, the one that Andrea did up brilliantly every year is tomorrow: Thanksgiving. I’m having the dinner at our house, cooking the turkey, making my Mom’s famous dressing, all of it. But I ache as I make all these preparations because I know it’s not going to be the same, it just can’t be. I can put out the china, I can make the food (I always did anyway, no change there) but it’s her presence, that essence of Andrea that was always so pervasive in the holiday that’s gone.

Years ago, in that little house in Omaha, we had everyone over. My family, Andrea’s, her best friend, so many people that we put all the leaves in our dining room table. So many that you couldn’t get through the dining room to the kitchen, you had to go out the front door, around to the back yard and enter the kitchen by the back door. It was a crazy, mixed-up holiday, but it was beautiful. She had the table wrapped in gold, off-white candles burning with gold bows around their holders and white flowers on the table. Abbi was tiny, sitting in a chair at the table but so small you could barely see her above the level of the wood. It was insane, cramped and perfect.

Now we have to face these holidays without her. I’ve had to face them without her. The person who helped plan all these events, that woman’s touch to those scenes of unimportance, is missing. She’s not here to make the room bright. She hasn’t been for the major events this year.

Just a couple weeks after she died, I had to celebrate the boys’ birthday. I had no idea how I’d get through that day, particularly since Andrea was always so integral, so brilliant at coming up with ideas for their birthdays. In the end, I chose to have a simple party, just our family, their cousins and Aunt coming over. I didn’t want them to have to deal with everyone acting awkward and crazy and insensitive on what was supposed to be their day. They’d only just gotten back to school after the funeral and were dealing with everyone handling them with kid gloves. Nobody knows what to do, not that I blame them, when they see someone with such a senseless loss. Perhaps the better adjective is inexplicable?

There’s simply no explanation to why something like this could happen. Andrea didn’t get someone so angry they killed her. This wasn’t a stalker; not an ex-boyfriend; no drugged out oxycontin hooked thief shooting her for narcotics. She died in a hospital of an infection. One day she was here and the next, quite literally, she was gone, leaving the 5 of us to try and figure it all out.

People don’t know what to do, we don’t fit into one of their neat, easy categories. It frustrates them that we don’t fit into the box. Andrea wasn’t murdered, so they can’t be horrified. She didn’t have cancer so they can’t pronounce their support for a cure. She didn’t jump off a bridge so they can’t discuss her personal demons. Never mind him, he’s just the guy who lost his wife. Never mind them, they just lost their mom.

He’s a single parent now. That fits. Put him in that box.

We have a family friend whom I have gotten much closer to since Andrea passed away. The reason being that she faced the same thing – she lost her husband. She’s light years ahead of where I am now, physically, emotionally, mentally even, but has been invaluable in understanding the frustration and madness. She told me something I think is the most brilliant and insightful thing I’ve ever heard.

We aren’t single parents.

Do you get why that is? Those two words: “single parent” have a completely different connotation. In today’s society it implies choice. It implies that my four children are the product of a marriage that fell apart because the husband and wife couldn’t get along and it broke apart their home. It implies that there was a choice made, a thought-out decision based on the actions of two people.

I’m not a single parent. I didn’t choose this. I certainly didn’t want it. We may have had our problems, the valleys to our hills in the path of our lives, but at no point were we on the verge of divorce. I spent every waking moment they would allow in that hospital. I took care of her when she was sick. I clenched my teeth when she would get upset for what I thought were pointless reasons. I failed her on nearly every birthday. But I never thought about leaving her.

No, I’m not a single parent. I’m their Dad. I’m their parent. Out of the box.

What I worry about now isn’t planning the events or even making them happen. I can get a birthday party to happen. I can cook Thanksgiving dinner, maybe even decorate the table and make a nice presentation. No, I’m not worried about the event itself, I’m worried about what getting through that event or holiday means. I’ve told you before that I loved the Fall with Andrea. Each event, particularly Thanksgiving and the upcoming Christmas, prove not only that we can do this without her, it shows that we can. I have to do it, but I absolutely hate it.

We have these holidays because they’re supposed to be our family, but our family’s different now.

No longer do I look up and see those pictures and see them as scenes of unimportance. They’re not just photos in a frame – but they are the things that go to make up a life. Our life. It’s a snapshot of so much promise, so much foresight and anticipation.

We think of these things and those times and realize that the life we were seeing in those moments is not the life we’re living now. We keep those photos in the frames to remind us of how wonderful it was when she was around.

I can only hope that someday we can add to them, putting other pictures on the wall, the scenes of a different life.

I can only hope that we can have that anticipation again without the kids feeling like they are just so many scenes of unimportance.

One of those NEW scenes of unimportance