"Older worker"? Not sure how I became one, but here's what it feels like.

It struck me the other day during my performance review: I am an “older worker.”

My manager, in the midst of graciously complimenting an aspect of my performance, remarked offhandedly about the benefits wrought by experience in the workplace. (To be fair, she also discussed the great things younger workers bring to the table, but I focused in on the remarks that applied to me.) What she was basically saying was that it’s great to have a team comprised of employees who bring different strengths and experiences to the table, and I agree.

But it gave me pause to realize that I’m closer to retirement than nearly anyone else on my team. I’ve never “felt my age,” whatever that means, but the numbers don’t lie.

When I began my career, at 22, I was a quick study with a great foundation and the best boss a person could have asked for.  Bill was a few years my senior and was tough; remember that really scary teacher you had in grade school, the one who ended up pushing you to reach your full potential, then becoming your friend in adulthood when you finally realized how amazing she was?  That was Bill.  And because he focused more on being my mentor than my friend, he turned out a darned good reporter.

Because I tended to learn pretty quickly, I was able to participate in some pretty high-level assignments, and the phrase “does a great job for her age and experience” was bandied about every now and again.  I loved that I was holding my own against older reporters, covering and even breaking some stories across the state.  I loved working, and I loved that time in my life.

Then, of course, I grew older, and no longer was I anyone’s wunderkind. I took my career in a different direction, becoming a corporate communicator.  Since my 20s, I’ve worked for four companies, each progressively larger than the one before, and I’ve been surrounded at each by co-workers of all ages.

But depending on the company, the unspoken attitudes toward “workers of a certain age” has seemed to vary. One company was known for plying workers 55 and older with early-retirement packages that weren’t necessarily desired, but were too good to refuse. Another company seemed older-worker-friendly – it hired a pal of mine when she was in her late 50s – and yet when a gentleman I know there turned 50, he refused to tell anyone his age for fear it would impact others’ perceptions of him. 

I get that there are reasons companies like hiring younger workers; businesses have bottom lines to adhere to, and it simply costs less to hire younger workers – ones who are often just as competent as their older counterparts. And depending on a company's benefits package, it may cost more to insure us. So skewing its workforce toward the young end is a win-win for companies, right?

Not so fast.

According to the U.S. Department of Labor, the proportion of older workers – those 55 and older -- will increase steadily from 12 percent in 2000 to 20 percent in 2025. Why is that? Primarily because people are living longer and need the money. But it also seems that many of us continue to like working as much as we ever did, and we realize that in a lot of ways, it’s good for us.

And best of all, it’s good for our bosses.

As my manager mentioned, older workers bring invaluable skills to the table; we may not be “digital natives,” but most of us began using computers in college, so we’ve been tech-savvy for our entire adult lives.  And some may argue that because we haven’t had the lifetime benefit of computer-assisted communication, our interpersonal skills are stronger; before we learned to text, we learned to talk.  And unless we were Prince – who is 54 now, by the way – we wrote in complete sentences, without a symbol in sight: For me, “your” has never been, and never will be, represented with “ur.”

We arrived for our first job interviews with briefcases and, if we were female, wearing pantyhose and heels.  We all wore suits, and we hand-wrote thank-you notes to our interviewers.  We didn’t think in terms of “perks” a job could offer us; we sat down at our desks and tried really hard to contribute. 

As my dad was inclined to respond whenever I complained about a job, “Heh heh heh.  That’s why they call it ‘work.’” Older workers have grown up with the attitude, often driven into us by our Depression-era parents and grandparents, that a job is something to be thankful for.  That’s not to say countless people my age are not visionaries who have struck out on their own; I’m just saying that we learned to be thankful for the advantages extended to us by virtue of employment.  

That’s not to say that our ways remain the “best” ways. From my younger co-workers, I’ve learned working remotely, from the comfort of my kitchen table with my dog at my heels, can allow me to be every bit as productive – or more so – than I am when I’m in the office in heels. I’ve learned the best day is a jeans day – not because wearing denim really transforms anything, but because it has a way of encouraging folks to relax.

I’ve learned that generation that’s grown up with social media is a connected generation, and, Facebook and Twitter junkie that I am, I’ve learned that the keyboard is the great age-equalizer.  No one sees my gray roots when I tweet; all they see is that I’m commenting on and contributing to a big, vibrant world.

