To the Boy Who Made Me a Monger

Being a wife and mother has always been key to who I am. No matter what else I do--my foundation is built with Ed, Braxton, Blaize, Brody, and Bentley. Solid and firm. 

Families grow and that has happened to ours. 

Bentley fell in love with Mason and they brought the most amazing little human into this world a year ago today.

Everything changed when Angus Edward Landess was born. 

To the boy who made me a Monger.

It was 4:56 a.m. on Monday, July 18, 2022, when your Papa and I heard the lullaby play at Springfield's Memorial  Hospital. We had been at the hospital for over twelve hours waiting for you to be born. Your Uncle Braxton, Uncle Brody, and Aunt Emily came over to wait, too, but they went home sometime after midnight. Uncle Blaize was at his house in Chicago eager to hear the news. Papa and I decided we wanted to stay at the hospital for the duration. Not only were you coming into the world but your Mommy is our baby girl and we wanted to be there for her and your Daddy on such a special day. The night nurse in the Labor & Delivery Department told us we weren't supposed to be waiting up there, masks were still required and limited accessibility to the floor was in effect. But we explained we were waiting for our first grandchild to be born and, miraculously, she let us stay. I still don't know how we managed that one. 

We could feel the shift in the world when we heard those musical notes. I can't explain it but I knew you were here. Sitting in the cold waiting room on the hard plastic chair I anxiously watched the doors to the hallway where you were with your Mommy and Daddy. Your birth made a family of three. You got some special time with them. Finally, someone came out of the hall doors. 

A nurse told us we could see you and as I walked down the hallway with Papa, I remember I was so excited to meet you. My mind was racing a mile a minute. I had pictured what you would look like so many times and now I would actually get to see you. It seemed unreal. We were at your Mommy's hospital room door and the wait was over.

To the boy who made me a Monger. 

I had pictured you with so many different facial features for months--the reality was so much better. You were a perfect tiny little man with your eyes closed and a big blanket covering most of your body. You were sleeping peacefully and contently. 

Watching your Mommy and Daddy with you made my eyes well up with tears. The tears began to spill over when Papa looked at you. The wonder and amazement in his eyes were something I had never seen before--not even when your Uncles and your Mommy were born. It was obvious to me that your Papa had just become your biggest fan. 

It was my turn to hold you. You opened your eyes and even though I knew you couldn't see me clearly, I looked at you for as long as your eyes looked toward mine. I had a grandchild. I had a grandson. My Angus Edward was here. 

To the boy who made me a Monger. 

Today, you've been alive for one whole year. In 365 days you've managed to work your way deep into the hearts of our entire family. We can't remember a time before you, to be honest. It's as if we weren't complete before you were born. 

Each of us has come to have a special relationship with you. To see your face light up when you see us...to have you reach for us with your chubby arms...it's about the best feeling ever. 

Your Papa and I didn't have any idea how becoming grandparents meant our heart would be able to grow even bigger than it already was. It seems there's always room for more family. A grandchild? Well, this is about as good as it gets. 

To the boy who made me a Monger. 

I made up a song for you and sing it loudly and annoyingly whenever and wherever I want. No one can stop me. You smile and clap your dimpled hands as I sing and you rock back and forth to the beat. If you love it, I don't care how ridiculous I sound or look. I'll do what I need to do to get my Angus to smile. We'll sing that song for as long as I have a voice, my sweet baby. 

You are my Angy Pang. My Angy Pangity Pang. No matter how old you are, this Monger will call you by those names. I will forever see the baby who I held for the first time a year ago. I will remember the five tiny teeth you flash when you grin and the silly way you wrinkle your button nose and snort while you laugh. I will continually call you 'my baby' even though your Mommy seems to think you're hers. Silly Mommy. 

I hope your future is as happy for you as life has been so far. You don't know it yet, but you have the best Mommy and Daddy that any kid could wish for. Their world revolves around you and love fills your home to the brim. You are so very loved by both sides of your family. What a lucky little boy you are, Angy. 

