From tragedy comes unity

They call this a “milestone” anniversary, the 15^th Anniversary of the September 11 terrorist attacks. For that, is it supposed to be any more significant or more important than the 14^th, or 16^th?  Are we supposed to feel any different because it’s the 15^th and not just a random year?

For those of us who live it every day, this is just another anniversary, another moment in time that our loved ones are not with us.  I’m sure this feeling resonates with anyone who lost someone, regardless of the cause of death. I have many friends who are widows and widowers, too many to count, and I know they feel their loss, too, not just on the anniversary of their loved one’s death, but every day. None of us who’ve lost someone on 9/11 think that our grief is any more difficult than anyone else’s.  Grief is hard, and it’s endless. But we move forward in life, because living stuck in the moment does no one any good.

But sometimes I think back. I think about tonight, 15 years ago, and how wonderfully normal life was then.  Jeff and I tucked the kids in for the night, with no inclination that the next day our lives, and our family would be changed forever. I remember that day as vividly as my mind allows me to, and I remember bits and pieces of the days and weeks following. I do remember feeling so much love from family, friends and strangers. I remember the wonderful way the entire country came together, bonded as one through tragedy. Patriotism was evident with flags being flown on homes, on cars, and on street corners across the country. Stores ran out of flags, and red/white/blue ribbon. No one would dare, back then, disrespect the flag by taking a knee or sitting during the National Anthem.

Let’s recreate the positivity that resulted from the darkest day in our history. In honor of this anniversary, find a way to pay it forward for the blessings in your life. Make someone smile with a random act of kindness. Buy someone coffee at your favorite coffee stop. Fill a bag of groceries for your local food pantry. Help save a life by giving blood. Or drop a dollar or two in the homeless person’s cup instead of just walking by. Of those nearly 3000 people who died, there were a lot of souls who were doing, and would have continued to do good things in their lives. Let’s make it our promise, even 15 years later, to continue that spirit in Jeff's memory and in memory of all those who died.

When hatred touches your life, touch others with kindness. The results can be amazing.

In a minute they're grown

When we become parents, we make a silent promise to ourselves and our kids to raise them to be kind, loving, considerate, and responsible individuals. We wonder to ourselves who they will be, what they will become. We know they will leave us one day, even though at six years old, they promise they'll live with us forever.  But as they grow up into teens with challenging personalities (because let's be honest, aren't all teens a bit challenging?) we sometimes think the day when they become independent adults can't come soon enough.

And then the day does come. In what seems like a minute, it is here. We've prepared for it, sort of -- they've already been away at college, so we're used to not having them around all the time.  And when they come home, they're not home that much between work, friends and their social life, not necessarily in that order! But now it's different.

I've sent three kids off to college and on their way to pursue their careers.  Each time was emotional, but I was so happy they were fulfilling their dreams. I looked on the bright side ... my house would be cleaner and I wouldn't have to cook if I didn't want to! That did little to ease how much I miss them, but I keep telling myself there are benefits.  But now it truly is different. This month I watched my youngest walk out the door and drive away to begin her new independence in New York City, just like her older siblings did 4 and 6 years ago.


I couldn't be more proud or happier for her. But as I walk by her bedroom with the bed neatly made and the teddy bear perched against the pillows, I see my little girl with bangs clutching the teddy bear and I hear her sweet voice say "goodnight mommy.  I love you." I feel a lump in my throat and a tear stings my eye.

Then I remember that I did what I was supposed to do as their mom, guided by their dad. I gave them wings, and for the short time Jeff had to influence them in person, together we gave them the encouragement and confidence to fly. And just when I'm feeling a little disconnected, my phone buzzes with a message that almost always ends with "thanks, Love you" to make my day.

A Father's Day letter to Jeff

I can still see the smile on your face; I can hear the joy in your voice when you were spending time with our kids.  Likewise, I can feel their sheer happiness from time spent with you.

Most of my most vivid memories of you relate to you being a dad.  I remember you taking me out to dinner the night we found out I was pregnant with Matthew.  We talked about what it would be like; whether we wanted a boy or girl; what we would name “it”; would we find out the gender.  I remember lying in bed with you one night, my bulging belly in the curve of your back.  The little human inside me kicked with the oomph of the Karate Kid he would become, and you felt it.  You thought it was the coolest feeling in the world.  And so did I.  Your elation made it memorable – extra special. January 14, 1988, we became parents for the first time.  I remember your tears of relief, sheer joy, and pride at 11:57 p.m. when you heard “it’s a boy!”  

