The DNA Of My Heart

I remember when Keith died.  I remember the day his whole body died, but mostly I remember the day his brain died.  I remember what I was wearing.  I remember where I was exactly.  I remember the dog under my feet.  I remember the sound of the phone ringing, the smells in my house and the noises outside.  They are forever locked in my mind.  They aren't vivid and bright images.  More like that after image you get when you look at something and then close your eyes and can still see the negative for a fleeting moment.

That effect makes it seem surreal to me.  Almost like I saw the events unfold through someone else's eyes.

The days following that phone call have a buzz to them.  I have bits of memory.  Pieces of images that float up out of my heart.  Some memory.  Not alot.  I spent countless hours and what energy I could muster to focus on giving Keith a funeral that would make my boys proud.

We did, you know.  We sent him off in the best way we could.  There were no regrets.  We told stories of Keith.  We laughed about all the quirky habits he had.  We shared happiness and joy in the knowledge that he was ours and that we loved him.  The day of the funeral was a beautiful gathering.  The church was packed.  Standing room only.  It was filled with love.  I've always found funerals to be such a contradiction.  You are so sad at the passing of someone dear to your heart, but it's such a reunion to see so many friends and loved one's together sharing a common bond.  I remember Laurie calling me to check on me after the funeral was over.  I think she expected tears, but at that moment I was filled with such joy.  We had several kids here and we were watching a slideshow of pictures of Keith and we were laughing and sharing stories with each other.  It was a brief respite from the bone crushing pain that we had all experienced.

I loved that boy.  I loved him like my own.  Sometimes I drive down the street and I see someone walking with a ball cap on and I catch my breath - and then I remember. I still can't talk about it without crying.  I still can't listen to my kids tell stories of him.  It is still so hard. I miss him in the silences between every heart beat.

Keith wasn't my own.  It has been argued that I don't "really" know what it's like to lose a son.  Maybe those people are right. I haven't lost Tyson, Goose or Jaden.  I lost Keith.  I can testify that it's pain that takes hold and never, never goes away.  You just work around it.  And when it's too much to bear, well you bear it anyhow because there really isn't anyone who knows enough to share the agony with them.  The pain and the loss is so personal.

I have many, many, many kids that call me "Mom." I like to think that they view me with that kind of love, but regardless, I love with them with every inch of my being. I celebrate their victories and secretly cry at their pain.  Not many of them know this. I think I would freak them out.  Keith was most certainly one of those kids.  If you were to check the DNA from Tyson, Goose, Tanna, Shelby or Jaden you'll get a perfect match.  To match it with all my other kids...take the DNA from my heart.

Yeah...What She Said....

Shelby wrote on her blog last night.  shelbydeason.blogspot.com

I had an inkling it was for Tanna.  It was hard for me to read.  Bawled like a baby.  I'm babysitting Bill, I was crying so hard it upset him and we were both howling.  It was awful.  I'm mad at her for writing it. I'm mad that I have to feel what I'm feeling.  I'm mad that it hurts so much to love someone.  I'm mad that it's hard to mend wounds and heal the hurts that are in a family.  I'm mad that we hurt people that we love so very much.

I'm mad. I'm mad. I'm mad.  And...I miss her too, Shelby.

The House That Built Me

The first time I heard this song I teared up. It's a pretty song sung by a pretty girl with a pretty voice. It struck a chord deep inside me and stuck.  It's on my Ipod and I sing it ferociously each time it plays. At times, I repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat the song.  I like it that much.

It makes me think of MY home.  I want to believe it's how my kids will feel whenever I become rich and famous and move on to the mansion that is waiting for me.  But until that day arrives, this is my home...our home. 

I remember the very first time I noticed this house. Tyson had a paper route and this house was one of the homes we delivered to.  The first time I saw it, I loved it.  I remember thinking that it was such a pretty house and I thought through the "if only's".  You know... "if only I had such a pretty house like that for my kids."  "If only I had such a large yard for them to play in."  "If only I had a garage to park my car in." If only...if only...if only.  

Time passed on and I found myself in the market to buy a home.  I looked and looked for a house that wasn't a "cookie cutter" home.  I wanted a home with a yard, in the boundaries of the school that my kids were attending.  Nothing struck me.  Then while out looking I passed this house and saw it was for sale.  Too good to be true.  Long story short, here I am.  In my "if only" home.

