holidays

I blinked, and somewhere in the process November became December. Days seem to blend into one another lately, and the last week has especially left me pondering my life now compared to just one year ago. There are a million words swirling in my head, yet they float not quite capable of connecting themselves to one another to form a proper thought. The words being emotions and feelings really, much of which leave me even more confused when I try to piece them together.

So, my approach these last few weeks has been to really take my own advice. I’ve been consumed with just trying to be present and fully aware of every moment. We spend so much of our lives being connected to something, instead of someone. And so my silence here, there and everywhere these last few weeks has been because I’ve been absorbed with experiencing life rather than simply documenting it.

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I looked in the mirror a few days ago and thought “holy shit” you’re going to turn 39 any day now. Then I glanced back, this time with a smile, and reminded myself I have survived 39 years on this planet. Sometimes the canvas of our lives seems like a Jackson Pollock painting. A spattering of events that require careful introspection so as to not miss the meaning in all those moments.

Yes, my 39 years thus far have had their share of doubt, uncertainty, and sadness. But, they have also been filled with more love than some people experience in a lifetime (and I’m counting on being here for at least 39 more, fingers crossed). The tough times etch their way into our souls like a branding iron fresh from the flames. At moments, I have felt tired and weary, quite sure I was ready to throw in the towel. The last 16 months have been particularly exhausting. It has felt like dog years in terms of my growing process, but I am still standing. I wake each morning with resolve, ready to do it all over again…ready to keep this promise to myself. Continue reading »

It’s hard to believe that just a year ago we felt complete and normal. I’ve tried to find the words to start this post for a week now. Nothing flows freely from my fingertips, but I wanted to share this recipe for Easter Bread with you. I hadn’t realized how close we were to Easter until I went to the local pastry shop with Virginia last week. Lamb-shaped cakes and rounds of sweet bread filled with colored eggs adorned the counter tops.

Last year our house was overflowing with homemade Easter Bread, as I was testing it to be featured in the Washington Post. I read the old post I wrote back then, with tears dripping from the corners of my eyes. How was that my life just one year ago?

Then there’s this picture I have of Virginia kneading the dough with Mikey. People constantly tell me she’s too young to be as deeply affected by his death as Isabella, and it’s infuriating. She may be barely four years old, but she’s not stupid. One day she had the most loving, caring, involved daddy, and then he disappeared as quickly as flipping a light switch.

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Mikey never guessed fatherhood was one of his destinies to be fulfilled. He was diagnosed with a medical condition in his early twenties, which required a form of chemotherapy treatment to help him heal. This was a decade before we met.

At the time, his doctor told him to put some of his "boys" on ice just in case he wanted to have kids one day. When I became pregnant, saying we were shocked is putting it mildly—I was on the pill too. You know that little disclaimer about using backup contraception if you're on antibiotics? Well, it wasn't there back in 2002.

And thank heavens it wasn't.

To think one simple sentence could've changed the course of our lives would've surprised me 130 days. Now, I know how one split-second can change a life forever.

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Around this time last year, I was writing out our holiday cards. I've been designing custom ones since Isabella was born. Back in the one-kid days, I even created calendars with not only custom photos for each month, but a carefully chosen photo of Isabella with each family member to mark their birthdays and every holiday.

Back in 2008, when Virginia was born, I decided it was time for a change. I wanted something more personal that my mom, aunts, uncle and in-laws could cherish beyond the calendar year. I scanned Isabella's artwork from pre-K, and made a book interspersed with pictures of the girls.

Last year was different, though. For some reason I decided to make just one book. Something special for my mom. I put together photos of me, Mikey and the girls, and titled it simply "Perillo Family Memories". She was the only person I gave it too. I didn't order a copy for myself, figuring we had years decades to make books and create new memories.

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It's funny how I can feel so alone in a crowded room these days. This little place here in cyberspace, though—I never feel alone here. The sincere comments, emails and well-wishes over the last week have only reaffirmed what I've always believed—there are more good people in this world than we sometimes realize.

When I wrote a post asking friends to make a peanut butter pie to celebrate Mikey's life and the love for everyone in their own lives, I never expected the amazing domino effect that would follow. One woman wrote to tell me she has a peanut butter chocolate cupcake on the menu at her cafe in Buenos Aires in honor of Mikey, with the proceedings going to a charity that helps kids in need.

It reminded me of Eric Carle's story the The Tiny Seed, the way the love Mikey and I shared made it's way through the borders of Argentina into the heart of a woman neither of us knew. There are many more stories like this, and they make my heart swell with hope.

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Thanksgiving preparation has officially started, and I wasn't sure what to expect as I set out to make the cranberry sauce. I'd bought the cranberries last week, and there they sat in the fruit drawer of my fridge. I'd stare at them each time I opened the door, and think "maybe tomorrow the mood will strike to make it".

Well, Thanksgiving is only three days away, and this year I'm blinking in disbelief at how fast this fall has gone by. I go to bed each night thinking of how I found him when I heard he had collapsed. I replay this scene over in my mind before I go to sleep to remind myself that this is really my life, my reality.

I've written about being thankful, and I encourage the girls every day to remember how fortunate we are in spite of this sad truth. For now, my goal is a short term one—get through Thanksgiving. A reader who has also suffered this kind of loss, commented that the anticipation leading up to the "day", be it an anniversary, birthday, or holiday is sometimes harder than the day itself. I've hit two big "days" so far, and I believe that to be true too.

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It's the seemingly little things that throttle me back into the harshness of my reality. Tonight I was folding laundry, and when I came to the dinner napkins there were only three of each pattern. Everything about a meal at home makes me ache for him, but the napkin thing especially tugs at my sense of balance.

I always bought napkins in sets of four.

Now I only need three on normal evenings.

That fourth, lonely napkin sits cast aside in the drawer until it is needed every third day. By the third day there are three mismatched napkins, longingly waiting to be put to good use.

Those mismatched napkins remind me everyday that there is a piece of our family missing. They gather in the draw, and seem to scream at me every time I open it—"he is never coming back".

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The last few days people near and far have reached out to wish me strength and peace as the Thanksgiving holiday approaches. It will be tough, no doubt, and if you want real honesty, I'm terrified of waking up that day.

Not because I'm afraid of the tears that will be inevitable.

Not because of the heartbreak I carry as if the Grand Canyon has settled in my chest.

I'm worried because I know I need to be strong to preserve the beauty and love that my girls have come to expect during what has always been one of my favorite seasons. Every year I watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade with them, and try as I might, there is no holding back the tears that slide down my face as Santa's sleigh pulls into Herald Square.

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