Another eulogy

I don’t know what it says about my life that I haven’t found time to write a fun post about my ridiculous children in over a year but have had to deliver not one but two eulogies in a span of five months…let’s not think about it too much 😬

Yesterday we bid farewell to my one of a kind father. He was a difficult man to understand in life and I found the task of capturing him here just as challenging, but I was honored to try.

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When talking about my dad, everyone always spoke in superlatives: he wasn’t funny, he was the MOST hilarious person his friends ever met; his family didn’t think he was smart, we knew he was an absolute genius; and everyone from his daughters to the waiters he invariably overtipped knew he wasn’t just a generous soul, he was benevolent to the extreme.

And it’s all true: TJ Ryan wasn’t “a little bit” of anything. From his early days growing up in Montebello amidst his six much-loved siblings and countless friends, he was adored by all and it seemed universally agreed upon that he was destined for big things in life. “I’m a huge TJ fan,” one of his longtime friends once told me, and I was struck by his choice of words: my dad was a person who garnered admiration more than friendship.

He was so smart, charming, and charismatic as a teenager that his father envisioned for him a life in magnanimous politics, picking up the Kennedy mantle and using his power to help the little guy. What’s crazy is that that dream didn’t seem like an overreach to anyone who knew him: my mom says that when she married my dad, she thought perhaps someday she’d wind up in the White House. 

My dad was indeed enormously successful, even if he didn’t turn out to be the heir apparent to JFK. He went to Notre Dame and then to Southwestern Law School, meanwhile welcoming first one and then another daughter with his lovely young bride, never skipping a beat. To simply call him a “hard worker” would be wildly underselling the determination he had to succeed, and that persisted throughout his career as an attorney. He was a valued employee at several corporations before settling in at the water company, where he spent over 3 decades doing…well, I don’t know that any of us ever figured out what he actually DID there. Whatever it was, he was incredibly dedicated, rarely taking a well-deserved day off under even the most dire of circumstances, although he was known to skip out early to make it home for the first pitch of a critical Yankees game.

True to his personality, he always downplayed his achievements and career. He loved to say that he emulated George Costanza’s strategy of always acting annoyed to portray being swamped at work, and just recently told a relative who was surprised to hear he was still working that he was retired…but just hadn’t told them yet.

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He was a man of contradictions. He was the life of the party but more often than not could not be convinced to GO to the party. He felt emotions more deeply than most anyone, but made a near-constant ridiculous effort to be stoic. He undoubtedly cherished his family, but to say he largely let himself recede into the background would be an understatement – this was not a “father-daughter dance” kind of guy. 

There is no denying that he loved nothing more than his family, though – and it’s a good thing, too, because his adult life was dominated by the seemingly endless parade of children and later grandchildren that the universe bestowed upon him. Whenever I tell someone that I am one of 6 girls, the response is inevitable: “Wow, your poor dad!” But he never once made so much as a joke about having only daughters, although upon discovering that my mom’s final pregnancy was in fact TWINS, he did say, “well…one is bound to be a boy, at least!” He was wrong, but that’s the last we ever heard about a desire for a son.

No one loved babies like my dad, and not just his own. He always insisted on holding any baby he could get his hands on and could do so for hours, even if he made every mother in the vicinity go into a mild panic with his baby-holding technique, which consisted of tucking the child under one arm so he could roam about the house; one hand free to drink a Natty Light, queue up another Neil Young CD, or even tend to a barbeque (always keeping the baby turned at least slightly away from the open flames, of course). Once, I overheard him counseling a friend who was fretting about the perhaps too-early pregnancy of his daughter, and he said “friend, a baby is NEVER bad news.” Those simple words of wisdom were so sweet and said so much about my dad’s reverence for children and family that it brought tears to my eyes then and every time I’ve thought about it since. 

One of my dad’s favorite movies was Mr. Mom, and when I was three years old he had the once in a lifetime opportunity to BE Mr. Mom when a layoff at work left him home with 4 kids while my mom adopted the role of breadwinner for a year. He took to the job with gusto, shuttling my older sisters around to school and their activities in the infamous Hippy-Mobile and finding all kinds of ways to occupy himself all week, bringing me along on visits to Montebello to kill some time with my mom’s brothers and occasionally even attempting a household project or two, an undertaking that was decidedly NOT in this otherwise multi-talented individual’s wheelhouse. But in the words of Mr. Mom himself, “220, 221….whatever it takes.”