From me, I hope my younger co-workers have learned a thing or two as well.  Above all, I’m hoping they’ve learned to relax and realize that although that big project may have been derailed today, things won’t look nearly as bad next week. I hope they’ve learned that nothing can take the place of a solid communications foundation: If you’re articulate and can converse fluidly with the written word as well, others will regard you more highly in the workplace than if you don’t take spelling and grammar seriously.

I hope they’ve learned not to be afraid to speak up and offer an unproven idea; after all, the person who hired you likely did so because you have a good brain, and he or she wants to hear what you think.   I hope they’ve learned that even though casual dress is great, there is no reason – ever – to wear Budweiser t-shirts and flip-flops to the office, unless it’s a home office. (Sorry. Respect your employer. Period.)  

And I hope they’ve learned that caring about their co-workers – and allowing their co-workers to care about them back – is an important part of what makes a workplace cohesive and functional.

I took a business trip last week and met a woman who is a few years my senior. She’s a leader in the company and has, in addition to tremendous expertise, a head of silver hair. During a break in our meeting, I told her I admired her hair and asked how long ago she’d stopped coloring it.  “I’ve never colored it,” she responded.  “Why would I?”  It occurred to me then that in my jobs with previous employers, silver heads were few and fair between.

I saw a few more of them this morning as I walked to the cafeteria, and one more as I visited the guard desk to have my badge reset. Also today I heard co-workers talking about adult children and about grandchildren, and I witnessed such comments as, “I’m too old to drive in this snow.” And upon hearing that, workers of other ages laughed and agreed, and no one seemed to think a thing about what the older person said -- except that it’s not fun driving in snow, no matter how old you are.

It's a good time to be 50.  As I ease into "older workerhood" and am made to feel as valued as I feel at this moment, I’m very pleased to be where I am.

After two decades, I still don't know how to parent. But tomorrow is a new day.

We all have parenting moments about which we're not proud.  I had one recently, and it's humbling in that I thought I had learned enough over the years that I'd know better.

Guess what.  I didn't.

Here's the story: Since she was little, my daughter has wanted to, as she put it at age 9, "own (her) own show choir."  Through a great deal of hard work over the years and a large number of opportunities given to her by some gracious people, she's been on her way to doing just that. (OK, not owning one, per se, but directing one.)

So when she called a couple of weeks ago and said she's delaying her plans so she can take another job, it was clear that I hadn't read Parenting for Dummies, because my reaction was 100 percent wrong. And the sad thing is, when you have one of those moments, there's no such thing as a do-over.

It's not as if Caroline has decided to delay her plans because she's going to work at Dunkin' Donuts or spend time "finding herself."  After she graduates from Drake in May, she's going to work for a national nonprofit as a leadership consultant, gaining and honing valuable skills as she travels across the country.

Of hundreds of applicants for the job, she was one of only 10 young women selected, so there was, and is, much to celebrate. She'll travel for a year, and when she returns, she'll apply for teaching jobs.

Great news, right?  Only I didn't celebrate.  I reacted as though she had hurt me personally. I was decidedly underwhelmed.  Every "Of course I'm proud of you" was followed by a "but." I threw up roadblocks and warned of dire scenarios.  By the end of the phone call -- one during which Caroline assumed she would receive her mother's unconditional support -- she was crying.

The whole time, I knew I was reacting badly.  But I couldn't stop myself.

Pathetically, I was making the decision all about me. As difficult as it is to admit this, I've enjoyed the music-related parts of Caroline's life as much as she has, or even more than she has.  You've seen hockey dads? Baseball dads?  For many years, I've been a Music Mom, and I guess I'd allowed myself to believe my daughter's accomplishments had somehow constituted a reflection of me.

Cognitively, of course, I've known that's not true; anyone who knows Caroline is well aware of her independence and drive. Our in-joke is that she can't just be a part of an organization; she has to run it.  Sure, I gave birth to her and made sure she was fed, clothed and sheltered, but everything else has been all her.

So when she began to accomplish things on her own, I probably allowed myself to become too wrapped up in them. Sure, they weren't about me -- but I had raised her, and involvement was one of the perks. And how great was it that she had decided to concentrate on music, one of my great loves?  When she decided she was going to become a music teacher, my joy could not have been more complete.

But then the other opportunity came along, and she decided to take it. And although I'd raised my children to make their own decisions, I found myself upset and confused.  "What do you mean you're going to switch gears, Caroline?" I asked. What I really meant was, "I've been counting on this. And it's clearly all about me."

It wasn't, of course.  But that's the way I reacted. And I'm ashamed.