You jumped right into the role of fatherhood without hesitation.  You laughed when you got peed on and spit up on (playing airplane while laying on your back with a baby who is prone to spitting up was a lesson learned!), and you stood outside in the cold with him when he struggled with asthma, or tolerated the crying when he wouldn’t take a bottle so I could have an hour or two of “me time.” 

Twice more you and I experienced the wonder of life together, and each time the excitement was different, but the same.  You had your boy, then your girl.  Life was full.  One for each hand, you said.  Then came the third – another girl – no more even numbers, but even more joy. They were your princesses, and you were their king. 

You became an expert at Legos; at singing the Barney song (I can still hear you croon every word, locking eyes with our Barney queen, Meaghan, as you sang it together); at reciting Good Night Moon; in reading the Sunday Globe with anxious little eyes peering over the paper, filled with anticipation of playing with you; at making up games, that usually involved candy. You didn’t mind that your hike up Blue Hills took three times as long because you had Julz at your side, or the work in the yard became more work now that you had little helpers.

As the kids grew, so did your devotion to them.  Our conversations were often about where the kids would go to school, what they would be like as independent little beings.  We talked about our philosophies in parenting impressionable teens, and how we would use, and not use, what we learned from our parents.  You now had someone to recite the “Don’t Quit” poem to, hoping it would help them the way it helped you through tough moments.

You taught me what it means to be a father …  and a dad.  I never imagined I’d need to fill the role myself.  That was supposed to be yours for a much longer time.  But I’m grateful to have had the best teacher, and I know our kids are grateful to have had the greatest dad.  You may have left us physically, but you are with us every day, every minute, with your words of encouragement, your goofy laugh, your captivating smile, and your always-uplifting group hug. 

Happy Father’s Day in Heaven, Jeff. With much love.

Tragedy under the rainbow

Stanley Almodovar III, 23 - Amanda Alvear, 25 - Oscar A Aracena-Montero, 26 - Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33 - Antonio Davon Brown, 29 - Darryl Roman Burt II, 29 - Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28 - Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25 - Luis Daniel Conde, 39 Cory James Connell, 21 - Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25 - Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32 - Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31 - Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25 - Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26

Read the names.  Say them out loud. Each represents a life lost.

     These are the names of the people who were killed in a massacre Saturday night in Orlando at the Pulse. The night was winding down when all hell broke loose.  A scene so horrific it probably wouldn't even have been written in a horror movie -- a homophobe who was seemingly gay himself, a hater, a terrorist-wannabe monster strolls through a bar shooting people with a Sig MCX -- a semi-automatic rifle.  He wasn't shooting to wound.  He was shooting to kill.  He looked people in the eyes as they pleaded for their lives.  And he shot them.  And laughed.

Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22 - Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22 - Paul Terrell Henry, 41 - Frank Hernandez, 27 - Miguel Angel Honorato, 30 - Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40 - Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19 - Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30 -Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25 - Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32 - Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21 - Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49 -Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25 - Kimberly Morris, 37 - Akyra Monet Murray, 18 -Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20 -Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25 - Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36 - Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32 

Read the names.  Say them out loud.  Each represents love.

     The public response was quick, with people donating money to a fund to benefit the families of the dead and the injured.  Rainbow flags have appeared everywhere. Prayers have been offered, healing thoughts sent, cards and letters mailed.  It's all anyone is talking about --  So sad, they say.  So tragic. Awful.  How can anyone do such a thing? How can there be so much hate?  How can we keep Isis out? Why don't we have stricter gun laws? 
     Forty nine lives taken.  Fifty three injured.  The numbers are too great, and these killings are all too frequent.
     Yet we, as Americans who come together in times like this, remain divided on how to prevent this from happening again. I keep hearing from gun advocates that it's not fair to "punish" responsible gun owners for the acts of a few nut cases who mis-use their weapons.  Is it truly that punishing to say you can't have a weapon that fires multiple bullets in seconds with the ability to kill massive numbers of people in seconds?  Do they know how punishing it is to wake up every day with a void in your life because someone you gave birth to, or loved unconditionally, or called a friend or a spouse, or a relative, was brutally murdered by a psycho killer with that weapon? Can they not make the sacrifice with the hopes that it might save someone else's life???  NO ONE is trying to revoke their 2nd Amendment rights.  We who believe semi- and automatic weapons have no place in the hands of the average American are not saying they can't own guns.  They can have their hand guns and rifles for protection or hunting or recreational target practice as long as they're obtained legally and used properly.  

Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35 - Enrique L. Rios, Jr., 25 - Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, 27 - Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35 - Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24 - Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24 - Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34  - Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33 - Martin Benitez Torres, 33 - Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24 - Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37 - Luis S. Vielma, 22 -Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50 - Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37 Jerald Arthur Wright, 31

Read the names.  Say them out loud. Each represents a grieving family.

     They give comparisons to attempt to prove that strict gun laws won't work -- anyone who wants to kill will find a way.  Just like anyone who wants drugs will get them.  Does that mean we should be lax about it?  Does that mean we shouldn't have security at an airport because terrorists or psychos with a bomb will find a way regardless?  Should we not have alarms in our homes or lock our doors because burglars have a way of working around them?  Tougher gun laws will make it more difficult for the killers to obtain their weapons. Banning assault rifles and rifles that shoot multiple bullets in seconds will reduce the numbers of people they attempt to kill.  As someone said, it shouldn't be more difficult to score a ticket to the broadway play Hamilton than it is to purchase a deadly weapon that was originally designed for the battle field.
     Gun proponents also say it's not the gun, but bigger issues that cause all these violent outbursts.  We do have several massive societal problems on our hands -- we live in a world of terrorist threats from al qaeda and Isis (believe me, I know and live it every day), organizations consisting of inhumane individuals who have one goal in life -- to hate and kill Americans and others who don't hold their same beliefs.  This is a real issue that the government deals with on a daily basis, and in the process, thwarts numerous attempts of terrorism against us.  It's also a mental health issue that isn't given enough attention. And it's an issue of not accepting people who are different from the "norm." While we as a nation have made great strides in this department, some have not accepted the existence or rights of the LGBT community and take it on themselves to act out against them.
     Like everyone, I'm so tired of the violence, of the hatred, of the terrorists' threats, of the young men and women who pledge their allegiance to these terrorist groups and commit these horrific acts of murder. Maybe I'm taking this one more personally because there are gay people in our family who I adore and love unconditionally. I feel the pain of the families of the 49 dead and the 53 injured; and I think about the images stored in the survivors' brains --  images they'll struggle to process and will never forget. Lives have been changed forever;  hearts have been broken; lives have been taken. They were as young as 18 years old, and only as old as 50. 

     Some think banning all Muslims from our country is the answer.  If tougher gun laws violate the 2nd Amendment, doesn't banning Muslims from the US challenge the 1st Amendment, our right to religious freedom?  If we can do one thing to help prevent this from happening again, we can make these weapons less accessible without revoking the rights of the Constitution. Wouldn't it be worth it to save lives?  

Read the names.  Say them out loud.  Never Forget Orlando.

The graduate

This weekend I sat in the crowd of thousands as my youngest daughter walked across the stage to accept her Bachelor of Science Degree in Communications, Magna Cum Laude, from Loyola University Maryland.  Suffice it to say, like with all my kids' graduations, this mom is filled with pride, and both happy and sad emotions.

I can't help but think back to the day she was born.  We were already a family of four -- but Julia completed us. She gave Meaghan the little sister I always wanted her to have, and became the little sister that adored her big brother Matthew, following him in his love for soccer and always looking up to him.  She's a happy-go-lucky, funny little girl, willing, daring, adventuresome and thoughtful. She was so daring that at 4 years old she jumped off the top of the backyard swingset and gave herself a forehead-to-chin swollen scrape that raised accusing eyebrows in public.  She was so adventuresome that she subjected herself to a winter-time outward bound "sailing" trip in the everglades on a boat that ended up being no bigger than a double-wide

canoe; she traveled to Argentina alone to visit a friend; worked in an inner-city DC elementary school for two weeks for her senior project, getting there on a 40 minute metro ride in an area that was totally unfamiliar to her; and studied abroad in Copenhagen without any friends to accompany her.  Her thoughtfulness comes out in her little random acts of kindness, like when she decided to walk through the neighborhood collecting food for the food pantry, and buys gifts for under-privileged kids.