That year of domestic bliss aside, my memories of my dad revolve much more around him as a person than of him just being a father. He had strong opinions, passionate moral judgments, and could hold a petty grudge like no one else. He loved watching golf but refused to play, all thanks to one off-hand comment a coworker made to him approximately forty years ago. A Yankees pitcher could blow one game and he would forever deem him untrustworthy. I cannot tell you how many times I had to call him to make sure he was aware of a dramatic Yankees victory, because I knew he would rage-quit on a game when it went south and would have turned off the TV in disgust prior to the bottom of the inning! 

He loved certain things so much that they became deeply entwined with his persona. I’m sure none of us can think of Neil Young, The Cranberries, The Doors, Seinfeld, or The Brady Bunch without a vision of TJ Ryan singing or quoting along immediately popping into our heads. The Notre Dame and Yankees schedules were embedded in his brain every season, sometimes requiring careful planning around weddings or other events at which his appearance was required. And every time I watch Jeopardy, I can’t help but think “my dad totally would have known that one” about every question that stumps me.

He loved politics, or loved to hate them, more accurately. He loved Obama, every Kennedy, Rachel Maddow, and Jon Stewart. He was the quintessential liberal, never judging anyone except those he felt were morally in the wrong, always inclined to take the side of the underdog. He was “woke” long before woke was a thing. It’s a quality that permeated every part of his life and was passed down to so many, ensuring his legacy will live on in the form of generous donations and righteous protests for years to come. 

When my dad passed, I wanted some kind of physical memento of his to hold onto. In his closet, I found a ceramic mug I made for him in high school and was thrilled to find it full of vestiges of his life: photos of grandkids, prayer cards from every funeral he attended in the last decade, ticket stubs from Notre Dame games and Pretenders concerts, and even a receipt for a Yankees jacket he purchased years ago. Most endearingly, there was a beautiful photo of my mom from her high school days, the sight of which warmed my heart and seemed to complete a puzzle. Every item in the mug is so indicative of my dad’s life and love that it’s almost as if he placed them there with the express intent of telling a story. For all the frustrating contradictions we may have thought plagued him throughout his life, he was ultimately a person whose values and deep love for his family always found a way to shine through.

He was brilliant, he was infuriating, he was dynamic, he was deep, he was mysterious and hilarious and maddening and charming. We never figured him out, but the joke is on us, because I don’t think he wanted to be figured out. He was loved though, for everything and by everyone.

And it goes without saying, unfortunately, that he would have absolutely hated all of this attention.

A difficult goodbye to a challenging but loved human being

Today we laid to rest my brother in law. Below is what I shared at the funeral: a tribute to a brilliant man who left us all at a loss for words countless times in both life and death.

Don came on the scene in our family when I was just a few months old – I’ve never known a life without him in it. I never thought of him as “Bobbie’s boyfriend” or “Bobbie’s husband”…he was always just Don, as permanent a fixture in my life as any other family member. 

Don could be difficult. He was an enigma in many ways and I think we all felt at some point that we weren’t quite understanding him the way he wanted us to – or vice versa. But that wasn’t all of Don. He was a complete person with talents and passions and personality and strong emotions. 

He was smart, and not just in an academic or engineering way – although we all know about that part of him and I’m sure every one of us makes a point to ride in the Indiana Jones jeep adorned with his initials whenever we’re at Disneyland – but sincerely intellectual, the type of person who enjoyed getting into philosophical debates just for the fun of it, even if it drove the other person nuts. Once, as a teenager, I made the mistake of making some naive and judgmental comment on smoking or drugs, and I had to endure an endless debate about why society had decided that certain things like alcohol were “bad” when something like caffeine has been deemed completely acceptable, despite it surely being a drug itself. And by the way, we all know he loved classic Coca Cola – so he wasn’t even having this argument to stake some kind of moral high ground for himself, he just enjoyed the debate itself!

He was also hilarious in his smart, quiet fashion, and excellent at teasing someone, particularly in a slow burn kind of way. Decades ago I allegedly lost his and Bobbie’s house keys while babysitting Sylvia (although I still maintain the baby hid them somewhere and they are probably buried in a box full of legos in some Goodwill somewhere) and he NEVER let me live it down. For years thereafter, every holiday gift was prefaced with a disclaimer: “I was gonna get you a keychain, but…”

Luckily, his sense of humor extended to jokes directed his way, because when I discovered how much the man loved shopping and especially Banana Republic sweaters, I always made sure I had a zinger locked and loaded any time a turtleneck was on display.

