A Post for Yiayia

Seven years ago this spring, I was helping decorate for a surprise party for my sister-in-law when I got the call that my beloved Grandma Hetherington had passed away. Although she had been in the hospital with a pulmonary embolism, she was recuperating in a nursing home and expected to make a full recovery. It came as a shock to the whole family when she threw another clot and didn't make it.

Grandma H. was always a kick in the pants, so it seemed like the right thing to carry on with the party that night and be together as a family, not just celebrating the birthday of my sister-in-law, but also the life of a quick-witted lady we all adored.

I remember, after the initial wave of sadness washed over, feeling immense gratitude that night. I wonder now if it was just some sort of coping mechanism kicking into gear. But I felt overwhelmed and eternally grateful for having had time with her (I was in between jobs then) before she was gone. I was so lucky to take in those last stories and cheeky puns.

When my dear Grandma P. died two years later, there was a slow decline leading up to it, so my thankfulness felt more spread out over a number of months. I hung on to every conversation in the nursing home. Even if they were disjointed, they were gems. I wore her jewelry more often. I made sure my schedule had me stopping by to see her a couple times a week. By the time she stopped being able to talk to all of us, I was ready for her suffering to end and I had prepared to let her go.

It was hard to lose these women who had helped raise me and had been my single gal pals at so many holidays after my grandfathers passed away.

But then in late 2008, I met a new grandma. Mr. Wonderful's sweet, Greek Yiayia.

We visited her on our first trip to St. Louis together and I was in love immediately. She hugged me and kissed me a million times, telling me how happy she was that I was dating her grandson. In what I assume is traditional Greek grandma fashion, she asked us at least a dozen times if we were hungry, each time rattling off a different snack she had to offer. She took us into her bedroom and yanked open drawers, revealing stacks of hand-crocheted doilies and other knit items. She insisted that I take with me an apron she had sewn, and sent Mr. W with a bedspread-sized handmade afghan. Being in her presence filled a little space inside me that had been empty for a year and a half.

On a subsequent visit, I got to try a lemon-orzo soup she makes that is now one of my favorites. Actually, a lot of her cooking skills were passed straight to Mr. W, so there are probably a lot of favorites I have that can be attributed back to her.

In September of 2010, Mr. W and I visited St. Louis again and Yiayia taught him how to make baklava so that we could hand it out as the favors at our wedding. Yia wasn't feeling well enough to travel for the ceremony, so it meant a lot to at least have her recipe there with us.

That's our wedding venue above, and if you look on the napkins you can see all the packages of baklava Mr. W made, thanks to the tutelage of his grandma.
 

Because she couldn't make the trip out, we had Mr. W's dad Skype the ceremony to her and other St. Louis relatives over his iPhone. We hoped it was almost like being there.

When we visited Yiayia again this past October, she was tired but so glad to see us and look through the book of wedding pictures we had for her. She was full of hugs and kisses, as usual, and I think she referred to Mr. W by her favorite pet name, "my best boy."

Last weekend we got word that Yiayia had taken a turn for the worst, and we found out this morning that she passed away.

My heart is broken for Mr. W and the entire family. They have lost an irreplaceable matriarch. But on the edge of that sadness is the same feeling of gratitude I had when my grandmas passed. I am so lucky to have met such a precious soul. I will be forever grateful for the chance to know Yiayia.

Gilded Shower-Cleaning Acknowledgment Glory

About a month ago, I spent the good part of one of my unemployed mornings cleaning Mr. Wonderful's bathroom. No, we do not have a cleaning lady and yes, I am that kind of awesome wife. As much as I wanted to turn my cheek to it, I couldn't help but notice how much soap scum had accumulated in his shower. And given that I had no other work to attend to that day, I decided to go to work on the tile muck.

It took me an eternity and many different scrubbing tools and cleaning concoctions. When all was said and done, I was wet with sweat and funky rinse water.

So I did the natural thing that anyone would do after completing a task like that. I posted about it on Facebook. (Anonymous from this post is calling me a stupid American right now).

I wrote that I thought women who cleaned their husband's showers should be awarded a medal or trophy of some sort.

The remark received lots of comments, the funniest of which came from my brother. If you like gross humor, you'll love this one. If you don't like gross humor, I apologize for his crass creativity. He's a clever one, that brother of mine...

I had forgotten about the Facebook exchange (and my sore shower-cleaning shoulder) until this past weekend when a mysterious package arrived in my mail. The return address was Washington DC and at first I thought maybe someone in the White House had sent me a collection of secret files to hide from the terrorists.

When I opened it, however, I discovered this:

This poses a serious problem. You see, I have no idea who to deliver my acceptance speech to. So I'm asking you for help, blog readers. If you have any idea who awarded me this gorgeous golden trophy, please contact me ASAP. Thanks and happy shower-scrubbing to you all.

Spreading the Love

It may have been the residual effects of reading about Janice's Nurture Project back in November, or possibly the adorableness of this pillow on Etsy:

But I got it in my head that this year I was going to make some homemade Valentines and send them out to a handful of single-ish girlfriends. So last Friday morning I busted out my wicked craft skills and got to work making these:

I know how much I enjoy receiving cards and letters in the mail, and I just wanted to give that feeling to a few others.

Sadly, my Valentine-making skills were put to use again later in the weekend when I chose to participate in an "I Care" initiative that my hometown put together. On Friday afternoon, a 15-year-old boy took his own life on the campus of my niece's high school. The same school where my siblings and I went. The same school my mom graduated from in its very first senior class. My heart broke for the boy, his family, my niece, my school and my beloved town.

In an effort to do something to try to ease the pain, a card-making program was born. The cards will be delivered to the high school's students and alumni today.

I made a dozen.

Assembling both sets of cards got me thinking about how important it is to let people know you're thinking about them all year long. As commercialized as Hallmark is, I appreciate how they've encouraged us all to regularly remind one another that we care.

I hope the people who open my cards know I do.

Happy Valentine's Day, blog readers.