I wish for you to continue to grow and enjoy life with the innocence and awe you do now. Never lose that sweet, sweet personality. You have so much to give the world and I pray you never forget how loved you are by everyone you meet. 

I was fortunate to have grandparents who loved and supported me for decades of my life. You will have the same, no doubt. You come from a long line of love, Angus. 

You are the next generation. 

The first grandchild. 

To the boy who made me a Monger...Angus Edward Landess.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Happy 1st Birthday.

It is what it is.

Love, Monger

Taking on Trauma

I'm a 57-year-old wife and mother of four children. I became a grandma "Monger" for the first time last year. I'm a sister, sister-in-law, and aunt. I'm a friend. I'm an educator. I'm an advocate. 

These descriptions encompass who I am. 

Yet, there is a descriptive phrase I have yet to embrace.

Trauma survivor. 

It hasn't always been there--the trauma. I can pinpoint exactly when it became a central component of who I am. I was 36 and I watched my mom battle pancreatic cancer. I helped care for her during weeks of hospice. 

21 years ago she passed away and my world turned upside down. Giving her eulogy I referenced how my life had been clearly divided from "before" to "after." There was no way my life would ever be the same with the loss of this one person. A deep cavernous void formed as her hand slipped away from mine. 

When a traumatic event happens, most of us don't immediately recognize it. Obviously, you know something monumental has occurred but labeling it may not happen for some time. 

For me, it happened this year. Yep, 21 years after. Of course, there is always more to the story, isn't there? 

This is my story. 

When my mom died, within a few hours of her passing and after the funeral home had left my parent's house, my dad sent my brother and me home. We had disassembled the bed and physically moved my parent's entire bedroom set into the garage. Just like that. Any sign of my mom in the bedroom was gone and hospice was over so it was time to leave. I don't know what the protocol is for mourning and how this is supposed to look. But I do know this didn't feel right at the time. I should have paid more attention to the nagging feeling in my gut. I wasn't acknowledging what I needed in the moments after her death. My mourning was being shaped by someone else and I had no ownership of what I was feeling. 

I wish I could say I remember the rest clearly. But, I honestly don't. The memorial preparation and private burial were a blur. It seemed hurried and rushed. Bury my mom so we could get on with our lives.

Within a month, my dad was away on a weekend trip with my mom's hospice nurse. Yep, you read that correctly. My mom's hospice nurse was now romantically involved with my dad. 

Our daughter was a contestant in the Little Miss South Jacksonville Pageant that summer in 2002 and we had asked my dad to come but he told us he couldn't because he was away. This is the first I had heard of an emotional entanglement.

And so began the second, and equally impactful, layer of my trauma.

Let me clarify, the second layer of my trauma had nothing to do with my dad's choice of a girlfriend. He needed to make his own decisions about how to shape his life. His spouse was not coming back and I only wanted his happiness. Rather, the second layer of my trauma was because of the abandonment which followed as the result of his choice to move on. 

As hard as it is to admit, my dad chose to abandon me, my husband, and our four children--his grandchildren--within the course of the next year. 

I never talked in detail about this at the time it happened because I assumed we would eventually get together and discuss our differences but we never did. I grew up in a household where we were encouraged to discuss and communicate to solve or resolve issues. This time was different. My dad told me there would be no discussion. He gave me an ultimatum and when I didn't comply contact ended. He systematically erased all six of us from his life as if we had never been there at all. 

I told you at the beginning of this blog that I am a mom to four children. I can't imagine making a conscious decision to walk away from them. It's unfathomable. I am also a Monger. My grandson is so ingrained in our family that, again, abandoning him would never be an option. Neither of these scenarios is within the realm of possibilities. 

I used to think my dad and I were alike in many ways---I suppose actually we are to some degree---but we have one fundamental difference. I am not someone who would leave behind my children and grandchildren and make them feel as if they were not worthy of my love because they didn't conform to my vision of our life. 

It's taken me decades to admit this to myself. I didn't do anything wrong. I simply questioned some of my dad's decisions following my mom's death and he didn't like it. My husband tried to talk to my dad, too, and with no success. If you know my husband, you know he is level-headed and keeps me grounded. When I react with emotion, he is more pragmatic and objective. Neither of us could reason with my dad. 

