Sheila Quirke

June 24, 2015

TOOT TOOT!

This blog is part of ChicagoNow’s monthly blogapalooza where bloggers are challenged with a topic at 9:00 PM and required to publish a post an hour later. Here is this month’s topic:

“Without trying to be humble, write about something you’re really good at.”

Oy. I have to laugh because as of late, I am not feeling really good at much of anything. I am slowly crawling out of a caregiving coma that has pretty much consumed most of my life since November. Throw a little grief in there, and, well, you got yourself a cocktail of life, my friends, that does not go down too easily.

That led me to think of a topic for this post, which was feelings. I am really good at feelings — feeling those suckers, expressing them, coaxing them out of others, sitting with them. I excel at feelings, my friends. Feelings, nothing more than feelings.

But you know what? I am kind of maxed out on feelings right about now and don’t for a hot second want to spend an hour writing about the damn things. Plus, I just, like fifteen minutes ago, purchased a pair of sparkly peep toe pumps, so I am feeling (get it) a bit playful tonight.

Exhibit A:

Given that one of the prompts for this exercise allowed for lists, that, my friends, is what I am gonna do for the next few minutes here — list those things that I am good at. How cool is that?

The next time life gets me down, which might be tomorrow morning for all I know, I can look at this post and remember to toot my own horn once in a while. As bad as things can get now and then, there’s this list, so suck it, Universe.

THINGS I AM GOOD AT:

making banana Nutella and strawberry crepes;
blogging;
building consensus;
planting colorful window boxes that get only indirect light and mostly shade;
finding bargains;
taking care of people I love;
writing eulogies;
doing nothing;
dressing tables for holidays and dinner parties;
arranging flowers;
kitchen dance parties;
knowing my limitations;
writing status updates on the Facebook;
keeping a clean car;
making beds;
baking Irish soda bread;
exfoliating;
moisturizing;
using the camera on my iPhone;
seeing the beauty around me;
seizing opportunities;
wearing horn rimmed glasses like a sexy, middle-aged librarian;
changing the diaper of a 21 month old bucking bronco;
appreciating what I have;
picking myself up and dusting myself off;
not letting bastards on the Internet get me down for too long;
expressing myself;
communicating;
building community;
impressing people with my ability to bake boxed Ghiradelli brownies;
knocking out homemade chocolate suckers for the holidays;
decorating;
helping people cope with sadness and grief;
fundraising for pediatric cancer research;
getting folks to shave their heads;
loving on my boys;
spontaneous trips to the beach;
styling my kid’s curls;
plucking my eyebrows;
going to the movies alone;
talking with older adults and young children;
flirting;
knowing when to say when

Okay. There it is. This has improved my mood immensely. Do me a solid and help me feel less like a narcissistic jerk about posting this by telling me something you are good at in the comments. xox, MTM

June 20, 2015

Father’s Day Minus My Father

Father’s Day was never a big deal for my Dad. It was not his thing. He didn’t expect gifts or meals or cards, even. I seem to remember a good Father’s Day for him was one where all of his four kids called him. That made him happy.

Last Father’s Day was spent raising funds for Donna’s Good Things at the dance recital for the studio where we support scholarships. My Dad helped me out with a few of those over the years. He liked to sit behind the table and talk about his granddaughter who had died from a brain tumor and that he missed so terribly. He would tell every stranger he met that her name was Donna and that it wasn’t right for him to be alive and her to be dead.

This first Father’s Day without my Dad is one I’ve been trying to not think about. It’s easy to keep busy and distracted when you are mothering two young ones. But today as I sat down to do a little photo project as a gift for my husband tomorrow, I keep coming back to photos of my own Dad. I miss him.

As I type those words, “I miss him,” I take a deep breath and stare out the window. I live in a neighborhood where a lot of Orthodox Jews live. It is Saturday morning, so Jewish families are coming and going, walking past my window. Every family has a father, all of whom seem actively engaged with their kiddos as they stroll past. This serves both to make me miss my father more, but to also feel grateful for the Dad I had.

Our relationship wasn’t perfect, my childhood wasn’t perfect, and my Dad certainly wasn’t perfect, but he was there. Always. There is something to be said for being there, showing up, staying close.

I got to spend 45 years with my Dad, which is a hell of a lot more time than so many other folks get with their fathers. I am grateful for that. So very grateful.

One of the things I miss most about my dear Da developed in recent years. It was our mutual grief that provided an extra layer of texture to our relationship. We shared a sadness that was just understood, the common denominator between us. We talked about our grief unselfconsciously. I think for both of us, it was a major part of our day-to-day lives without defining our day-to-day. We both had learned how to make room for the sadness without it crushing us. That connection we had, now that it is missing, makes my own grief feel a bit more crushing these days.