Fortunately, it didn't take me long to realize how ridiculously I was behaving, and to tell my daughter how sorry I was for my lack of support.  She and her brother both have been blessed with a tendency toward graciousness, and she seems to have forgiven me. But like all those other crappy parenting moments we wish we could undo, this one will hang around.

Webster's defines humility as "the quality or condition of being humble; modest opinion or estimate of one's own importance or rank." Could it really be that it's taken me 24 years of motherhood to realize that simply because I gave birth to two humans doesn't mean they are of me and about me?

When I was 21, I had my own dreams, and I was given the freedom to make my own mistakes and relish my own triumphs. My kids deserve the same opportunities.

As a part-apology and part-celebration, I gave Caroline a gift today: a charm for her Pandora bracelet. It's a tiny suitcase to represent the road she'll be taking for the next year, and I gave it happily and with no emotional strings attached.

What I really want that gift to say is, "Congratulations for refusing to listen to your mother, and choosing to live for yourself." She comes from a line of strong women; how silly of me to ever have expected anything else.

Bon voyage, Caroline.  I'll be here when you fall, and I'll be here when you triumph.  As always, my money is wholly on the latter.

Recognizing silver linings, and being thankful for them

It's no secret that my greatest regret in life is that my kids grew up as children of divorce, and that I've spent years trying to make sense of the mistakes that were made. I realized a few years ago, though, that it's impossible to go back in time and make everything right for my kids, and that the best possible strategy is to keep the lines of communication open and validate their feelings about the events that transpired.

But of the handful of good things that came out of my divorce, one of them came to light this week.  My children, ages 24 and 21, have become roommates.  Voluntarily.  And to say that's gratifying doesn't scratch the surface.

My son and daughter have always been close. During those dark nights when the arguments between their parents became more than they could bear, Scott was Caroline's protector, playing games with her to drown out the yelling.  Through years of difficulty -- a horrible relationship on my end, their dad's remarriage, my cancer, and my eventual remarriage (not to the horrible-relationship guy, thankfully) -- my kids held on to each other. They were one another's constants during change.

I don't think they've ever argued.  Ever.  They are very different from one another, but they admire one another's strengths. Each one has a total, unshakable pride in his or her sibling.  Their relationship is a wonderful thing to witness.

I chalk up their love for each other to their being forced to cling to one another during some pretty bad times, but I also attribute it to these things: a mother and father who, despite their own difficulties, never managed to lose sight of the fact that we were parents first. The kids were cared for and loved. And our extended families stepped in to help, maintaining positive relationships with the "opposite" former spouse and his or her family.

It took a village.  Luckily, we had one.

In the past couple of weeks, events conspired to enable my kids to see that living together would be a fine idea. They have roommates and dogs, but the two of them are at the heart of the household they're building. They're a perfect yin and yang; one is much more laid back, and the other a bit more tightly wound. But they're viewing their different approaches to life as opportunities to stretch their comfort zones.

I worry less now that they're together. I know each has the other's back, and that nothing unfortunate is likely to happen to one as long as the other is keeping watch.

And on nights like tonight, when I'm making dinner for them, it's a whole lot easier to make one pot of chili and visit them both in the same place.

If I could go back in time, I'd take away the pain for them. I can't do that, obviously, but I can feel a tremendous sense of pride that my kids are made of the elements they're made of, and that they've seen that beautiful things can come from terrible times. That knowledge -- and the joy they find in being together -- will serve them well indeed.

Sometimes the pain is too deep, and you just have to go home.

Elvis, Rob and Kevin, 2010

You go to bed on Saturday night and think the next day is going to be a lazy Sunday. And then everything changes, and the world on Sunday night is forever altered for someone you love.

When my husband, Kevin, moved from his hometown in Illinois years ago, he left behind his two best friends, Elvis and Rob.  The three of them would never live in the same city again, but their bonds would never be broken; whenever Kevin would return to Rochelle for a visit, time with Elvis and Rob was usually on his schedule.  He and Rob were best men in one another’s weddings; any story he told about the old days was punctuated with “and then Robbie said…” or “…and then Robbie and I (insert something potentially illegal here).”

And every story is punctuated by laughter. A lot of laughter.

Rob married and had a family and became a policeman, then Rochelle's police chief. He was well-known and well-loved, and Kevin was proud of him. But he also would have been proud of him if he’d sold insurance or worked at a dime store or dug ditches. 

