Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Happy 19th Birthday, Zach!
Dear Zach - For once, I am at a loss of words. My beautiful, funny, little boy has grown up so fast. And into such a handsome, still funny, incredible man. And person. My eyes are tearing up as I write this. I am just so darn proud of you. And soon, you’ll be going off on your own. Making your own way, just as you always have done. And, as you have always done, follow your heart. It’s a good one. I can’t wait to see what else Zachary John Dowd Hyorth is going to give this world. You rock, my son! I love you with all my heart and the world 100 times over. Mom
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Adoptee birthdays. Always best if celebrated day before, or day after.
Thanks to everyone who wished me a Happy Birthday today or this weekend, or whenever. It really means a lot. It's not always easy for us adoptees on our actual birthday. Sometimes it's best to celebrate before (as I did this weekend) or after (as I may do next weekend also, hey I am a Scorpio, we do like to drag out the party, you know). Because the 'day of' can sometimes be rather tough - unless you're in your '20s and just want to cut loose. Why? Because there are no 'this is what happened on your birthday' stories. We might get 'when we brought you home' tales, but it's not the same. No matter how well meant. It's one of those things, where the cliche 'you have to be one to know one' totally fits. It's one reason I'm so happy that my son popped out looking like me. My first blood. And thankful to all my friends who cared to take a moment for me today. Being human isn't always easy. Thanks for being there. Please let me know when/if you need me there for you. xoxoxo. Tracy
Saturday, October 23, 2010
"Daddy we named him Zachary John." "Everything's done?"
Zach's 16 birthday was yesterday. It was not so sweet, but it is one he will remember for the rest of his life. He broke his ankle this week and that has colored everything around his birthday. He did get the phone he wanted, and he got the universal gift that I think teenagers of every generation enjoy - cash. Overall, he's taking it pretty well, much better than what I thought he would. But, that just shows how much he has matured in the last year.
As I watch him to continue to grow and mature, I cannot help but notice small things about him that make me wonder, "Where in the world did that come from?" "Is that like me, or is that like his Dad?" "Or from some other blood relative?"
Well, it's easy enough to ask Alphie about his past. He was surrounded by all of his blood relatives. For me ... Zach is my first blood. I can't help but wonder what from my unknown background may pop out. Not thinking anything sinister, necessarily. (Although I have been told I had true outlaw blood relatives, I think I'm the one more likely to test those waters. Just kidding. Sort of.) No, it's just simple things that I may never know when they rear up. It's a very strange feeling and difficult to describe to those (which means most people) who have no idea what it's like to not know your relatives' history.
But back to Zach's birth. He had great timing. We had just published our bi-weekly magazine, so there was no weekend work ahead of us. We'd worried he might come on deadline weekend, and that would not have been such a great thing, especially for Alphie. But, no, Zach waited, showed his patience even while in womb. It had just turned midnight on the 22nd of October and we were watching a rerun of Law & Order. I was laid out on our 60's wrap around couch like a beached whale, uncomfortable no matter what position I tried.
Suddenly, I felt it. The gush of water that makes you wonder if you just pe'ed all over yourself before you realize that the time has come. The dam broke and the water came flooding, and flooding, and flooding down. Seventeen hours later, our boy had arrived.
As soon as I had fed myself and given myself time to marvel holding my first blood relative in my arms, I called my dad in Texas to let him know his grandson was here and that we had named him Zachary John. John being my dad's first name. A lot hard of hearing, my dad never really liked talking on the phone too much, but this was one phone call he wanted to take without his wife translating for him.
"Daddy, we named him Zachary John."
"Everything's done?" my dad replied, proving he had not understood a word I said.
"Yes, Daddy, everything's done? And it's all good."
"Well good, I'm happy."
Zach is going by John these days, says it makes him feel closer to his grandfather who left this earth four years ago. Zach believes he's still able to talk with his grandfather, particularly in his dreams. I so hope it is true. And as long as we believe, then it shall be.
The older John would be very proud of the younger John. Happy Birthday, Zach ... um I mean John. I love you more than you will probably ever know.
As I watch him to continue to grow and mature, I cannot help but notice small things about him that make me wonder, "Where in the world did that come from?" "Is that like me, or is that like his Dad?" "Or from some other blood relative?"
