Hello 10 years...you suck

10 years is long enough to finally bare it all.

The wine I am drinking right now will help encourage me to be honest.

September 2007 I was living the best life. I was married. I was pregnant. I worked at the best place in the world. I was afraid to be a mom at that time. I took weekly picture of my never-growing belly. A red flag down the line. Something I subconsciously chose to ignore at the time.

I was asked to do an AFP screening. A typical screening, but I was hesitant.

“You’ll want to know sooner than later, Ria,” my mom mentioned, “In case something is wrong, you’ll want the best care possible right up front.” How is it that my mother knew the inevitable without actually knowing the inevitable?

I agreed. And I got that call. At work. “Nothing to worry about,” said my OB, “We just need to do further testing is all”. Ok. That I can do.

I spoke with a lot of parents that day. At my work, moms were encouraging. They told me they too had issues with AFP testing and it always turned out fine. <Phew!> That is a relief.

I had my level 2 ultrasound scheduled that next day. Why so quick to rush? I wondered this to myself. They rush, when it is emergent, I would soon learn.

That visit. Fuck. It was hard. It was the first real test Adam and I went through. As a couple, we had to be strong enough to support the other yet vulnerable enough to let the other take care of us. We made jokes even in that room. That’s when that rule of our marriage flourished and became known. We laugh about EVERYTHING. The good stuff, the bad stuff, everything in between. And it began in that room. When we were getting the worst news ever.

“Your baby has an enlarged heart. There is fluid around it which indicates heart failure. There is no bladder and the baby is missing a kidney. They will die soon.”

Fuck.

I Am Ready. Yes.

I was 22. Young. Naive. I didn’t know anything of miscarriages, stillbirths. Any of it. I just knew that in life you got pregnant and then had a kid. I was taken by surprise when I was informed that my baby had issues that needed to be investigated further, They called my work number. MY WORK NUMBER! The call that prompted me to say, “Thank you for calling The Little Gym, this is Maria how can I help you!?”  That connotation makes me gag. Not because it feels fake or that I was suffering a terrible time. But because my duty at work was always much more than that. As a teacher it was more than any of that.

Aryn shaped me. I am not the best mother because of him. I am not the best wife either. I am me. And Aryn afforded me the opportunity to enjoy that...knowing there are people who cannot.

No one convinced me to hold him. Here I was...scared...lost...abandoned...and childless and no one thought to say to me, “Hey, you will not get another chance...hold your baby. Hold him tight”. Nope. All I was left to doing was viewing my son in a tupperware while everyone around me cried saying it was for the best.

22.  That is too young to realize the importance of life and death, if you ask me. I just learned I could drink without an adult….that I WAS the adult...that I could be the best wife I wanted to be. But God had different plans. He decided that this was necessary.

Life has had many ups and downs since Aryn. Adam and I are still happily married. I’m writing this in my kitchen as I look over at him sitting in our living room, winding down from yet another exhausting day. Day in, day out, I know I can always look up and see him there. Friends come and go, and sadly, even children will come and go. But your spouse is with you forever. I find such comfort in that. We chose each other.

It has been 10 years since I was in the hospital doing the impossible. So many memories float by as I reflect on a decade of realization.

I reflect on the idea that our life isn’t how we thought it would be. I never envisioned what 32-year-old-me would be doing...yet here I am. Living.

I reflect on the idea that mourning the death of a child is hard. Not wished upon anyone. It sucks. The timing of it all sucked. Fall was my favorite time of year...and now...it is tainted with the memory of Aryn….and my mom.

I feel as though I am babbling on in this post. Delaying the inevitable.  Again, something I wish I could have done 10 years ago. The inevitable this time? The stories I didn’t tell the first time around with this blog. I call this “Walk with Me” so I know I need to share it all.  And sadly, it has taken me 10 years to get to this place of comfort to finally do it.

I am ready.

An act of kindness...

Today doesn't mark any anniversary from my journey. It doesn't signify any annual remembrance of 2007. Valentine's Day in this aspect is not the focus or the memory here. This is just life on a random day. 