Don really enjoyed helping me and trying to be my friend as I grew older, and I always appreciated it – even when one of our driving lessons, no joke, required us to first stop at Banana Republic to exchange some damn sweaters. It meant a lot to me that he treated me like an adult and that he was interested in my life. He’s the reason I’m at least a semi-competent driver, he got me a summer job during college, he made sure I knew and loved King Taco, and he loved chatting on the phone for hours on end: when I got my first cell phone I’d often spend an entire drive home from LA to San Diego talking to Don about anything from serious personal challenges to one of our infuriating philosophical debates. He even took a call from me one time while I was on a date and walked me through how to make homemade pizza dough, which was one of his many underrated skills!

My favorite memory of Don is a more serious one, and it occurred in the minutes after Sylvia’s birth. It was a long and difficult labor for poor Bobbie and when the baby was finally born, it was whisked away for heart monitoring, Don in tow, while Bobbie recovered separately. Family members were finally allowed in one at a time and I was able to weasel my way to the front of the queue, wanting to be the first to see the new baby. I wasn’t sure how Don would be feeling – would he be overwhelmed? Terrified? Exhausted? Irritated at this little sister of his insisting on intruding on his private moment with his minutes-old child? But the minute I stepped into the room, he looked at me with teary eyes, positively radiating happiness and joy, and the love he had for that baby was palpable. If we had been in the cell phone era I would surely have a photo to show you all right now, but I will never forget the look on his face and what it said about him in that moment. 

I was not lucky enough to score the number one viewing spot when Abby was born, but I saw the same look on his face when he proudly brought her home and showed her off to the whole family. Don loved his children and I know we will all carry that forward for him as they continue to grow and amaze us all with the people they are becoming.

I wish Don’s life could have been different. I wish we weren’t here right now to say goodbye. But I appreciate that we are here remembering him together, and I hope we all think about him the next time we drink any caffeine – because he was, of course, totally right about it being a drug.

Stop and smell the roses (but first organize the seeds, give each one a name, write a story about the flowers’ hopes and dreams…)

Since the day Ryan learned how to propel his fat little baby body forward in some approximation of a crawl, he has been a perpetual motion machine. This is not a child content to sit his ass down and draw a picture or read a book or put together a puzzle, no sir. This is a man of action. In fact, one day when he was four years old I implored him to take a break and play on his iPad — begged! Pleaded! — and he said, appalled: “but Mom, that’s not active!”

From the moment he wakes up til the glorious conclusion of what is always an excruciatingly protracted bedtime routine, he’s got shit to do. He needs to ride his bike. Flips must be performed on the trampoline. There’s a bucket of wiffle balls just begging to be hit over neighbors’ fences. Oooooh wait! He’s going to play with Legos like one of those nice quiet kids I’ve heard about! Hahahaha just kidding, he’s building a giant block with 200 pieces, wrapping it in duct tape, and seeing if it can survive a drop from the second story window¹. 

He is, as the hip youths say, extra. 

Simply preventing him from breaking bones or getting lost in public is a truly daunting task. God bless us all when we leave the house:

He was excited because he saw a pigeon while setting up to take this selfie, and no that is not a joke.

He is an objectively exhausting child to keep up with. I have lost track of him in public at least a dozen times. There are no fewer than three items in my home right now that are broken on account of wayward baseballs. And do you want to know how many times I’ve been asked to record a slow motion video of him hitting a water balloon with a baseball bat? Unfortunately I cannot tell you, because it is not possible for human beings to count that high. 

This is who he is, though, and the truth is that it’s all in good fun; he suffers not from bad behavior or poor impulse control but rather…excessive enthusiasm. I’ve learned to accept my fate and simply not buy too many breakable items. At times I’ve even smugly considered myself to be some kind of paragon of composure in the face of insanity: behold this child and admire my patience and tolerance for his energy and heart attack-inducing antics! I’M INCREDIBLE!

But then Graffin brought me back to earth by developing a personality absolutely nothing like Ryan’s and yet somehow requiring more patience in a single hour than his brother does in a week. 