I have raised a family in this home. I have memories oozing from the pores of the walls surrounding me. There has been laughter and tears, hope and disappointment, life and death...and more love than any human has a right to.

There isn't a room in this home that I haven't brought to life with a vision.  I have painted, nailed, ripped carpet, refinished floors, refinished cabinets.  My family has helped immensely.  Sometimes with blood, sweat, and swearing, (Goose and Mark)...and at other times quite simply by staying out of the way.  : )

Sometimes I think of moving on and it's too hard to swallow.  The next owners won't till the garden or mow the lawn and think of the animals that are buried beneath.  They won't laugh when they remodel the upstairs bathroom because how will they know about my best friend, Laurie, falling through the floor while removing the oh-my-gosh-it's-so-ugly-wallpaper and ending up with one leg dangling in the garage and me beside her screaming like a crazy woman because I thought her leg was broken...and the kids all yelling "cool" and running to the garage to check out her leg and Mark coming to see what all the ruckus was about and then only shaking his head in dismay while walking away without lifting a hand to help.  

How will they know that the reason there are flowers painted on my back porch is because my dear friend Denise died and her favorite flowers were poppies and that I missed her so badly and the ache was so immense that I painted them as a reminder to always tell the people you love that you love them.

Or the reason I have a back flower bed is because Mark chained the dogs to the trees and how he and I fought about it because I knew they would kill all the grass around them (and they did) because they were ALWAYS running back and forth attempting to reach the kids.

Or that the hole in the stairway is from Ernie making a quick U-Turn on the stairs and slamming his butt into the wall with Shelby laughing hysterically on the phone while telling me the story while I envisioned a little hole only to come home to a gaping cavern in my wall.

It seems (at times) that I get in the way of my own happiness.  I have wasted time wanting more.  When Miranda sings "I got lost in this old world and forgotten who I am".  I think of these times.  I think of the wasted time lost in the "if only's".  I don't want to do that.  I want to embrace the life that I have. I want to remember the very moment when this house became mine.  I am the blood, sweat and tears in the corners of these rooms.  This home has sheltered me through heartache and sorrow, through times when it hurt too much to stand.  Yet in these walls this family has built laughter, strength, courage and hope. 

This is the house that built me.

It's Not What You See

I own a fridge. I know that statement alone isn't anything special. Most people own a fridge. In fact, mine is small. There isn't a cool ice maker, cold water dispenser. It's not an awesome stainless steel designer fridge. In fact, I can guarantee that there aren't many refrigerator's on the market that you can purchase for less.  But you see, it's not the fridge that matters to me...it's what's ON the fridge.

Many years ago, my grandmother, Elizabeth Adamson, gave me a magnet.  I was in High School and it sort of kicked around in the drawers of my dresser for a few years. Somehow, after I was married, that magnet made it to my fridge. I still have it. At the time, (sadly), it didn't hold much meaning for me. My grandmother's passing has upped the value significantly.

Time has passed and through the years, I have purchased a magnet here and there to memorialize a trip or a special occasion. No magnet had any express value. I had a few that were "space fillers" and held no meaning.

A few years ago, a friend of my boys' came and spent the weekend while his grandparents went to California. When Grandma came and picked him up, she brought me in a magnet. She related to me that through the years when she would come to pick Josh up, she would sit in the driveway and from that vantage point was able to see my fridge and the menagerie of magnets I had. She thought she wanted to give me something that I would use and would remind me of how grateful she was for me to be a part of Josh's life.  Little did she know that she would begin a tradition.

My fridge is COVERED in magnets. I can tell you who gave me each one. I have magnets from all over the world.  They come from friends, family, kids' friends, the girl at the Pepsi store, neighbors...you name it. I may not be able to go to the countries, cities, states, etc.  But a part of the experience is given to me in magnetic form. I love to hear the stories of the experience of the trip, but my secret pleasure is the tale behind the search and purchase of the magnet that they (whomever it may be) thought would be best for ME.

I know where each magnet is placed. In fact, the standing joke is to turn them upside down and see how long it will take Mom to notice.  Yeah, about 1 minute....  The proper placement is in my heart. It's a constant reminder that I am important.

And that, my friends, is why I'm known to say... "You're in the family if you make the fridge."