I have many days like this. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just, life. It seems, however, when left most vulnerable and taking life in, it is then when snippets of 2007 come creeping back to me. It is nothing like a movie, where there is a beginning, middle and end. That seemed to only happen as it was happening. 

So many intricate details of that time. Big events, that were monumental. And the smallest of occurrences that seem to not mean much at the time. They all come back in short clips in my mind....and generally out of order. There is no rhyme or reason why I find myself thinking of certain things on any given day, but it happens. Perhaps a smell sends me back, a look, a joke, or even an object. Like this blanket seen below that Teresa and Lena are sitting on in our back yard.

The love between two sisters.

I was still attending ASU when I was losing Aryn and my mother got sick. I was so close to graduation I could almost taste it. Unfortunately, I would take another 3 years to get myself back into school to complete my degree. But in that time, I still associated with college friends, professors, old high school friends, and of course my family and work life. I was surrounded by so many people.

It happened, like all of these events, so fast. One minute I was basking in the glow of pregnancy, making my way from class to work. the next I was informed that Aryn had passed away. It took an entire weekend for the hospital to be open for my induction. But since that Friday, November 2, I was done at ASU. I stopped going to class and had to withdraw as I could not physically, emotionally continue. Only a few knew of Aryn's fate just prior to my leaving ASU. 

As the story goes, Monday I went to the hospital and Wednesday Aryn was born. My mother would be admitted to the ICU that Monday after. 

It was in no particular day while my mother was still in the ICU that I walked to my mailbox to check my mail. Not necessarily an important task, but an opportunity for me to walk with myself and pause my life.

I received 2 items in the mail that day. The first was a packet full of hand-written letters from many o my classmates in the dance program at ASU. Words of condolences, prayers, and inspirational uplifting reminders. I began to sob. This was so very thoughtful from people who hardly knew me...or knew my mother. I felt strength in each of those letters...each line giving me a push to be brave. 

I never got to tell these people how much it meant to me. So I am doing it now. Thank you. I still have all of those letters. Thank you for lifting me up.

The 2nd item I got in the mail was a small package. Soft, and from an out-of-state address that was unknown to me. I showed it to Adam who encouraged me to open it. And I did. Out came a dark, beautifully warm blanket. It had plaid on one side and a picture of 2 angel girls playing on the other side by Dona Gilsinger. 

Front of blanket with image by Dona Gelsinger

Inside with the blanket was a typed letter. They expressed their sorrow for the events unfolding in my life and they wanted me to have this blanket. 

They wanted me to think of God's love wrapping around me every time I took comfort and warmth with the blanket.

How amazing! This blanket was a gift from a high school friend's in-laws. Certainly people who have never actually met me. But it was such an act of kindness I was moved to tears yet again. It is a staple in my house. Perhaps, if you've ever visited my home, especially in the cold winter, you have seen this blanket draped on my couch. It is a gentle reminder of God's love, the love of people who never even met, and how even almost 10 years later, I carry my memories of 2007...even on my couch. 

And so it was on this day that not only is that gentle reminder a part of my every day life, but I smile knowing my daughters are creating their own memories with "Mom's blanket". They are using it to play in the warm sun and share in their laughter and love with each other. And that, was an amazing act of kindness that continues in my home every day.

Happy Birthday, Mom

“When the evening shadows fall

and the lovely day is through

Then with longing I recall

the years I spent with you”

70. My mother would have been 70 today. She was born on this day in 1946 in Potenza, Italy. She made certain we knew that she did not like us mixing Christmas decor ad her birthday. It is because of that, I feel, that I so strongly ensure the same doesn’t happen for Teresa’s birthday. December babies. That’s something they have in common. I love that about my family. We find ways to connect even when it seems impossible.

“Safe in the glow of your love

Sent from the heavens above

Nothing can ever replace

The warmth of your tender embrace”

My mother, my protector. She is no longer here. I slowly realize it year after year. And small triggers set me off. A song. A smell. Whatever it may be, I am reminded of her and it hurts all over again.  I try, year after year, to justify and explain my children being able to know her in spite of her absence.