He wrote us all off in one day and never looked back. He lumped his four grandchildren into the same category as my husband and me. We were all defying him and, therefore, he was done. Even though we offered to keep our feelings separate so he could continue as Papa to our kids, he said no. It was his choice and his choice alone. 

Time passed. 

One decade. 

Another decade. 

If you think of your own life you know how many holidays and life events occur in this amount of time. 

Our kids remember my mom and we talk about her often. We keep her alive in traditions and memories. She is still a tremendously positive influence on them. They love her deeply. 

My dad--well, it's as if he died when she did with none of the love and warmth remaining. He simply left and never came back. He's a stranger who doesn't evoke anything positive in any of us. He is someone we used to know. 

What does a child do with that? 

Not only me as an adult child but the small grandchildren who were also left. How do you compartmentalize these feelings of trauma and abandonment? 

Trauma is generational. Our family is living proof.

I've had people who knew my dad ask if I ever reached out and tried to talk to him. Our kids have had people ask them the same. For me, I realized my life wouldn't be better with him in it so our relationship effectively ended when he abandoned me. For our kids, they were children. It wasn't up to them to ask their Papa why he left them. Shame on any adult who asks my kids that--even now. They don't need to be the 'bigger person' and reach out. They were here the entire time. He knew where to find them. He knew where to find all of us. 

My kids are adults now and are starting to ask more questions about me and how I dealt--or didn't deal--with what happened. They're wanting me to face the feelings I have long ignored. Writing this blog is a cathartic way for me to begin to release what has been bottled up and hidden. 

I was made to feel like the black sheep because I questioned my dad. Years after my own abandonment, my dad also abandoned my brother, my sister-in-law, and my niece and nephew. My brother has a much different personality than I do but when he finally spoke up my dad's response was, "You're just like your sister."

Checkmate.

Perhaps healing began when my brother told me what had been said. I have always felt I was the defective family member--that I had caused the abandonment to occur. 

It wasn't me.

It was my dad. 

He has walked away from his two children, our spouses, and six grandchildren. His life with my mom and with us has ceased to exist. 

I don't write this for sympathy or for advice. I definitely don't want anyone's advice because my journey is for me alone. I don't write this so my dad sees it and we have some glorious reunion. I know I don't want him in my life. As I said before, he died when my mom did. 

I write this for healing. 

Facing the fact my trauma from the abandonment of my dad has trickled down to the next generation--to my kids--is unbelievably hard. I thought not discussing it and moving on was the way to handle it. I know now that not talking about what I was feeling caused more trauma for the four of them. For this, I will be eternally pained and truly sorrowful. 

I can only move on from here with the knowledge it's ok to admit you have been traumatized. It doesn't make me less of a person it makes me human. I don't have to be the strongest person in the room. I'm allowed to hurt, to cry, to feel. 

I'm also allowed to tell my story without fear of judgment. No one knew my dad like I did. We had our own relationship and my feelings about it are valid and true. I don't know why I have felt sharing this would tarnish his reputation in the community because he was a respected educator. I would never want to take away his accomplishments and the many relationships he built in this town. So many people were fortunate to get the side of my dad they will fondly remember. He deserves to be respected for what he did--professionally. His personal life, however, was vastly different and the version of my dad I knew would be unrecognizable to the Mr. B. the public knew. 

Is there a correct way to take on trauma? 

I obviously don't have the answer to that one. But perhaps the first step is acknowledging you've experienced it. So here I go...

For my husband, my kids, and for my grandson, I will work to heal. 

For my brother, my sister-in-law, and my niece and nephew, I will work to heal. 

For me, I will work to heal. 

I'm a 57-year-old wife and mother of four children. I became a grandma "Monger" for the first time last year. I'm a sister, sister-in-law, and aunt. I'm a friend. I'm an educator. I'm an advocate. 

These descriptions encompass who I am. 

Finally, I'm officially and publicly adding one more descriptor.

I am a trauma survivor. 

It is what it is.

p