He'll never get the chance to tell Rob again that he's proud of him, though. Kevin woke to the news yesterday, via Elvis, that Rob had died.  He had been ill with a usually minor illness, maybe the flu, and he had gone to bed and hadn’t woken up.

To watch one’s spouse hurt to this degree is something I’ve never experienced.  When Kevin’s dad died, Kevin was devastated – but that death was anticipated.  That didn’t make it easier, but it had given Kevin time to prepare somewhat. This, though, was not only sudden and wholly unexpected, but wrenching on a formative level.

So much of Kevin is tied to Rob. Rob was Kevin’s touchstone to his childhood – they became friends in third grade – and also to his teenage years. First dates, first kisses, first money-making scheme (driving across the border to Wisconsin, where the drinking age was 18, and buying beer to bring home and sell to Illinois kids at three times the retail price).

Rob was there for Kevin’s first marriage and the birth of his first child, and he was there when the marriage fell apart.  He was a constant, and he was always supposed to be there – especially for the wife and three children he leaves behind, but also for the friends his life helped to shape.

Kevin didn't talk with Rob every day, but I guarantee he thought of him. Actually, in all our years of marriage, I don't think we've gone more than a couple of days during which Kevin hasn't mentioned Rob. As anyone else who's reached a certain age knows, as the years fly by, the past comes into sharper focus. For Kevin, Rob has always been in the middle of that virtual viewfinder.

Men absolutely can love one another.  Kevin really, truly loved Rob.

When you marry someone in middle age, someone with whom you don't share an early history, it's difficult to know how to help when something of this magnitude happens. I can’t help ease Kevin's pain, but I can listen. And most importantly, as I'll do tonight, I can pack him up and send him back where he came from, to say goodbye to Rob with the others who knew him -- and loved him -- best.

Charlie Lavia's yuletide greeting from the Great Beyond

No wonder I can't cook. I was digging around for a cookie recipe and found this one for our family's meatballs. My dad dictated this to me, after much prodding, in 2009.

Dad died almost two years ago, and tears came to my eyes this morning when I took the piece of paper out of the recipe binder and saw that I had made note of his editorial comments as well as his instructions.

As some of you might recall, my dad was an original. Here, for your Christmas reading pleasure, is a yuletide greeting of sorts, from the Great Beyond, from Charlie Lavia.

Meatballs 

- 1 pound hamburger, 1 pound Graziano's pork sausage. ("Get it at Graziano's, not at  Dahl's. They have it at Dahl's, but they'll screw you on the price. But it takes gas to drive to Graziano's, so, eh, just get it at Dahl's.  It works out about the same. Heh heh.")

- Eggs. ("How many eggs? Jesus, Lisa, I don't know. Two eggs. Three eggs. Just whatever you've got.")

- A handful of breadcrumbs. ("Just pour it in your hand. What do you mean, different people have different-size hands?  Not that different; don't ask so many questions. Can't you just be satisfied with an answer?")

- Grated cheese. ("What do you mean, what kind? What kind do you think?")

- Salt and pepper. ("More salt if you like salt. More pepper if you don't. Don't make a production out of it.")

- Some diced onions if you want. ("I know you don't like onions. I put onions in and I hear about it all damned day. Because you don't like onions, no one can have onions. Jesus. Just pick them out, like at McDonald's.")

- Garlic powder. ("I don't KNOW how much! Until it tastes right!")

- A little milk. ("Sometimes they end up too dry. Just put the milk on your hands and scoot everything around.")

"Mold them into balls and cook them. How big? How am I supposed to know?  If you want to make them like your grandmother, make them like tennis balls. If you want to make them normal, then don't."

-----

We'll eat meatballs tonight, and we'll all miss him.

Merry Christmas, Dad.

Ghosts of Christmases past ... wearing wool, eating fudge and speaking Italian

With my Grandpa Kenny, playing "Heart and Soul," 1969

So I did a head count the other day and realized that of all the people who used to surround my family’s table on Christmas, the vast majority aren’t there anymore. 

This doesn’t exactly come as a shock to me; I’m not a young person. And it also isn’t a valid reason to feel sorry for myself; there are 20 families in Connecticut who will be missing their little children every Christmas from now on. But it’s still sobering, especially when I think about the fact that as families lose members, the character of the holiday tends to change as well.

