Author: Sheila Quirke

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Rose Goes Home

People die and that sucks, especially when those people are ones in your orbit that you loved, or liked, or cherished, or relied upon.

Rose was Donna’s very first babysitter.  When baby Donna was thirteen weeks old, I got dressed all business like for the first time since her birth. I loaded her up in her car seat, had a little bag full of breast milk, and my electric pump slung on my shoulders.  Donna was off for an adventure and so was I.  For the first time, she would be in the care of another and for the first time I would walk into the office as a working mother.  I think it was a hard day for both of us, but Rose assured me all would be fine.  And it was.

Three days a week for the next 17 months we had the same routine.  Rose cared for Donna and some other little ones in her home.  She had been doing home child care for much of her life, starting when her own little ones were babies.  When Donna came to her, Rose was in her late sixties.

She ran a tight ship, Rose, and maintained order and structure amidst the chaos a room full of babies and toddlers can create.  Her husband, Poppy, helped out since he was retired.  Where Rose was order and structure, Poppy was a warm lap and loving arms.  Where Rose was feeding and diapering, Poppy was walking to the park down the street. They were such a great team, Rose and Poppy, each one complementing the other so perfectly well.  And, really, children and babies need both a little Rose and Poppy in their lives — a little structure and a little cuddle and warmth, each so important in their own way.

When the message came that Rose had died, I felt terribly.  I felt guilty.  I felt sad.  Did I ever properly express the gratitude I felt to Rose for helping us raise Donna?  Probably not.  Rose was not one to easily get warm and fuzzy with.  Again, she was business.  Kind business, gentle business when gentle was called for, but business still.  And, full disclosure, I to this day feel some responsibility, as Donna’s mother, that she was taken from those who loved her.  Rose loved Donna, I have no doubt of that. Sometimes it can be hard to face the people that most loved Donna, the guilt overwhelms, irrational as it is.

After Donna’s death five years ago, our visits with Rose and Poppy became less and less frequent.  Occasionally, a grandparent might ask after Rose and Poppy.  I would sheepishly admit that I hadn’t kept up with them, that we had fallen out of touch.  I meant to.  I always meant to.

Rose’s service was on a Thursday.  I would go and bring the baby.  People talk about “paying respects,” and Lord, did I wish to pay my respects to Rose, to Poppy, to all who loved her. Rose mattered to me, to my family, to my only and beloved and now deceased daughter.  I would get over my bad self, swallow my guilt, and pay my respects. I am so grateful I did.  I only wish I had done it sooner.

It turns out that the service for Rose was held at a church that I drove past frequently.  Once, I pulled over to photograph the message from the sign near the front door — “RELAX.  GOD IS STILL IN CHARGE.”  That spoke to me despite not being religious or a church goer.  The message of not being the one in control of life is one I fully embrace.  We can cling to the illusion of control, but it is nothing more than an illusion.  As a Cancer Mom, I get that.

I never knew the church was Rose and Poppy’s church, their religious home.  The fact that it was lent a greater sense of significance to being there.  I felt closer to both them and Donna.  The baby and I walked in, me a little timidly, wondering if I truly belonged there.  The church lobby was full and getting crowded.  I made a move with the stroller to enter the church when a woman dressed head to toe in white, including tights and gloves and shoes, like a retro nurse, took my arm and explained this time was private time for family to be with Rose. Oops. “Of course,” I said, grateful for the guidance.

Baby and I slinked back to a corner, waiting our turn.  About twenty minutes later the doors opened wide and all gathered were allowed in.  The church filled.  One by one, people filed past Rose in her coffin.  Family and friends greeted one another.  There was a joy in the air, a sense of reunion, old friends and family seeing one another after too much time had passed.  Funerals bring people together, just as years ago, when we were younger, weddings and babies did.  It is the cycle of life.

The service was rich and wonderful.  Those who memorialized Rose did her justice.  She was honored for her cooking, her child rearing, her hosting, her wry humor, her sharp instincts, her Christian life.  I felt closer to Rose and Poppy than I had in years.  The music soared, the humor and tributes flowed, a life was properly honored.

