B00AEDDPVE EBOK by Marie Osmond, Marcia Wilkie Page A
Authors: Marie Osmond, Marcia Wilkie
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food tastes are very individual, but they can also change as a person gets older. I think if my mother had forced asparagus on me as a child, I never would have tried it again as an adult and fallen in love with the way it tastes. And in a real twist, I now prefer fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice to any sugary drink! However, there are going to be the special occasion days when junk food rules the plate and the palate, and that’s okay once in a while.
My brother Jimmy and his wife and four children stayed at my home the night before my wedding in 2011. My kids love having their cousins around to play with, so they stay up late and have extra treats. For breakfast the next morning, I put out fresh fruit plates, eggs, and whole wheat toast. When I walked into the kitchen, I found eight kids gathered around the table, all eating bowls of sugary cereal in various shapes and neon colors. Jimmy hovered nearby, enjoying his own bowl, wearing a grin. He just shrugged. “Your pantry was too healthy. I had to make a grocery store run. What can I say? I’m my mother’s son.” When I told the kids they should have some fruit with their cereal, my eleven-year-old replied, “This is fruit-flavored cereal.” The truth is, if I hadn’t had to squeeze into my original wedding dress from 1982 in the next three hours, I would have happily joined them.
At QVC, I’ll often do three shows in one day, with product design or other business meetings in between. By the time we are heading back to the airport, I’m pretty tired because I may have been talking for almost eight hours straight. It can wear on the vocal cords. So I always stop to get something soothing for my rough, dry throat. What’s more soothing than a cold milk shake or two? Shhhh. Please don’t tell my kids.
Endurance
The power to bear an unpleasant or difficult process or situation without giving way. Practicing patience when obstacles arise.
My daughters Rachael, Brianna and Abigail, 2012. Yes, they all inherited my sugar cravings. Brianna made killer cupcakes!
M ALLARD
My Mallard at age one, Michael Bryan, forever imprinted on my heart and soul.
T his week there will be another wave. I can feel the tug on me. I know I’ll be pulled under for a while, but now I can recover a little bit faster, catch my breath, and get back on my feet. Never easier, only sooner.
I’m writing this two years to the day after my son Michael left this earth at age eighteen. I have had countless waves of knockdown grief in these past two years. The respites of peace have become a little longer; but then, like the ocean, the bottomless sorrow I feel from losing my son stirs, builds, and then crashes over me once more. My family understands and my friends stay close by, but no one can make it better. After the first twenty-four hours of feeling the kind of grief that turns you inside out when you find out that your child has died, you realize that no one can ever make it better. Every day, even now, I stand in the shallows of an underlying sadness, fully aware that, at any time, another wave will pull me into the depths of anguish. It’s an inconceivable sorority of sisters that I have been initiated into without a choice: women who have lost a child. Only through my faith in God do I have the courage to get back onto my feet.
Four nights a week, right after our Las Vegas show, Donny and I do a “Meet ’n Greet” where we chat with people who have bought a VIP seat for that evening’s performance. We are one of the few shows on the Strip to offer one. I love to meet and talk with the audience members. One night, about six months before Michael died, I noticed a woman standing off to the side who didn’t have a “Meet ’n Greet” pass. Her expression was emotionless and hollow. She happened to be an acquaintance of my executive assistant, but they had lost touch many years ago. Without knowing why, I had a strong feeling that I should talk to her. I had seen the
My brother Jimmy and his wife and four children stayed at my home the night before my wedding in 2011. My kids love having their cousins around to play with, so they stay up late and have extra treats. For breakfast the next morning, I put out fresh fruit plates, eggs, and whole wheat toast. When I walked into the kitchen, I found eight kids gathered around the table, all eating bowls of sugary cereal in various shapes and neon colors. Jimmy hovered nearby, enjoying his own bowl, wearing a grin. He just shrugged. “Your pantry was too healthy. I had to make a grocery store run. What can I say? I’m my mother’s son.” When I told the kids they should have some fruit with their cereal, my eleven-year-old replied, “This is fruit-flavored cereal.” The truth is, if I hadn’t had to squeeze into my original wedding dress from 1982 in the next three hours, I would have happily joined them.
At QVC, I’ll often do three shows in one day, with product design or other business meetings in between. By the time we are heading back to the airport, I’m pretty tired because I may have been talking for almost eight hours straight. It can wear on the vocal cords. So I always stop to get something soothing for my rough, dry throat. What’s more soothing than a cold milk shake or two? Shhhh. Please don’t tell my kids.
Endurance
The power to bear an unpleasant or difficult process or situation without giving way. Practicing patience when obstacles arise.
My daughters Rachael, Brianna and Abigail, 2012. Yes, they all inherited my sugar cravings. Brianna made killer cupcakes!
M ALLARD
My Mallard at age one, Michael Bryan, forever imprinted on my heart and soul.
T his week there will be another wave. I can feel the tug on me. I know I’ll be pulled under for a while, but now I can recover a little bit faster, catch my breath, and get back on my feet. Never easier, only sooner.
I’m writing this two years to the day after my son Michael left this earth at age eighteen. I have had countless waves of knockdown grief in these past two years. The respites of peace have become a little longer; but then, like the ocean, the bottomless sorrow I feel from losing my son stirs, builds, and then crashes over me once more. My family understands and my friends stay close by, but no one can make it better. After the first twenty-four hours of feeling the kind of grief that turns you inside out when you find out that your child has died, you realize that no one can ever make it better. Every day, even now, I stand in the shallows of an underlying sadness, fully aware that, at any time, another wave will pull me into the depths of anguish. It’s an inconceivable sorority of sisters that I have been initiated into without a choice: women who have lost a child. Only through my faith in God do I have the courage to get back onto my feet.
Four nights a week, right after our Las Vegas show, Donny and I do a “Meet ’n Greet” where we chat with people who have bought a VIP seat for that evening’s performance. We are one of the few shows on the Strip to offer one. I love to meet and talk with the audience members. One night, about six months before Michael died, I noticed a woman standing off to the side who didn’t have a “Meet ’n Greet” pass. Her expression was emotionless and hollow. She happened to be an acquaintance of my executive assistant, but they had lost touch many years ago. Without knowing why, I had a strong feeling that I should talk to her. I had seen the
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