She and her dad were best buds -- she was his sidekick for Sunday breakfast while the big kids and I went to church; they wore matching sweatshirts on the Blue Hills hiking trail, she accompanied him at times at the gym, and was often with him as he worked in the yard or around the house, ready to make him lunch.

Being our baby she was, and is, both independent and attached. She never hesitated giving me a hug in the presence of her friends and loved her pick-up hugs until she was the one picking me up!


After a rough adjustment to college life her freshman year, she took my advice about facing the second semester with an open mind.  Things turned around for her (meeting an awesome young man and great friends didn't hurt) and she graduated with as much sadness for the journey being over as she had pride in her accomplishment of fulfilling her goals.  Now she begins an exciting new adventure with a job hunt in New York City.

I sat in the Royal Farms Arena in Baltimore Saturday next to her boyfriend's mom with my kids and brother-in-law nearby, tears welling up more than once.  I thought about how proud Jeff would be of his baby girl (and of Matthew and Meg), and what an amazing young lady she has become.  I thought of the long journey we have all endured, with the happy times, the bittersweet, and the downright impossible times.  I thought about how Julia has carried herself through it all, and my tears stung a little less as I began to feel sheer excitement for her promising future.


My kids have given me numerous reasons to beam and smile, and who they are becoming as adults makes me realize Jeff and I did alright in the short time we had together to raise them. The rest was up to me, and even more so, the decisions they decided to make on their own.  So far, so good.   I'm a lucky, proud mom.

The power of a dream

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.” 
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

It takes a very long time to get used to the reality that someone you love deeply will no longer exist in your every day life as a living, breathing, hugging person.  Somehow the mind and the heart find ways of learning to cope with it over time.  Truth be told, it sometimes requires the help of prescription medicine, or more holistic methods through meditation and visual imagery.  Whatever it takes, I've always believed if you're functioning in life, if you're able to be there for your children, and you allow yourself the time to grieve, you're managing the difficult journey of grief.  To help deal with their loss, I've encouraged people to look for the signs that others might think are just coincidences, but for those who are missing someone, signs are precious little nuggets of love from heaven.

One of the many challenges in grief is accepting the fact that the only way to "be" with the person who passed is in dreams.  In the beginning, it's hard to think of anything else.  You try to will yourself to dream.  They say that if you're going to dream that night, (or remember the dream, because supposedly, we dream every night) you're more likely to dream about the last thoughts you have before drifting off to sleep.  I often say a little prayer to Jeff, begging him to show up in my dream.  More often than not, it doesn't happen.

But when we dream, it can be euphoric and amazingly real. In the first year after Jeff died, I dreamed of him one night and woke up immediately after. His scent that had long faded from my world was so strong it was as if he was lying in bed next to me.  It was like receiving a warm hug.  As time passes, the dreams come even less frequently it seems, while the wanting for them increases a bit.

This past week it had been about a year since I last dreamed of Jeff.  I saw three cardinals at the bird feeder in the midst of the recent blizzard, and thought about my friends who believe a cardinal is a sign of their loved ones saying hello.  For me it's rainbows and dragonflies.  The day I was going to New York to pick up a piece of steel from the World Trade Center a few years, a dragonfly was in my kitchen.  I couldn't catch it to set it free, so I left it.  In New York about a block from Ground Zero, I opened the moon roof in my car and a dragonfly flew in and landed on my knee.  A dragonfly in the middle of New York City ... I smiled and said "well hello Jeff!" before it flew out the same way it came in.  When I got home later that night, the dragonfly was there, wings spread on my wall.  I opened the door and it flew away.

Even though cardinals aren't my sign from heaven, the night I saw the cardinals at the feeder I dreamed about Jeff.  Randomly, he was there in our house, standing in front of me.  He knew he had been away for a while, but we didn't discuss why.  He was happy, looking like I remember him -- full of life; his memorable smile filled me with joy.  The details are vague, but I woke up convinced that his death had been a bad dream.  I felt the emptiness as I swept my arm across his side of the bed, and the reality of my life hit me again.  But instead of being overcome with sadness, (I think subconsciously, there's a little part of me that will never recover from Jeff's death and I've grown accustomed to that) I was grateful for the "visit" and re-energized that he is still out there ... somewhere ... watching over us.