Well, it's easy enough to ask Alphie about his past. He was surrounded by all of his blood relatives. For me ... Zach is my first blood. I can't help but wonder what from my unknown background may pop out. Not thinking anything sinister, necessarily. (Although I have been told I had true outlaw blood relatives, I think I'm the one more likely to test those waters. Just kidding. Sort of.) No, it's just simple things that I may never know when they rear up. It's a very strange feeling and difficult to describe to those (which means most people) who have no idea what it's like to not know your relatives' history.
But back to Zach's birth. He had great timing. We had just published our bi-weekly magazine, so there was no weekend work ahead of us. We'd worried he might come on deadline weekend, and that would not have been such a great thing, especially for Alphie. But, no, Zach waited, showed his patience even while in womb. It had just turned midnight on the 22nd of October and we were watching a rerun of Law & Order. I was laid out on our 60's wrap around couch like a beached whale, uncomfortable no matter what position I tried.
Suddenly, I felt it. The gush of water that makes you wonder if you just pe'ed all over yourself before you realize that the time has come. The dam broke and the water came flooding, and flooding, and flooding down. Seventeen hours later, our boy had arrived.
As soon as I had fed myself and given myself time to marvel holding my first blood relative in my arms, I called my dad in Texas to let him know his grandson was here and that we had named him Zachary John. John being my dad's first name. A lot hard of hearing, my dad never really liked talking on the phone too much, but this was one phone call he wanted to take without his wife translating for him.
"Daddy, we named him Zachary John."
"Everything's done?" my dad replied, proving he had not understood a word I said.
"Yes, Daddy, everything's done? And it's all good."
"Well good, I'm happy."
Zach is going by John these days, says it makes him feel closer to his grandfather who left this earth four years ago. Zach believes he's still able to talk with his grandfather, particularly in his dreams. I so hope it is true. And as long as we believe, then it shall be.
The older John would be very proud of the younger John. Happy Birthday, Zach ... um I mean John. I love you more than you will probably ever know.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Is that the pope?
So, today's the day. The day that would have been my dad's 88th birthday. Blows my mind that he's gone. Even if he did live to be 84. He was just always young in my eyes. And in the eyes of many others. But time does march on and and we do get called back home, whatever home may actually be. Yes, I'm a bit down, touchy, sad and all those other negative feelings no one - particularly myself - really wants me to feel or talk about, today. Besides, I've felt enough of that crap for the last four years since he passed. I'm working on finally getting back to the light.
But, I will share a story he and I had about home. Heaven. He was looking forward to finding out what Heaven actually looked like. He'd been preaching about it for more than 50 years, and now he was finally going to learn the secret, see the glory. He didn't believe he'd be able to contact me after he left this world. I believed he could. So we a made deal - if he could, he would.
He planned his own memorial. No picture on the front of the funeral takeaway. No singing 'Amazing Grace.' No body. Literally. He gave that to science since he wouldn't be needing it anymore and they'd pay to have him cremated. Smart, really. He emphatically did not want an open casket. He hated those kinds of funerals. While those of us in the pews could see part of the body sticking up out of the caskets, my dad had prime view from the top. He hated that and joked about how some dearly departed might just sit up one time and cuss my dad out for making up such good stuff about them just to make the still living feel better.
And, most important, his minister friends were not to wear their robes. He made them promise and I was to make sure they followed through. He did not believe a robe made a minister a man of God. In fact, if it hadn't been part of church doctrine or tradition, he would have never worn a robe. I don't recall him wearing them at early morning or evening services. And, I remember several summer months, he'd decided to go without. He knew God didn't care, and he figured the "elders" in the church would just have to deal with it.
There was a picture in his house of him in a robe that had been taken sometime just after I left home in the late '70s. It was placed in a prime location over the fireplace mantel, in the den, where no one could dare miss seeing it. It had been put there by my stepmother, who, of course, made the rules about decorations. So there it stayed. My dad, my husband and I laughed about that picture. It was a story shared only between the three of us. Daddy said that picture made him look like the pope. Step mom would give us 'the look' every time we talked about the photo, but this was one area she could say nothing. My dad let the picture stay; she had to let us laugh at it.
He had, however, agreed to let my step mom place that picture in the hallway outside of the sanctuary at his service. He knew she loved that picture and had wanted it on his memory giveaway. Sitting outside of the minister's office was the compromise.