And as I watched all of this unfold, between wrangling a busy baby and retrieving fallen Cheerios from the red carpet beneath me, I couldn’t help but think of that other aspect of Rose’s life — her work of helping to raise other people’s children.  As I looked out on the crowd, there was only one other family I recognized, a girl who had “graduated” from Rose’s care before Donna was even born, but who, like us, would visit with Rose and Poppy on Halloween during trick-or-treating.  This girl was grown now, a tween already, inches away from being a teen.  She made me think of all the other children that had passed through Rose and Poppy’s home through the years, getting kisses (“sugar” as Rose called them) and hugs (“cush” as Rose called them) and diaper changes and warm milk.

I sat there and imagined an army of forty years of babies now grown, babies that Rose had a hand in caring for while their parents went off to work. Where were they now?  What were they doing?  Rose retired not long after Donna left her care.  Her graduates, though, must range in age from 6 or 7 all the way up to 40 years old. Goodness!  What an amazing legacy to leave, what sacred work Rose did in her life.

I am grateful to have known Rose and Poppy.  I worry about Poppy, now without his Rose.  She took care of him just like she took care of so many others.  When I worked with older adults and going to memorial services was part of my stock in trade, one thing the old Presbyterians always said was, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Well done, Rose.  Thank you for all the love and care you provided Donna and my family.  You will be so very missed by so very many.  

Rose1

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Having a Bad Day? Get Otter Here!

Have you ever had one of those days where you’re frustrated, face obstacle after obstacle, life is just kind of, sort of getting you down?  No?  Well, bully for you!  Most of us, though, probably have those days more often than we would wish for.  They suck.

You know what doesn’t suck?  Otters!  Otters are, like, the opposite of suck! They are awesome and fantastic and nature’s antidote for the bad day.

So put this gallery of otters in your tool box for future bad days.  I guarantee you, otters will make you feel better.  Gar-run-teed!

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Life Lessons from a Late Bloomer

Last week I got to thinking about late bloomers, of which I am one.  I threw out a question on my blog’s Facebook page (Why don’t you join me there?) about what benefits other late bloomers have found in their trajectory.  Kind of surprised that it took folks a few minutes to figure out what I was talking about.

For clarity’s sake, Wikipedia tells me that a late bloomer is, “a person whose talents or capabilities are not visible to others until later than usual.” Urban Dictionary riffs off of that, as they always do, to the lower common denominator of, “People who experience a delayed heyday in their 20s and/or 30s, when they finally have the factors (social and/or job status, money, body, looks, etc.) to get laid and gain attraction/popularity among the opposite sex. These people were typically categorized as nerds/geeks back in high school.”

Yep.  Late bloomer here, meeting criteria for both of the above definitions. To a T.  Though I might add to Wiki’s definition that a late bloomer’s own “talents and capabilities” may also not be visible to the individual themselves, let alone others — the all important self esteem matter.  For me, being a late bloomer was rooted in having a fairly low social IQ caused by insecurities.  Throughout my school years, college included, I am fairly certain I would have scored in the low single digits where all things social were involved, if something like a social IQ existed.

[My curiosity got the best of me.  You can read about social intelligence HERE.]

High school graduation, senior college photo, and Homecoming, junior year of high school. A little cringe worthy.
High school graduation, senior college photo, and Homecoming, junior year of high school. Those braces were my favorite accessory for eight years.

I was the kid who didn’t ride a bike until 12, drive a car until 18, got dumped by the high school boyfriend because I didn’t want to French kiss him. What can I say?  Food in braces did nothing for me.  When my high school friends were hanging and drinking with the cross country team, I was sitting on a pile of coats in the bedroom wondering what in the hell was wrong with me that I wasn’t having any fun.

College was similar in the social arena.  Never went through with a sorority rush because, well, just NO.  I couldn’t imagine any worse torture than being judged or rejected by pretty young things when I had no interest in most of the main attractions of Greek life — socializing and drinking.  And speaking of drinking, I never did much of that until my mid-20s.

You could say I was a buzz kill, but that wouldn’t be true.  I just hadn’t yet bloomed.  I was happy as a clam with my few friends, a close boyfriend who treated me well and never pushed me to be anything that I wasn’t, and focused on my studies.  The intellectual part of college was a lifeline for me.  I was challenged, invested, interested.  I hated the work of college — the papers, the exams, the stress of achieving, but I seriously dug the exploration of that phase of life.  Learning about Russian history and religious doctrines and African American women writers sent me to my happy place in a way I never would have found at a kegger.