The Christmases of my youth look to my mind like a still from “Mad Men.” Everyone was glamorous and handsome and laughing and smoking.  The women wore aprons over their cocktail dresses from Feldman’s Phase II on the west side; the men wore ties and followed their Hamm’s beers with chasers of bourbon-infused eggnog.  The house smelled of pasta and cherry tobacco from someone’s pipe … and decals.  Our house always smelled of paint and adhesive from decals, our family’s livelihood; the “stickers,” as I called them, bore the names of implement dealers and manufacturers of giant machines. They didn’t hold much interest for a little girl, but I respected them; I knew they bought my books and my markers and my Hostess cupcakes. 

Christmas Eve was spent at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, opening and modeling expensive clothes made of 100-percent wool; although I was allergic to the fabric and it caused me to break out in hives on contact, I was instructed to “ooh” and “aah” over the garments and enthuse repeatedly that I couldn’t wait to wear them.   Grandma also gave me books each year; from her, I received the Narnia series, the Little House books, and the volumes of bad poetry I loved so much, and I couldn’t wait to open the tissue-wrapped packages. We’d eat pasta and sing “Happy Birthday” to Jesus around the blue-flocked tree, and then we were off to midnight Mass – at 10:30 on the dot, so there would be enough seats for all of us.

The next day, the same crowd came to our house; we’d all wear our new outfits from Grandma, with my stage-whispers of “Can I change now? OK, how much longer?” punctuating the otherwise-festive environment.  (In all fairness to my allergic little self, I itched so much after a few hours in those woolen dresses that I’d have to be given take a Benadryl before bed to calm the welts.) I wonder now, as all adults do, why I didn’t pay more attention; why I didn’t try to learn some of the Italian my elders spoke for those many, many years in my family room.  Why I didn’t spend more time playing “Heart and Soul” on the piano with my grandpa.  He loved that so much, while I rolled my eyes after the second or third repetition. Why I didn’t ask my nana to please tell me stories of all her brothers and sisters back in Crucoli.  Why I had my eyes in a book instead of on my loud, fascinating, beautiful family. 

This Christmas will mark the second since my dad died; as I told a friend today, last year, his death was still pretty new, but this year it’s all too clear he’s not coming back.  I like to think he’s having Christmas with my mom now, and with my grandparents and aunts and uncles and all the people who used to pass through our front door with great, booming “Merry Christmas”es and platters of fudge and wandas and strawberry-shaped nut cookies stuffed with dates. I see him in his white shirt and tie, smoking a Kool and smelling like Old Spice and laughing more and more as the evening wore on.  I see my nana in her dark-blue housedress and black shawl, smiling as she spoke Italian with the few who still understood her.  I see my grandma, shiny and beautiful, giving air-kisses and sneaking envelopes into our hands. “To our Lisa at Christmastime,” mine would always say.  I think I still have one somewhere.

As I bake and wrap presents in preparation for my family’s Christmas Eve and Christmas Day celebrations, it’s difficult not to feel a bit unmoored; I’m no one’s idea of a kid anymore, or a niece or a granddaughter.  I look in the mirror and my aunt’s face peers back; not my aunt as a pretty young girl, but my aunt at 50, with gray roots and the beginnings of jowls and crepe-paper skin on her hands.  And I realize that for my kids, I’ll someday be one of those memories … the subject of “Can you believe Mom did that?” or “Remember when she tried to cook?” or, hopefully, “This ornament (or this book, or this song) reminds me of Mom.”  And I don’t know how I’ll make it happen, but I’m hoping I can encourage everyone to put down the distractions and remain a bit more “in the moment” this year. 

Because all too soon, those moments are gone.  And you’d give all the fruitcake and tinsel in the world for one more rendition of “Heart and Soul.”  

From unspeakable sorrow to happily ever after, just in time for the holidays

(Note: This essay was published in shorter form in The Des Moines Register on Dec. 4, 2012.)

Five years ago, Jason Medick couldn’t imagine a time when laughter would be such a routine part of his day, he wouldn’t even be conscious that he was laughing.

Now, the big house on Grand Avenue on Des Moines’ west side hums with activity: shouts of two happy girls. Music. Company coming in and out. A barking dog. And the routine peals of laughter of family members who have begun to heal.

In April 2007, Medick’s first wife, Shari, died suddenly, leaving behind a husband and two daughters, ages 6 and 2.  Among the family members who swept in to help the broken-hearted young dad and his little girls were Shari’s cousins from St. Charles: the McDonald sisters, Jenna, Kati and Trisha.

Kati McDonald had nannied for the girls on and off when Shari Medick was alive. She had left for college but kept in close touch with Shari’s sister, Shana, who filled her in from time to time about how Medick and the two girls were doing.