“Your mother was so quick with the one-liners,” Family in Connecticut would tell me in my last visit this fall. I absolutely love that. I feel that is something she shares with me. And the day my brother got married, and danced with her to Connie Francis’ “Mama”, I realized how significant her presence was to her children.

“Oh, Mama, until the day

that we're together once more

I'll live in these memories

Until the day that we're together once more”

Watching home movies and seeing the personality my children will never directly know. That’s what hurts so much. The benefit in life they would have gained from having known her. And it cannot be captured.

Ave Maria

She said: "My daughter, I beg of you

I have a with that must come true

The last thing you can do for Mama

Please promise me that you will stay

And take my place while I'm away

And give the children love each day"

I had to cry, what could I say?

How hard I tried to find the words

I prayed she wouldn't see my cry

So much to say that should be heard

But only time to say goodbye to Mama

They say in time that you'll forget

Yet still today my eyes are wet

I tell myself to smile for Mama

Now soon there'll be another spring

And I will start remembering

The way she loved to hear me sing

Her favorite song, "Ave Maria"

Ave Maria

The children have all grown up now

I kept my promise to Mama

I cannot guide them anymore

I've done my best all for Mama

Ave Maria

But still it seems so very small

For all she did for me”

I once thought taking care of my younger siblings was a solo endeavor. Something I needed to bear on my own. I slowly realized that because of the gift of love my mother bestowed upon us as a family, this was something we would take care of together. And how amazing that is. To rely on our family so whole-heartedly, so richly, and see how we can thrive in the wake of sorrow.

“Isn't it rich?

Are we a pair?

Me here, at last, on the ground

You in mid-air

Send in the clowns

Isn't it bliss?

Don't you approve?

One who keeps tearing around

One who can't move

Where are the clowns?

Send in the clowns

Just when I'd stopped opening doors

Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours

Making my entrance again with my usual flair

Sure of my lines

No one is there

Don't you love farce?

My fault, I fear

I thought that you'd want what I want

Sorry, my dear

But where are the clowns?

There ought to be clowns

Quick, send in the clowns

What a surprise!

Who could foresee?

I'd come to feel about you

What you felt about me

Why only now, when I see

That you've drifted away?

What a surprise

What a cliche

Isn't it rich?

Isn't it queer?

Losing my timing this late in my career

And where are the clowns?

Quick, send in the clowns

Don't bother

They're here”

My mother, of all things, taught me that my word was my bond. I think that is why I am so loyal. I know that what I say is what I mean. There is no exception. There is no alternative. This is why when I commit myself I do it 100%. Because what is the point of anything less.?

“And now, the end is near

And so I face the final curtain

My friend, I'll say it clear

I'll state my case, of which I'm certain

I've lived a life that's full

I've traveled each and every highway

But more, much more than this

I did it my way

Regrets, I've had a few

But then again, too few to mention

I did what I had to do

And saw it through without exemption

I planned each charted course

Each careful step along the byway

And more, much more than this

I did it my way

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew

When I bit off more than I could chew

But through it all, when there was doubt

I ate it up and spit it out

I faced it all and I stood tall

And did it my way

I've loved, I've laughed and cried

I've had my fill my share of losing

And now, as tears subside

I find it all so amusing

To think I did all that

And may I say - not in a shy way

Oh no, oh no, not me

I did it my way

For what is a man, what has he got

If not himself, then he has naught

To say the things he truly feels

And not the words of one who kneels

The record shows I took the blows

And did it my way

Yes, it was my way”

Above all things, my mother pushed for what she thought was right...and that it what I aspire to not only do for myself, but teach my daughters as well. Because at the end of the day, your integrity is all you have left.

My Facebook Thoughts on Mother's Day in the Past

Maria Hanson shared her post.

