The Good Witch Lied, You Can't Just Click Your Heels and Go Home or Grief Covid Style

         By the time I had reached the age of eighteen, I had moved at least fifteen times. Take a moment to think about the implications of that statement. The math would suggest I moved an average once a year. If only that was the case, it would have been easier. But the funny thing about averages, is they don't mean much. Some years I moved two or three times. The longest length between moves was about four years. It was the most stability I had - those four years.
        A few years ago when I was writing for my local newspaper I would interview people working in the social work field. They all seemed to have big hearts and a desire to make peoples' lives better. They also all seem to have a lack of personal experience of what it means to live in less than middle class. But who attends college? The middle class. The upper class. Sometimes a person from the working class manages to bridge that gap. Or claw their way through the middle class language, vocabulary, and invisible barriers.
      In my town they would hold seminars for the working professionals in social work in which they would pretend to be poor. They would be given cards that would give them scenarios to work through. Examples included your car broke down and you can't make your doctor's appointment or the food pantry is half a mile pass the last bus stop, how do you pick up food?
       I was often asked when I conducted these interviews if I had a background in social work before journalism because I knew what they were talking about.
       No, I don't have a background in social work.
       I have a background in social class. In working class. In poverty.
      It wasn't until later when I grew up and started experiencing other social classes, (If you don't think American has a class system, then you're not working class. Consider yourself lucky and just make sure your town puts a bus stop out to the damn food pantry.) that I began to realize that moving fifteen times in a childhood wasn't normal. Moving half way through a school year wasn't ideal.
     Yes, I was always that kid. "Hello, class. This is so-so and she's new today. So everyone be nice to her." Do teachers realize how much a new kid loves to be told to stand up, have the entire class' attention on them and made to tell something interesting about themselves to the class? Yeah, I didn't think so, because if they realized how difficult it was to be the new kid, they might not make them the center of attention.
      I tell you these details about me, not because I ever thought they were relevant to my life today or because I seek some kind of sympathy, but because my mom suddenly passed away on March 30. And if that connection doesn't make sense to you, don't worry. I have found that in my grief, I struggle with putting all kinds of thoughts together. Some of them click as they should, and some don't. But neurons don't care when they are being destroyed by grief. So weird things happen in the brain.
    My Mom was only 59 years old and because of Covid, the hospital had strict restrictions about visitors. I wasn't even there to say goodbye or to be there for her. Hell, my dad wasn't even allowed to be with her. I was allowed to say goodbye through FaceTime, while she was sedated. But not completely, because her brow furrowed when I talked to her. When I said goodbye. And I couldn't make it better. I think the only thing she feared was dying without family by her side.
     Since that time I have struggled immensely. with grief. with a sense of failure for not being there. for failing to give her a house at the end. My Mom grew up in broken down trailers, and in tiny rooms of the back of bars, and in conditions that were not suitable for a child. If I don't know what the meaning of home means because I never stayed long enough to figure it out and I've been searching ever since,  than she wasn't even aware that she was looking for something.
    My parents moved seven more times after I turned into an adult. They might have stayed in the farmhouse, but 9/11 destroyed her business, and took nearly everything they owned after that. They house surfed after that, driven by storms they had no buffers against except for the weak ones two of their children managed to provide. Their third child, had to run to Texas to escape her poverty made demons, and I would tell her, if she was talking to me, that there is never enough distance in the entire world to run away from our own personal demons.
    My heart aches with the fact that my Mom died in a broken down trailer, with a leaky and moldy office room, windows that allowed the fierce Midwest winds in, and rats that crawled through her kitchen drawers. There were holes in the sub flooring which trips you on the way down the hallway, and the deck was falling apart. My brother had purchased them the trailer outright when they couldn't afford the rent on their last space. If he could have bought them something better, he would have.
    For years they had lived in my basement, before Baby Blueberry came along and we needed more room. I gave them shelter for the cost of running the Cove heaters because damn, those are expensive.
    I couldn't do more. I wanted to do more.
    I wanted to give her what she had spent her hard and difficult life seeking and I failed.
    But even had I provided a house for her. For my dad. Would they have finally found it? And what is it? I thought I knew. That's why I bought a house three days before I got married to Hero Hottie. And then my mom died and I find that I don't know what this idea of home means.
    I thought my lack of decorating was because I believed I wasn't artistic enough to decorate. I thought it was because the only thing I ever saw growing up, was that my parents would get permission from the landlord to paint the walls a light blue. In every single house. I thought my lack of style was because my mom used cheap, garage sale knick knocks and passed down doilies to decorate our spaces and I didn't like that style, so I didn't do anything.
    Then I had a realization as I spent hours thinking about my mom and my childhood, after she passed, I never took the time to decorate my houses, because even though Hero Hottie and I have been in our current house for over ten years, I expect to pack and move without a moment's notice. I'm always in waiting mode, ready to clear out. Ready to leave. Why decorate a space that you're going to leave? Heck, I have numerous dreams where I have to pack a bag and just leave. And in my dreams I'm always worried about taking the items that mean something to me.
    My mom has left me lost. As Baby Blueberry said, the first week of quarantine we did okay, the second week we started getting grumpy with each other, the third week Grandma died. And then counting the weeks stopped.
    Dorothy just clicked her heels and she found her way home. I lost the only stable point I ever had and I'm spinning like a tornado who might land in Oz or Kansas, or back in Oregon. And it doesn't matter, because no matter where I land, I've tried clicking my heels, and I still haven't found home.