Thank goodness life has an uncanny way of allowing us to move forward, live with the memories and find happiness along the way.  Although we can't dream on demand and we don't always dream when we need it the most, when one does happen, it's a gift that can help get you over grief hurdles ... until the next dream.  

Say no to the Trump Card

      One of the first things we learn as children is to be nice to people -- treat them as we would want to be treated.  This is reiterated in the Bible as the "Golden Rule" - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Who remembers our parents telling us "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," and  "it's ok to be different."  There's also that general rule of respect -- show a little for others, even if you don't like them.  These are basic rules of society, and if followed, people of different race, beliefs and religion can live together in relative harmony.
       I'm sure Donald Trump's mom attempted to instill these simple character traits in little Donald, and he must have learned them in military school as a teen, but somewhere along the way, he apparently decided they didn't apply to him.  In an era when teaching kids not to bully has become a nationwide focus, Mr. Trump is the worst kind of bully because he preys on anyone and everyone without regard for their personal circumstances.  He has an audience, and a world-wide platform to spew his venomous opinions and childish mockery about anyone who disagrees with him.   How will he react to Vladimir Putin, or Kim Jong-un, when they challenge him or say something about him that he doesn't like?  How will they respond to being called losers, know-nothings, insignificant?  I'm scared that we might find out.
      It's true that political correctness sometimes goes too far, but in some circumstances, being politically correct is simply the right way to act, or speak.  Not with Mr. Trump.  He is too cocky, too narcissistic, too pigheaded to care if he is saying the right thing.  His recent "I can stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody (displaying the shooting motion with his finger) and I still won't lose any votes" comment is appalling, especially in today's climate of mass-shootings.  It's also clear evidence that he doesn't get it.
    In some ways, Donald Trump has said all the right things, delivery notwithstanding, to recruit Americans onto his crazy-train.  He says what a lot of Americans are thinking -- protect our borders, make America great again, "cut the head off Isis," grow the economy, reduce the debt and cut the budget ... bring back the American dream.   Who doesn't want this for America?   I know I do! But the problem is that he has not hinted at any plan for how to accomplish these, and about 70 other lofty tasks he has promised us if we elect him president.  By the way, one of his promises is to "say things that are politically incorrect because the country doesn't have time to waste with political correctness" (according to the Washington Post).    The country also doesn't have time to mop up his massive messes with other country leaders when he offends them or puts his expensive Italian-leather-clad foot in his mouth!
   I'm typically not one to voice my political opinion.  I don't believe one's voting decision should be swayed by Hollywood actors, musicians, athletes, or even bloggers like me.  When I think about casting my vote, I do consider the opinions of those I respect, who I consider well-read, smart, educated and sensible.  However, in this case, I feel strongly about what is not good for our country, so I can't hold back.  Donald Trump is not the answer for America.  He is not the savior we need to guide us into better days. He is not a leader we can feel safe with.  He is everything we teach our kids NOT to be.  He has been publicly inconsiderate of others feelings, he's been a bully, he's been rude, and brash.  And while he may be a successful business man, he is in no way qualified to be Commander in Chief of the world's most impressive military, or to run the greatest country in the world.
     I hope Trump supporters come to realize that Donald Trump as president could not only put our country in danger, but it will make us the laughing stock of the world and put us at risk of losing the respect America has worked hard to earn over the last 240 years.

A mom and son -- the bond

     One of the four happiest days of my life was Jan. 14, 1988 -- the day I gave birth to my first child -- my only son.  I remember so clearly how excited Jeff and I were -- how excited I was to tell Jeff -- that we were pregnant.  We celebrated that night with an after-work dinner at the Village Steak House (now home to Stockholders).  Not much of a milk drinker, I set aside my prefence for diet soda or seltzer water and ordered a glass of milk with my salad bar dinner.  I had a life growing inside me and would do everything I could to make sure it had a healthy stay.  At dinner we talked about what we wanted -- boy or girl -- but both of us just wanted a happy, healthy baby who would grow up with a sense of humor!