May 9, 2015 · 

"I've done my best all for Mama
Ave Maria
But still it seems so very small
For all she did for me"

Another year, another time to sit down and really think about my mom, my mothering, and motherhood in general. It almost renders me speechless. My mother, my hero, who endured so much in her lifetime here on earth. Her family going through the impossible to make life for themselves in the United States and how they did it for the future generations of this family. Thinking of that, and I am in awe. I am amazed. The women in my family amaze me, with their courage, faith and pride. It is everything I aspire to be not just as a mother, but a woman in general. And I can't help but think (or perhaps, just hope) that maybe, just maybe, my mother questioned her parenting like I sometimes do. Like I'm sure we all do. And if she were here, I'm sure she would offer some amazing insight to the key to being a mother. But I probably wouldn't have listened anyway because, well, that's how our relationship was.

Growing up, all the time, in the heat of yet another argument, my mother would generally finish with a, "And I hope one day you grow up and have a daughter that's just. Like. You." and I would scoff and think, well, I'm awesome so yay for me.

Then, over the course of my mother's last week alive, I had the amazing pleasure of talking with my aunt who informed me that my grandmother had said the same to my mother. (Insert "mind blown" expression here). And it started to make sense. But just a little.

Flash forward to 2010 and becoming a mother to Teresa. My amazing daughter who keeps me on my toes because she will LITERALLY point out flaws in my parenting logic. And with every stomp of her foot and crossed arms and huff and puff she expresses I think, well, this is it. This is the daughter that is just. Like. Me. Well, played, Mom.

But no, she couldn't stop there. Enter Lena. The adorable, funny and almost too-smart-for-her-own-good almost 21 month old who is just now showing that she is hell on wheels and just as passionate and twice as stubborn as her older sister.

I didn't get a daughter that's just. Like. Me. I got two. TWO daughters that are just. Like. Me! It exhausts me. It give me premature grey hairs (I'm not even 30 yet!!) It keeps me on my toes and makes me dig deep DEEP into my parenting bag of tricks and be on my A-game all the time. And I couldn't ask for a better life. I am blessed. My daughters show me how my mother continues to live in us. The loud Italian women in this family make my heart warm. And it continues with Teresa and Lena. And I certainly know that 12 or so years from now, in the midst of a mother-daughter battle over clothes, boys and life, that I will certainly express to my girls that one day I hope they have a daughter that is just. Like. Them.

Happy Mother's Day Mom. I miss you every day. And for all that is good, I've learned my lesson, please stop ensuring my children are just like me.

"I know I would apologize if I could see your eyes
'Cause when you showed me myself I became someone else"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maria Hanson added 8 new photos — with Michael John MacDonald and 2 others.

May 11, 2014 · 

This is our 7th Mother's Day without Mom here. It feels like forever ago that we were scrambling in the kitchen attempting to make breakfast for her with our hand-written Mother's Day cards and self-made "coupons" for cleaning, listening, etc. And then of course, as the years went on, we attempted to re-create those cards by writing them with our left hands in an attempt to capture our child-like spirit with stick figures of us with Mom wishing her the best on this day.

I've said it before and I will say it again. Mom taught me everything about being a mother. And with her saying, "I hope you have a daughter that's just like you." I look at Teresa and feel blessed (and....a little cursed wink emoticon ) to be on that rewarding path. And am fully prepared to make the same statement to her during the tough teenage years. But until then I watch as Teresa is being the best big sister ever to Lena. And when I look at Lena , I feel a sense of pride . Lena already pouring out so much love for her family. And you know that to her, like my mother taught, that family is everything.

And I look forward to teaching my girls how to make Mom's sauce. And I'll be sure to tell them that even though my mother prepped the mozzarella for her stuffed shells by cutting them with a knife, it was entirely because she didn't have a cheese grater so it was perfectly acceptable to use one. Instead of being like me for the first 5 years or so of my marriage making the same dish the same way because, well, that was how Mom did it.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. heart emoticon

So my grandmother died 23 years ago...