One of his friends, with almost 60 years of stories about my dad, choked his way through several parts of the memorial service, the parts that require you actually acknowledge your loved one is gone. However his eyes lit up when he told this story and looked directly at me. He told how he and the other preachers had gathered in the hallway before the service to go over their parts and pull themselves together. A mother and child came to the office, she needing to pay that week's childcare. The child was told to wait outside, to stand beside my dad's over-sized photo. When his mother returned, the little boy asked sincerely, and purely, as only a small child can do, "Mommie, is that guy the pope?"
After the service, I asked my dad's friend why he had chosen to tell that particular story. He said he didn't really know, that it just seemed appropriate because my dad loved little kids and they adored him back. He said it also came to him that for some reason, I might understand what that story meant. And, I did. Daddy said good-bye to me, and only me, in that moment of storytelling. I've never felt his actual presence again, although I know he's laughing it up in Heaven. So I guess we were both right. His spirit was able to hang around just long enough to let me know he could communicate with me. Then he hightailed on up to Heaven where he so belongs.
Happy Birthday, Daddy. I love you. I miss you. I don't have that picture yet, but I do have your robe hanging in a closet.
But, I will share a story he and I had about home. Heaven. He was looking forward to finding out what Heaven actually looked like. He'd been preaching about it for more than 50 years, and now he was finally going to learn the secret, see the glory. He didn't believe he'd be able to contact me after he left this world. I believed he could. So we a made deal - if he could, he would.
He planned his own memorial. No picture on the front of the funeral takeaway. No singing 'Amazing Grace.' No body. Literally. He gave that to science since he wouldn't be needing it anymore and they'd pay to have him cremated. Smart, really. He emphatically did not want an open casket. He hated those kinds of funerals. While those of us in the pews could see part of the body sticking up out of the caskets, my dad had prime view from the top. He hated that and joked about how some dearly departed might just sit up one time and cuss my dad out for making up such good stuff about them just to make the still living feel better.
And, most important, his minister friends were not to wear their robes. He made them promise and I was to make sure they followed through. He did not believe a robe made a minister a man of God. In fact, if it hadn't been part of church doctrine or tradition, he would have never worn a robe. I don't recall him wearing them at early morning or evening services. And, I remember several summer months, he'd decided to go without. He knew God didn't care, and he figured the "elders" in the church would just have to deal with it.
There was a picture in his house of him in a robe that had been taken sometime just after I left home in the late '70s. It was placed in a prime location over the fireplace mantel, in the den, where no one could dare miss seeing it. It had been put there by my stepmother, who, of course, made the rules about decorations. So there it stayed. My dad, my husband and I laughed about that picture. It was a story shared only between the three of us. Daddy said that picture made him look like the pope. Step mom would give us 'the look' every time we talked about the photo, but this was one area she could say nothing. My dad let the picture stay; she had to let us laugh at it.
He had, however, agreed to let my step mom place that picture in the hallway outside of the sanctuary at his service. He knew she loved that picture and had wanted it on his memory giveaway. Sitting outside of the minister's office was the compromise.
One of his friends, with almost 60 years of stories about my dad, choked his way through several parts of the memorial service, the parts that require you actually acknowledge your loved one is gone. However his eyes lit up when he told this story and looked directly at me. He told how he and the other preachers had gathered in the hallway before the service to go over their parts and pull themselves together. A mother and child came to the office, she needing to pay that week's childcare. The child was told to wait outside, to stand beside my dad's over-sized photo. When his mother returned, the little boy asked sincerely, and purely, as only a small child can do, "Mommie, is that guy the pope?"
After the service, I asked my dad's friend why he had chosen to tell that particular story. He said he didn't really know, that it just seemed appropriate because my dad loved little kids and they adored him back. He said it also came to him that for some reason, I might understand what that story meant. And, I did. Daddy said good-bye to me, and only me, in that moment of storytelling. I've never felt his actual presence again, although I know he's laughing it up in Heaven. So I guess we were both right. His spirit was able to hang around just long enough to let me know he could communicate with me. Then he hightailed on up to Heaven where he so belongs.
Happy Birthday, Daddy. I love you. I miss you. I don't have that picture yet, but I do have your robe hanging in a closet.
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