Last week was quite the week. The week surrounding March 17, and in fact this time of year, is always bittersweet for me. And this year, it seems that every normal emotion is magnified by about 10 - so it is quite the ride at times.
I am finally coming to the end of a major home overhaul. The whole process of going through the house, one drawer and one closet at a time, and moving out the old in preparation for the new has been exhausting, very rewarding, but surprisingly, quite emotional. I have watched those "Hoarder" shows on TV, and even though that was never my problem, I did always wonder how people could get so emotional about getting rid of what was obviously, at least to me and most viewers, complete and total junk. However, in the process of getting rid of many bags of garbage and/or Salvation Army items, I did figure out that my junk was sometimes special to me...junk, but special junk, none-the-less. However, unlike the people on the shows, I was able to move the special junk out the door at quite the rate of speed...I mean really, enough is enough. And, my special junk will look better in somebody else's house, or even on top of a shiny pile at the landfill.
In the midst of carpet replacement, carpet cleaning, laminate installation, and painting almost the entire house, I kept thinking about my Dad. For you see, seven years ago, last Thursday, March 17 - St. Patrick's Day - he left my world and left me with a permanent hole in my soul that will never completely fill.
Dad was the calm in the midst of the storm. The last time I did a major renovation on my house, he took on the role of "contractor." He dealt with the carpenter and the electrician and he hauled in dry wall with my very ambitious 8 year old - I will always remember when I called him in tears because I could not figure out how to get the linoleum to fit under the toilet and he came over and laid on my tiny bathroom floor and helped me. He truly enjoyed being a Dad - even when his youngest child was a whiny 38 year old....
I think about him often these days. I wonder how he would have dealt with my daughter and the pending baby. I long for his calm demeanor and sound advise. I yearn for his unyielding faith - something that I really could have used at times during all of this. My daughter and my Dad had a very special relationship. He no-doubt would have been disappointed by all of this, but he also, no-doubt, would have stood behind her for support. He would have given everything he had for all of his Grandchildren, and that I am certain of. He did give everything he had for his children - that I know.
March 17 is also the anniversary of the first time I ever met my daughter. This year it was the 15th anniversary. It serves as a reminder that life is truly a circle. The best thing that ever happened to me and the worst thing that ever happened to me, so far, all happened on March 17.
In the midst of preparing our house, and ourselves for the adventure that lies before us, I remind myself of that day 15 years ago... I walked up these dingy stairs, and down this brutally long hall and into a waiting area. The caretaker at the orphanage opened a door and there were 20 little children - the girls in wool plaid dresses and tights, and the boys in tights and jumpers, sitting at little tables, eating coffee and yogurt out of tin enamel cups with little pieces of toast. There were about six tables of toddlers, and halfway across the room I spotted her. She had this starkly cut blond hair and the biggest, grayest, eyes with the longest eyelashes I had ever seen. She was trying to get all of the yogurt out of that cup, and she was trying hard to eat that hard piece of toast. She was terrified and expressionless - but she was mine....somehow, she almost instantly knew that things were never going be the same again...we had finally found each other and we were a family.
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