Teresa Saltarelli, age 70, of 40A Patricia Rd, Bridgeport, Devoted wife of the late Atillio Saltarelli.  Mrs. Saltarelli died in Bridgeport Hospital Monday evening after a brief illness.  She was born in Atella, Italy May 3, 1922 daughter of the late Vincenzo and Maria Giovanna Petollino and was a resident of the Bridgeport area for over 10 years and lived in Brooklyn most of her life.  She is the beloved mother of Angela Altman of Bridgeport and Amelia MacDonald of Shelton and sister of Donato Petolino of Brooklyn and Rosa DiBiasa of Rome, Italy and also survived by six grandchildren and several nieces and nephews.  Funeral will leave the Riverview Funeral Home, 390 River Road, Shelton Thursday at 9:45 am for a Mass in St. Lawrence Church at 10:30.  Burial will be in Riverside Cemetery in Shelton.  Friends may call Wednesday from 5 to 8 pm.  At the family's request contribution may be made to St. Lawrence Religious Education (CCD) through the Funeral Director.

I know its been a while.  I haven't written anything since my mother's birthday.  I guess part of me wishes that I would be "healed" and "better" by now.  That I would have said all I needed to say on the matter.  But then I think about my family and how far back it goes.  And then my grandmother popped in my head today.

"How did you come up with your children's names?"  is a question I get asked often.  Let's face it.  Teresa is not a typical name these days.  I smile each time before I answer.  I talk about how my mom said she named her first daughter after her grandmother, Maria Giovanna, and how I always intended to do the same.  Yes, back when I was pregnant with Aryn, I already know the name of my daughter.  And when I discovered I was pregnant with a girl, I knew her name would be Teresa, named after my grandmother, and Amelia would be her middle name.  It was perfect.

We chose the same route for our second daughter.  Adam's grandmother's name is Arlene, and with the passing of his great-grandmother the same year I was pregnant, it seemed too fitting to name our second daughter Lena Inez.  Both girls now have grandmother roots tied into them far more than they can ever know.  It empowers them and it enables them to hold their heads high as inevitable women in this society and I know they will both be amazing no matter what they do.

I feel the need to share about my grandmother for a few reasons.  For one, our family is legit off the boat Italian.  And I am so very proud of that.  When Teresa came home from school saying that her teacher told her our great-grandparents came to America I corrected her that her grandmother came here.  At a young and tender age, after many complications.  Second, this month has now been 

23 years since my grandmother passed away.  I see my husband at the age of 31 still have his grandmother and I am in awe.  I lost both my grandmothers at such young ages.  And I was never alive to get to know either of my grandfathers.  And I can honestly say that I feel robbed.  You have no idea what I would do for a chance to spend another 5 minutes with any of them.  To ask them what no 8 year old should know to ask.  Family history, stories, words of wisdom.  I got none of that.  

Ever since my husband and I became "serious", his family has invited me to come watch "The Nutcracker" from Ballet Etudes, as it was a Christmas tradition in their family.  Overjoyed, I always accepted and would watch not only the stage, but the audience next to me in awe as there would always be a representation of 3-4 generations together enjoying the show.  And every year at the end of the night, I would become overwhelmed with sorrow that my family was "gone too soon" to enjoy traditions like this.  I even invited my mother along on the 2007 trip to "The Nutcracker"...but she had already passed away before that could happen.  

My memories of my grandmother are subtle, but they resonate within me remarkably.  In my experience, she had a calming quality to her.  She said what needed to be said and that was it.  Mostly.  

She also made a mean sauce,  I enjoyed it often growing up.  She would walk around the house in her slippers with pride and gave no fucks in terms of who saw her like that.  I like to think I am reconnecting with my grandmother on the days I drop Teresa off at school in my slippers.

I remember an argument my mother and my grandmother were having in my kitchen in Connecticut one year.  My mom was upset that Grandma painted her nails orange.  It was a mix of English and Italian but my mother basically reprimanded her own mother about how a woman's lips needed to match her nails and if wasn't willing to use orange lipstick then she shouldn't paint her nails orange.  Now, the feminist in me is crying out, "let her paint it whatever!  It is her choice!"  But the traditional woman in me smiles because, here is a daughter attempting to teach her mother fashion.  And I smile because there were many stories of my mother being reprimanded by my grandmother while they lived in Brooklyn about how who she let walk her home was setting an impression on her to the neighbors.  