Graffin is not a tree climber, nor a trampoline flipper, nor a person incapable of resisting the urge to pick up a large stick while on a walk and whack every tree we subsequently pass (ahem). He likes books! And board games! He could spend hours playing video games! He’s creative and independent and never lacks ideas or the ambition to bring them to fruition. He’s amazing. He’s brilliant! He’s…fucking exhausting. 

Nothing with this kid is straightforward or expeditious. There’s no such thing as a “quick game of Candy Land” or a “mindless hour of video games.” Everything is “big picture” with Graffin. You have to organize game pieces into themed teams. Every possible setting and option on a video game must be explored and tested prior to playing. Each and every piece of a Lego construction has a specific purpose and possibly its own personality, and no you cannot simply substitute this brick for that one. Yes, we can play pirates but first we need to don costumes and transform our living room into an authentic 17th century trading vessel!

He may be the only person in history to seek out and read the credits for a video game. I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW VIDEO GAMES HAD CREDITS. 

It’s like he’s operating on a different level than the rest of us idiots – we’re over here pushing checkers around the board, and he’s the only one with access to the real rule book which apparently contains 500 pages of additional instructions that makes the game twice as complicated and way less boring. 

Ryan may forever be running four blocks ahead of me trying to simultaneously chase a bird, pick up an interesting-looking rock, and land a perfect cartwheel, but Graffin’s intensity is unrivaled. It’s not even close. 

Last month we took a red eye to New York² for a little vacation, and when Ryan and I collapsed into bed at the hotel for a desperately needed nap many hours later, Graffin stayed up by himself and built a store. There were toys on display. Price tags (where did he even get paper?!). A snack section. An employee wearing a mask; very conscientious. Shopping bags were even available for your convenience. 

I woke up to a paper “credit card” being shoved into my hand so I could “shop”. NO STONE UNTURNED.

This is what I’m dealing with, and I’d be lying if I claimed to love every second of it. It’s one thing to agree to play a good old fashioned game of Life, quite another to discover you’ve inadvertently committed to a two hour exercise in method acting as all players are now required to really live the game. Think long and hard about which job to pick, and make sure you give your tiny plastic babies great names!³

It’s easy to be impatient in these situations, and I was, for a long time. That hard-won patience I’d honed watching Ryan turn my home into a Ninja Warrior course was no match for this kid. I can’t tell you how many times I encouraged Graffin to “move things along,” with varying degrees of annoyance creeping into my voice, feeling awful as I said it because let’s face it, it’s not like I had anything better to do, it’s just that Graffin’s way of doing things really is a lot of work. 

And then one day, as we reached the twentieth minute of a detailed demonstration of every special ability of every character (of which there were approximately 50) of a video game he was ostensibly teaching me how to play, I said it again: “Bud, can we please move this along?”

To which he replied, justifiably frustrated: “I’m just trying to give you all the information or you won’t have as much fun!”

It was a lightbulb moment for me. All the extra steps, all of the elaborate setup and immersion into everything he does, big and small…he really is operating on a different level. It’s not just that he’s a detail-oriented individual, or that he likes things to be “complete,” although those things may be true as well. He just wants to have the full experience, no matter what he’s doing. There’s all this information available and he’d be selling himself short to ignore it and just mash buttons on a game controller blindly or set up Lego figures with mismatching pants. Why go halfway when you can use the information and maximize your enjoyment?!

So I learned all the moves. And then I spent ten minutes creating an avatar that looked just like me. And then I played in “practice mode” while he gave me tips to improve my skills. And THEN we played the game, and it was pretty goddamn amazing, even though I lost miserably.

I’ve vowed to banish “move this along” from my vocabulary. Just as I have accepted Ryan’s zest for action, I’m embracing Graffin’s unique appreciation for the big picture. Who wouldn’t want to live life with all the information at hand?!

Setting up a stadium audience for a Hot Wheels tournament.
BONUS: please note the missing picture frame on the shelf, a victim of one of the aforementioned wayward baseballs.

Research for a geography-themed game.

Emulating an all-blue character from Just Dance. Yes, we went to the mall like this.

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Footnotes:

¹It survived that as well as 24 other methods of destruction. In other news, I have a lot of smashed legos embedded in my lawn.

²Perhaps don’t come to me for “traveling with kids” tips.

³In fairness, I should confess that my cousin and I played Life like this as kids and it really is a blast. Don’t buy the Victorian house, it’s falling apart!!