In the end, all the best stories have happy endings.  I grew up and grew into myself — I finally bloomed.  Some of that can be attributed to maturing, some of it to loosening up, some of it to therapy in my early 20s, some of it, quite honestly, was learning how to better manage the mop of curly/frizzy hair I had been grappling with since I was a young child and my Mom got me a “Dorothy Hammill” haircut when she went to work outside the home when I was 7.  That cut was never intended for little girls with curls.

But I digress.

Being a late bloomer, from my perspective, has had a lot of benefits and has served me well in the “life lessons” department.  If any of you, too, were late bloomers, if you’re raising a late bloomer, or if you have yet to bloom (choose hope!), these might be just the thing you need:

  • Confidence rooted in capabilities rather than looks is a lot more enduring.  As a child and young woman, wall flower that I was, I always had a firm sense of my capabilities.  Put me in a social situation and I flailed, but give me a challenge and I was game.  That bred confidence in myself that, I think, will last me much longer than dewy skin, feathered hair just so, or how I look in a short skirt.  When our children learn to value what they are capable of and can internalize that, the confidence that builds will bleed into other things they do.
  • Peer pressure is not much of a thing when you don’t need to fit in.  One of the things I worry about most in my parenting is what I will do when my sons experience peer pressure and succumb to it.  I always felt immune to it.  I simply had no interest in whatever was being offered, so felt no pressure to engage or experience or experiment.  Part of that, I think, was the late bloomer thing, which inoculated me from the need to fit in — I just knew and accepted that I didn’t, and learned to make my peace with that, with a few tears along the way.
  • Attractiveness and sex appeal are more about thinky thoughts than busty busts.  I know some day the tide will turn.  Each human “peaks” at one time or another.  For some it is at 16, others at 26, some at 56 or 86.  I still don’t think I have peaked, physically or achievement wise.  Absolutely, things are changing — wrinkles developing, hairs graying, bits sagging — but that’s what moisturizer, dye, and supportive undergarments are for!  The truth is that I am a much more interesting person at 45 than I ever was at 15 or 25.  That is what makes a person appealing, not perky breasts.
  • People attracted to early bloomers never held my interest or attention  — a mutual “meh.”  I remember walking into a junior high basketball game one cold winter’s night.  The most popular boy in school kind of half smirked/half mocked me as I walked past him, for the benefit for the other popular boys gathered around him.  They laughed, at my expense.  Pffft.  Even at 13, my response was an internal, “Fuck him.  He is not all that,” but in 13 year old terms, cause I defninitely was a late bloomer when it came to swearing, too.  The truth is that he did not appeal to me, just as I did not appeal to him.  We were apples and oranges.  The difference between us, though, was that I never felt the need to belittle someone that didn’t interest me.  Why do that?
  • Late bloomers tend to value the bloom rather than chase to maintain it.  As I came into my bloom in my mid-20s, I had a solid foundation for that bloom to keep blooming.  When I look in the mirror and like what I see, when I sit around a table of dinner guests and hold up my end of the conversation, when I meet new people and enjoy the experience rather than cringe, I love every moment of it.  I enjoy it, value it, remark on it to those close to me.  It doesn’t feel fleeting or something that will fade or vanish, it feels like a gift.  There is, finally, the confidence that I bring something to the table both socially and intellectually.
  • When your bloom comes late, you never lose the humility it took to get there.  Amen.  There is an empathy that is developed being on the outside looking in for so many years.  That’s hard to lose, I think, once you’ve made it past the bouncers.  The squirrel I was for so many years taught me so much about how to treat other people, how to empathize, and how to understand what really matters.
Portrait of the late bloomer taken last week. I may have wrinkles and jowls, but the confidence overrides everything else. So grateful for the work I did to find it.
Portrait of the late bloomer taken last week. I may have wrinkles and jowls, but the confidence overrides everything else. So grateful for the work I did to find it.

The moral of this fable is, learn to love and accept yourself for who you are. When you have that, you bloom and will keep blooming.  Love and acceptance for yourself and others.  That is what it is all about.  And while I may have come late to the table, I’m there and appreciate the hell out of having a seat.  Now pass the salt and pepper, please, my hair needs a touch-up.