When she graduated, McDonald contacted Medick to see if she could visit the girls. The rest, as they say, is history.

“We should just jump ahead to the point where – yes – I married the nanny,” Medick said. “But there’s a lot more to the story than that.”

Kati McDonald, now Kati Medick, said when she began to visit the girls, Alice and Pearl, on a regular basis again, she realized she really didn’t know their dad.  She initially had called to offer to babysit the girls, but Jason told her he had nowhere to go.  However, if she wanted to come visit the girls, he said, she was welcome.

“When Shari was alive and I had babysat for them, Jason was always at work,” Kati, 26, said. “He doesn’t even really remember that I nannied for them. So when I started coming over again to see the girls, it was like we started a friendship from scratch.”

And that’s all it was for several months. Kati met the girls and their dad on Monday nights to walk around Gray’s Lake and have dinner at Spaghetti Works – kids ate free on Mondays –- and maybe one other time during the week to walk around the mall.

She dated occasionally during that time, but felt much more drawn to the quiet family activities Jason, 42, organized for his girls.  Before long, Kati was spending several nights a week with the still-grieving family and realized she was becoming attached – but only to the girls, she thought.

“I liked Jason; we had fun together, but he was 15 and a half years older than I was, and he had been married to my cousin,” Kati Medick said. “The last thing either one of us was thinking – consciously, anyway – would be that we could have feelings for each other.”

But each was beginning to, and those feelings came to a head one night when Kati brought a date to a birthday party Jason also was attending.

“When I saw her walk in with someone else, I felt hurt, and I left,” Jason said. “It was then that I realized, ‘Whoa – I was really looking forward to seeing her. What does that mean?’”

When Kati asked her future husband days later why he had left the party, each ended up admitting there was more afoot than just friendship. After talking quite a while about the potential roadblocks, they decided to “try dating and see how it went,” Kati said.

It turned out “roadblocks” was an underestimation. Some people told the couple, in no uncertain terms, that their relationship was wrong. Some said they had begun dating too quickly after Shari’s death, and others said the fact that Kati was Shari’s cousin made the relationship unacceptable.

“They all meant well and gave us advice out of concern for me and for the girls, and for the memory of the wife I still loved, and I understood that,” Jason Medick said. “I had many forces pulling me many different ways in my personal life. It started to get to me, and I told Kati we couldn’t be together anymore.”

Kati accepted the decision – after all, the disapproval had been hard on her as well, and she wanted what was best for Jason and the girls. But Jason quickly concluded he was missing her terribly, and he sought the advice of a counselor to help him make a decision, as well as to help him begin to heal from the loss of Shari.

“He told me that I had to move forward, and those who wanted to come with me would, and those who didn’t want to wouldn’t,” he said. “I had to grow a thicker skin and think about what was best for me and the girls. I wasn’t leaving Shari behind, but I did have to move forward.”

He called Kati and asked her if she'd begin seeing him again, and this past September, the Medicks married in an informal, family-and-friend-filled, standing-room-only ceremony in downtown Des Moines.

In addition to seeing his two daughters, now 11 and 8, serve as bridesmaids, Jason was most gratified that the guests all seemed to truly wish the couple well.

“I think what also helped people come around was when they realized that Kati, who knew and loved Shari, would help keep her memory alive for the girls,” Jason said. “It wasn’t a case where someone would come in and say, ‘OK, I’m the wife now. We need to move on.’”

Indeed, Kati makes sure the girls' mom is a big part of their lives, from saying "Your mom would be proud" of certain activities or behaviors to helping to organize a birthday-commemoration celebration for Shari every year on December 12. The family also participates in a remembrance ceremony every year on April 1, the anniversary of Shari's death.

"Their mom was wonderful, and although I hope to be able to influence their lives in a positive way, I also get a lot of joy out of things that they do and say that remind me of their mom," Kati said. "I'm sure she is very proud of her little ladies."

Those little ladies said they're glad that Kati is a part of their lives; at the wedding, Alice, 11, gave a public shout-out to her new stepmother for "agreeing to marry us."

"She makes us do a lot of stuff together, like going on family bike rides and putting up the Christmas tree together. And she'll tell us things about our mom and say, 'Your mom would have liked this or that,'" Alice said.

Pearl, 8, said Kati "has brought our family closer together," but she registered one complaint.

"She always makes us clean," she said with a giggle. "She makes us clean WAY too much."