There is a Brachoisaurus in my Shower

Abu's House (copyright Christy Hammond)

    As Abu tries to zip up her backpack this morning, she grins; a mischievous look I haven't seen in weeks; and says, "I have too much useless stuff in here, Mom. It won't zip up."
     I frown, peering at her backpack. "Isn't it full of your homework from last night?"
    Her grin widens. "Exactly. Useless stuff."
    She waits for me to laugh at her joke, her expression barely shifting away from her humor, but it's there, a slight crease in the smile as she waits anxiously for me to respond.
   I chuckle, because it is funny, especially if you look at it from a kids' point of view and not as a parent. How many of us have briefcases full of necessary 'useless stuff'?
 
   Her expression relaxes and she finishes zipping up her backpack; her mood light and cheery. Score a point for Mom this morning.
    I grew up as the bossy first child who knew (knows) everything. :-) I wasn't the middle child and I certainty wasn't the baby of the family. I was so opinionated about things, that I didn't even believe that there was positions of childhood.
   Until Baby Blueberry came along. And Abu slipped into the role of middle child like it had been hers for the taking since she was little.
   But I'm not going to talk about how difficult that place has been for her; not today anyway. I'm just going to simply share the wonders of Abu. So one day, when she's old enough, and she comes across the crazy, zombie filled ramblings of her blogger Mom, she will finally realize what I see in her.

   Abu came into this world like lightening. And that is what I tell her. Out of all my labors, hers was by far the easiest and quickest. Six hours of light pushing and laughing, anxiously awaiting baby. Forty minutes of hard labor and there she was. Adorable, cute, and with such a petite nose.
    The next day we took her home, where an excited Bean was so overjoyed to have a baby sister. And over the next two years, while Abu grew into toddlerhood; I spent a lot of time chasing after Bean and Abu and cleaning up after all their antics.
  Bean was the instigator. But Abu wasn't innocent. She would quietly watch, and laugh, and clap her hands, loving every idea Bean came up with and happily joining in the trouble.
  
    One time when Bean was four and Abu was two, they decided to decorate the couch. And not just a little bit of it, the entire back seat of it. Eight long, irresistible feet of white floral fabric apparently just asking for more color.  Hero Hottie and I walk into the living room to find them standing on the couch, fiercely scribbling away as quickly as their little pudgy arms would go. The entire length was 'decorated' with blue and RED crayon. They grinned at us and showed us their Artwork. Two chubby face smiles, dimples in their cheeks and joy in their eyes.

  Abu, being only two and discovering the joy of crayons and color decided to do more decorating around the house on her own. We had just moved into our house and finished hanging up all the picture frames. One day, there is a drawing underneath one of the them.
     In black crayon.
      Bean insisted that she didn't do it. But Abu won't confess either. The next day, again another drawing underneath another picture.
   Bean is my main suspect because she's four and usually tries to find trouble when I'm not looking.
But she's still insisting it's not her.
  A few more days, this goes on, which is difficult to believe because I don't hardly ever leave them alone in the room, just while moving between rooms and cleaning. But there are scribbles under nearly every picture in the house and still I can't find the black crayon.
   Or the culprit.
   Then one day, I leave the room and wait a few minutes. Quietly, I sneak back into the living room, and there she is...
    Abu, black crayon in hand, underneath a picture, adding her own art to the walls.

    Abu of a thousand expressions, always making faces for my camera. Always passing out smiles to those who have lost there's.

   When Abu was five she had her first loose tooth. And the joy she found in that one simple event is the spirit of her and something I hope is never destroyed or tainted.

   But one day, while she was eating breakfast, or at least attempting to, she stops, frowns and says to me, “There’s something wrong with my tooth. It hurts.” At first I thought that her chipped tooth had worn down enough to cause her pain.

            “Open up.” I said and started looking at teeth. I wiggled one of the front ones. Nothing. Then I wiggled the one next to it and it wiggled. Just a bit, but enough.

            I grinned. “You have a loose tooth.” 

            She grins back, “I do?”

            I nodded and watched her grin grow. “I have a loose tooth.” She says and feels it with her finger and her tongue.

            “This is such a happy day for me.” She says. “I’m having a happy day.”

            And she whirls around the living room, smiling and talking about her tooth.

    

    The other day I go to take a shower and there is a solid plastic, eighteen inch brachoisaurus in my shower. I'm not sure what the creature was waiting for. All his other dinosaur buddies were on the other side of the tub, taking up valuable floor space in our tiny bathroom. But there he was, as if patiently waiting for another bath time. 

   Abu is slowly outgrowing play time with toys. Less and less, she spends time with toys, and so for many years, I cleaned up toys, straightened toys, put away toys, yelled at children to put away toys and then one day, the house was not being taken over by Barbies, dinosaurs, and Polly Pockets. 

    I grinned at the dinosaur in my shower and was glad to see him there. Just a small reminder that Abu isn't totally grown yet and I have time to enjoy her childhood. 

   She drew me a picture of our house. A house that I feel is too small sometimes, or missing character, or isn't quite my dream house. 

   But when I look at that picture...I see something immensely wonderful. I see how the pine tree out front is given a bit of the spotlight, because she has spent hours playing under its branches. I see the light colored door ready for its family to arrive home. I notice the furniture inside where we have dinners together. The hose container out front, which holds the hose that we play with in the summer. 

    I see an inviting house. 

    A house full of love and spirit. And it warms my heart.

    And that's what Abu, if she should ever read this, needs to remember. Part of that house full of love and spirit comes from her. 

   Wonderful, joyful Abu.