I also very much remember my other grandmother...my Nannie.  My father's mother had a petite quality about her.  We would play cards and watch "The Price is Right".  She taught me so many things about playing games.  She taught me how to win, to lose, and most importantly, to enjoy the game.  She had this ability to make me flock to her in her good days.   When she got really sick, I was confused.  I didn't quite grasp what (Alzheimer's) was happening to her.  I was older than when my other grandmother got sick and died, but I just didn't comprehend how the brain is such an intriguing

part of our being.  I also remember a home video of her mortgage burning party.  Can you believe that was a thing back then?  That people actually paid off their mortgages?  That is something else I aspire to.  

I remember all of this when I rear my own daughters.  I take all this into account when I embrace how I want them to be.  Do I want them to be proper ladies?  Of course.  Do I want them to define with our (their parents) help what the term "proper" means?  100% yes.  Most of you who know me noticed I encountered a shift in the last few years.  I went from someone who saw so many things as black and white to a person who decided that women do, in fact, have a choice.

I recently went on a trip for a bachelorette party in Las Vegas, Nevada.  As we were a group of women traveling, every people we encountered warned us to stick together and to be safe.  This included bar tenders, taxi cab drivers, and hotel concierge staff.  "There is a UFC fight this weekend, so there are a lot of people...just be careful." Every person seemed to warn.  And I had this light bulb moment in my head.  Are you telling the male tourists to not rape the women they encounter?  If you're thinking, No, this is just being safe for women...I ask you...why?!  Why is this a normal interaction for a woman but not for a man?  Why should it feel like an inevitable death sentence when the sonographer says you're having a girl?  Where did this idea of the "weaker sex" come from?  Because  as a mother who is raising 2 girls at the moment, I can tell you, it is no freaking picnic.  

I guess my point in this post today is that women today need to stand up for themselves and not let societal norms define how they should feel or act.  My other point is that I understand the life my female family has gone through and I will do everything in my power to make your story be heard and respected.  Even if it is just through a silly blog that hardly anyone reads.    

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Mom

I still find it interesting that we went from celebrating your birthday by "surprising" you with cake and sitting around our kitchen table to instead going to the cemetery and making sure that I bring no Christmas related flowers for you on this day because it was a pet peeve of yours to mix your birthday and Christmas.

I came across a VHS tape of your birthday from about 1988 where our family was gathered around the living room while we watched you open presents and making your comedic jokes in between.  I smile thinking of how funny you were.  As you opened gifts from Billy and I, which consisted of new pots and pans, skillets, and the like, you commented that your family must be telling you something...to cook for them!  The family chuckled but I know you prided yourself in cooking for us all the time.  It was the Italian thing to do.  I pride myself too.  You'd laugh at the Christmas Eve menu I have planned this year.  Baked ziti, calamari, salads, breads, shrimp and an attempt on a gingerbread cake with cream cheese frosting.  "That's not enough food, Maria"  you would probably tell me.  

You also made certain that after each birthday to state your age with pride.  "I'm 60 years old, Maria.  I wasn't born yesterday."  It was the last age you got to state.  Gone too soon, for sure.  A month away from reminding me that you were 61.  

I'm sitting here, at the cemetery right now with Teresa and Lena.  We are trying to keep warm and their snacks are all over their faces.  Despite all the great memories I have with you, I still think about what could have been if you were here.  How much you would love the girls with or without snack on their faces.  The planning to get together today to celebrate with you and sing Happy Birthday.  Your grandchildren would rush up to you upon getting through the door and bombard you with hugs and kisses.  You'd have a sauce cooking, and I'm sure you'd been sneaking yummy treats to all the girls.  We would enjoy an early dinner and "surprise" you with a cake and Teresa would give you a card she made herself.  It would have been a wonderful day indeed.

It is okay, though.  The girls are getting to know you through me.  My stories, our old home videos, and the traditions I've carried with me.  I just wish you could be here to blow out your candles today.  Happy heavenly birthday, Mom.