Yep! That's A Deason

My first grandson was born three days ago.  His name is Bill.  Although my father's name is Bill, baby boy Bill is named after Tyson's favorite football team...the Buffalo Bills.  That's what happens when you leave a man in charge of something as important as naming a son.

I remember when I was pregnant with Jaden.  We didn't cheat and find out what we were having.  (Note: I didn't cheat with any of the 5 kids.)  Anyhow, Mark was golfing, came home and informed me that he had a name picked for a girl.  Callie Taylor.  I was quite impressed.  I thought it was super cute.  He proudly announced that it was after two golf brands - Calloway and Taylor Made.  Wow.  Hold that thought...I'm not done with our proud bonding moment...He then informed me that if we had a boy he would be named after his favorite club.  You guessed it - Ping.  Imagine my horror at that statement.  I promptly cut a deal that he could name the girl and I would pick the boys name.  No compromise on that one.  I must admit that I am thrilled that I can tell my child that HE is named after my grandfather and Uncle and that I'm not the parent explaining that "Yes, darling, you're beautiful name is after Dad's golf clubs."  Wow.

It's so fun to see bits of yourself run a bit further down the line.  I still love watching my kids and finding things that they do or say that reminds me of something Mark or I have done or still do.  I love to hear how much my kids look like me or sound like me or yell like me or sing like me.  How they run like Mark or work like Mark or smile like Mark, love the outdoors like Mark.  It's those things that will keep Mark and I in stories for some time to come.

So, we welcome Bill.  We'll teach you to protect those you love.  Be true to who you are.  When you do something good...when you do something bad... It's a Deason thing!

A Gentle Ripple

So, I think I'm a good person. I try very hard to make wise choices and to inspire those around me to be a better version of themselves. Not because people are bad, but because I think that we forget we are good.

It's important to me to treat others fair...to be kind and to always put others' needs ahead of my own. I am a believer that you learn to truly love when you serve.

There are times that I wonder if I have made some kind of an impact. Not in a sonic boom sort of way, but more of a gentle ripple in the hearts of those with whom I come in contact.

When doubt flits through my mind, I think of my kids. I think of how generous they are. How they are strength to their friends and how they are willing to help anyone - friend or stranger.

Then I know that I have accomplished all that I have set out to do. I did make a ripple. I taught my family that others matter and that they should always fight for those who can't fend for themselves. I'm proud of them. I'm proud of who they are, who they have been and who they are to become.

With Abandon

I recently attended a wedding for a friend of the family. Cute girl marrying a cute guy. In love. The world at their feet. Etc. Etc. Etc.

The wedding was an outdoor event held at a church pavilion in their neighborhood. Yellow ribbon rippled everywhere.  I showed up at the tail end of the wedding; when everything was winding down and the wedding party was properly exhausted from greeting friends/family.  Perfect time for everyone to let their hair down and just "be".  


I've become a peeper. I stand back and watch people when I (hopefully) don't think they know they are being watched.  (Sidebar:  I've always wanted to do a coffee table book filled with photos of people doing everyday things in their everyday life. We are so interesting when nobody is watching.)  I think we are a beautiful species when we allow joy to surround us. And what's more joyful than a wedding?


There was music and dancing for those who wanted to give it a swing on the dance floor.  There's a secret dance star inside of all of us. We feel a beat without thinking about it. We tap our feet, or bob our heads. We sway to the music and feel the rhythm. Although, some are more capable of bringing that beat to life, each of us at least feel it.


I was sitting at a table, picking at a cupcake and watching the dance floor. There were probably 10-12 kids (I call them kids but they were probably 18-20 years in age) on the dance floor cutting it up with moves and grooves that would put Michael Jackson to shame. Okay - not that extreme but THEY thought they were bringing it on.


As I watched them, I felt their abandon. Freedom from life's weight. They spun and twirled with ease and grace. They watched each other, tried new moves; laughed when they maneuvered gracefully and laughed when they didn't. 


It made me smile to watch them. I think it was an important lesson for me. A lesson without a teacher standing before me with a life changing lecture. Yes, it's something we see daily (or at least I'd like to think we get to see it often.) It was simply something I needed to be reminded of. Live life with abandon. Don't get old and develop fear because of past failures. Dance. Laugh when you're good and laugh when you're bad. Just dance. And do it all with abandon.