And again, I pause my typing to look out the window. And breathe.

Tomorrow is Father’s Day. I will do what I can to make my husband feel extra appreciated and valued. He is a rock star in the world of fathers. My own Dad would often remark, never in front of my husband, but aside to me, what a good father my husband was. I think he saw the level of involvement and engagement that my husband has with his children, my Dad’s grandchildren, and was amazed. “You got yourself a real good one there,” he would tell me often. Truth.

But in the midst of my two boys and my husband, somewhere in between breakfast in bed and dinner out at a favorite Mediterranean restaurant, in between a walk to the park or planning for next week’s road trip, I will be thinking of my Dad. He is never far from me, never leaves my thoughts for too long. I will be sad and pine to hold the hand of the man that brought me into this world.

Instead, I will take another deep breath, hold the hands of my boys and my husband and remember to be grateful for the Dad I had.

He was a good one and I miss him.

June 16, 2015

In-Between Weddings

We’re headed to Cincinnati for a wedding later this month and it made me realize that my husband and I are in that phase of life in-between weddings. Most of our close friends and contemporaries sailed on the wedding ship long ago, very few have gotten divorced and re-married, and we’re too young to be heading to the weddings of our children.

We’re in-between weddings. Yes, definitely attending more funerals these days than weddings. I miss them. They are full of hope and cake and Black Eyed Peas blasting from the speakers. In the fourteen years since our own wedding, I’ve heard tale that photo booths and midnight snacks are now de rigueur.

Prepping to go to our friend’s wedding has reminded me of my love/hate relationship to these events. I even experienced that dynamic with my own wedding — a smallish affair for 80 held in an old opera hall in the quaint Galena, Illinois. I loved the actual day, being surrounded by our most cherished friends and family, but all the prep work nearly done me in.

We had an etsy-esque wedding long before etsy even existed. We made our own wedding invitations that involved needles, thread and linoleum block printing, we served pie instead of cake, and our centerpieces were stainless steel trays I found on sale at Target filled with grass grown from seeds. It was really very lovely.

But I was uncomfortable being a bride. I could not figure out the whole dress thing and ended up having one sewn for me that I sort of liked well enough. Being the focus of attention was kind of surreal and made me anxious. I was one of those little girls who, despite stereotypes, did not grow up dreaming of walking down an aisle one day with the white veil. It was all a bit overwhelming for me. I was much happier being married than getting married.

Now that its been more than a few years since I’ve been to one, I’m looking forward to celebrating the wedding of another. For the young singles in the crowd, my husband and I will be some of the invisible middle aged crowd who vaguely knows either the bride or groom, but in unknown ways that don’t really matter. You must remember those folks from going to your first round of weddings, right?

Gone is the pressure of stressing about when I would get to be the bride, wondering if my boyfriend of 2, 3, 4 years would ever pop the question (spoiler alert — he did). I will never miss those days. Gone is the financial weight of attending 5-6 weddings a year. That stuff adds up — dresses, gifts, showers, travel expenses. Gone are the days of hanging out in bars with women holding or eating penis shaped balloons, cookies, lollipops while wearing pink feather boas and cheap plastic tiaras. Whew. I never understood that nonsense.

Left instead is that sense of being able to go back to a familiar land as a tourist instead of a local. I’m looking forward to seeing the groom get the first glimpse of his bride as she walks down the aisle. We never go out dancing these days, so yes, when the Black Eyed Peas play, I will be on that dance floor, not caring how ridiculous I might look. It will be nice to sit in a straight backed chair and think about all the days ahead for this particular soon to be married couple — there is so much hope in a wedding day.

Through my lens as a grizzled, middle aged lady, I know enough to know that on the day you wed, saying “I do,” is a leap of faith, a jump into the unknown. Maybe you can imagine your days together stringing into a life, and possibly anticipate the at times crushing reality of the ordinary, but we never really know what sucker punches life will throw at us.

That person standing next to us is our chosen partner in all of it — the joys, the sorrows, the empty milk cartons, the aisles of the grocery store, the hospitals, the funeral homes, the parks on sunshiney days. There is so much hope and potential in a wedding day. It’s good to remember, even from this in-between place.

Grateful thanks to the gals (one of whom is my beloved cousin) at Studio Starling Photography who very kindly allowed the use of their images for this post. Check them out if you are getting hitched in the Chicago area!

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