 I loved being pregnant, and with the exception of constant heartburn, I never felt sick and had a fairly easy time carrying around this little being inside me.  Even giving  birth to him wasn't that difficult.  My water broke at 6 a.m., and by 6 p.m. we were driving into the hospital in a snow storm with me in mild labor.  Nearly six hours later, with no pain meds and four hours of intense labor, my little gift from God -- Matthew William -- was born. Jeff liked the name for the good, rugged nickname.  To everyone but me he became Matt.  To me he's always been Matthew.  His grandpa called him Mattie (or abercrombe, but that's another story).  The William did double duty, honoring his dad's middle name and the uncle who would be his Godfather.
   

In the 28 years of being his mom, I learned some things about me, and about being a mom to a son.  I never thought it possible to love an adorable, spitty baby; a stuck-in-his-ways boy; an argumentative adolescent; a messy, know-it-all teen; a sometimes-reckless college student; a caring, independent man -- so much.  I never realized how much I needed him; how much I could depend on him if I allowed myself to; and how hard it would be to gradually let go as he attaches to his future.
     I nurtured him, read to him, held him and encouraged him.  I guided him through the loss of his dad at 13.  I taught him to shave with his dad's razor at 15.  I cheered him on in hockey, soccer, and life.

I scolded him when the stupid teenager took over and I tried to instill lessons from that stupidity that would make him a respectable man.  I gave him room to spread his wings, and helped to soften the landing when he fell.  I taught him how to treat a woman, and hugged him tight when the relationship failed.
     Through it all, he has always been there for me, too.  Even in jr. high or high school, he never shied away from hugging me in public or in front of his friends.  He's grown up to be an amazing young man of whom his father would be so proud.
     There's a special bond between a mom and son.  It's not stronger than that between a mom and daughter, or father and daughter -- just different.   The more independent he has grown through life, the more blessed I am knowing that bond is there forever.  My son has never been too cool to love his mom, and for that, I'm grateful. Happy Birthday to my boy!

Christmas past is Christmas present

We made it through another Christmas -- our 15th without Jeff.  Some would say we should be accustomed to it by now, and I suppose we are, but it doesn't change the subtle sadness I still feel, the "what ifs" I think about, and the memories we still hold.  I was always the shopper of most things Christmas, and Jeff would take charge of taking the kids to buy the tree, putting it up, adding the lights, and stringing the lights on the shrubs outside.  He'd sneak away to the store, sometimes alone and sometimes with the kids to do his shopping, and would always come back with a find he was excited to share.  It might have been a goofy ornament he personalized for one of the kids, a game, or something he found that screamed "this is from dad" when put under the tree.  Christmas Eve night after church and take-out chinese food, he'd scramble around to help me finish all I had to do before morning -- he'd lead the kids in decorating cookies, wrap the last of the gifts, set the living room for Christmas morning and then head to bed, knowing I'd be following at the wee hours of the morning,

encouraging me not to stay up too late.  In the morning he'd wait for the kids to wake us up, make them wait in their rooms while he made coffee, lit a fire, poured them oj, added his own touch to their and my stocking, and placed a few more things under the tree. I made the pop-n-fresh cinnamon rolls, and a cup of tea for me.  Then he'd have the kids pose for a picture on the stairs before letting them into the living room. This was our tradition.  It was our Christmas.
And for the most part, it still is.
Christmas traditions are made to be honored, in spite of changes that may happen, but only if they work for everyone.  Because the kids have always wanted to, we've kept the traditions they've known since birth.  We've added new ones, like setting up the "Dad tree," but all those other traditions remain.

 

As the "kids" age and introduce significant others into the family, I know it's only a matter of time before some of those traditions are let go.  One year, probably sooner than later, one of the kids will be with their spouse's family, or one of the spouses may be joining us.  Christmas as we've known it may be a thing of the past, but it also means more new traditions are in our future.  As time moves on, I'll always see Jeff there in his maroon bathrobe and his plaid pajama pants, both made by my own hands; his stocking that he's had since he was a boy hanging from the mantle; I'll hear his goofy laugh at the prospect of the kids opening up something he gave them, and I'll feel his hug as he makes the rounds in the room saying Merry Christmas and thank you to each of the kids and me.  Whether its 15 years or more, the kids and I will enjoy our Christmas, our traditions, and our memories that we made together.  And we'll be grateful to share another Christmas as a family.