Sad Lonely Women’s Club

I would like to address the events of today.  It was a rough one for me.

At some point I will address the events of last week, which included the kids’ first day of school as well as their eighth birthday.  I cannot bring myself to write about that yet.  Suffice it to say that the first day of school was more difficult for me than their birthday was, but that both events were so much harder than I anticipated.

I can’t.

So let’s talk about today.  What led to today?  Well, I am seeing a counselor to help deal with my husband’s death and to help deal with suddenly being a single mom, which is the larger issue in a lot of ways.

I have been to counselors before, sometimes to address my own issues and others to address problems in our marriage.  Have I given the impression it was all sunshine and roses?  It wasn’t.  We loved each other and he was my best friend and I miss him terribly, but we had pretty serious problems off and on.  I believed, and still do, that it was a testament to our love and friendship that we worked so hard through some extremely difficult stumbling blocks.

I’m not here to talk about our marriage.  I mention this only to say that every counselor I have ever had, for any reason, starting in high school, has said that I need to make some friends.  They said I needed friends with whom I could spend time after school or work.  They said I needed friends separate from my husband’s friends.  They said I needed friends separate from my work acquaintances, separate from the other Moms.  That I needed a network of support that was not a part of my role as Architect, Wife, and Mother.  I needed friends who were not Trey’s wife’s friends.  I needed friends who were not H&K’s mom’s friend.  I needed friends who were Racheal’s friends.

I am not skilled at socializing, and Trey and I became pretty codependent, happy to do things with just each other.  For a time I did roller derby.  I’ve been members of various book clubs.  I think I was a charter member of meetup.com.  None of them really stick for very long, and I have been unable to form any kind of lasting relationship out of any of those activities.  When we moved to Washington, I had a reasonably strong position within the social circle of a group of moms that all had kids the same age.  That went away as soon as we moved, obviously.  Since we have lived here, I have met some of the other moms but don’t feel solidly within the social circle.

Then Trey died, and I quit my traditional workplace job and now work from home.  I have nobody.  Nobody to spend time with who will talk about something that is not Minecraft.  Nobody to see movies with.  Nobody to watch Supernatural with.  Nobody to drive on a road trip.  Nobody to complain to that I have nobody.  I have had almost no interactions with other adults, except for with my counselor.  I have had quite a bit of support from some circles.  Another mom has had me over to their house a couple of times, and my neighbors came by to play board games once.  But overall it’s intensely lonely being me right now.  I normally thrive on being alone, but this is too much.  Especially considering that I’m trying to find myself in the world.

This brings me to today.  Today I went to meet with some ladies for coffee.  I found these ladies through a Facebook group.  The group is made up of women in my age range who like to get together and have coffee.  Sounds nice.

It was the saddest most depressing event EVER!  Nothing against the women.  They were all super nice.  But none of us have anything in common.  I was the newcomer in the group, but even among the women who had been meeting up for a while there appeared to be no real connection.  It wasn’t a group of friends who liked to get together.  It was a group of women who have no friends getting together to keep from going crazy.  Just by demeanor, I would say at least two of the other women were also there because their counselor or someone told them that they needed social interaction.  We made small talk about families and friends who were in the hurricane path, but I didn’t get the impression that any of these women would call any of the other if they needed extra emotional support.  I looked at these sad lonely women and thought, wow.  These are my people.  A group of women approaching and breaching “the Hill” who were either divorced or had husbands that worked a lot and needed a reason to get out and get dressed.  That’s me.  I don’t want to be a part of this group.

I DO NOT WANT TO BE A PART OF THIS GROUP!

I don’t want to meet for coffee with other lonely women, making small talk to cover the fact that if I wasn’t there that I’d be sitting in silence at home.  It’s too awful.  I don’t want to do it.

So that happened.

Then, to top it off, today is my kids’ counseling day.  On these days I pick them up after recess.  While I was waiting for them, the principal approached me and said H’s teacher is concerned because he refuses to participate in class.  She knows the story and all so she know he’s not just being a dick.  But she doesn’t know how to handle it.

And neither do I.

I asked the counselor if we should back off of him — it worked when he didn’t want to learn to swim.  Everyone pretended not to see him practicing swimming, and not to notice that he was getting in the pool after adamantly yelling that he did not want to swim.  With the pressure off, he started learning.

The counselor said that doesn’t work here.  We have to keep pushing him to participate, or he will withdraw more and more.  We’re not talking about public speaking here.  We are talking about in the morning every kid is supposed to turn to the kids on either side of them and say good morning.  This is the level of withdrawn he is.  At counseling, he frequently does not even talk to the counselor except to say that he is bored.  She is being kindly persistent and has instructed me to do the same.

But it hurts so much.  Why is he withdrawing so hard?  What do I do about it?

So to sum up, my kid is sliding down a slope that looks like it will end in his refusal to speak to anyone except for me.  I tried to be social and instead just felt worse.

This sucks.

 

 

Battle Bots of Love

The kids’ birthday is coming up so naturally I’m pushing forward as if everything is normal, you know, calling twelve different venues to find a place to have the party and Pinterest-ing like crazy for cake and decoration ideas.

Then I am punched in the stomach.

Last year we held the birthday at a robotics place called Robot Roundabout.  It was awesome.  They had a lot of different kinds of robots to play with, but the big attraction was the Battle Bot cage.

Inside the little arena are two bots.  Each bot has a spike on the front and balloon on the back.  I’m sure you can do the math on that one.  Well, the second Trey and I saw that, we were like, “You and me, bud!  As soon as these kids have all had a turn, you are going down!”

Sure enough once the kids had all had a turn and were happily eating pizza and cake, Trey and I raced to the Battle Arena.  The guy running the place was thrilled.  We battled and hollered and smack talked and the kids cheered and then my balloon got punctured.  But it was a slow leak!  The judge’s determination was that I was still in play until it fully deflated.  I chased Trey around and popped his balloon before mine ran out of air and I whooped and did a victory dance and it was so awesome.

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Trey and Korben Battle Bots for H&K’s Seventh Birthday at Robot Roundabout

Afterward the guy who runs the place said that he always asks the parents to have a go at the battle bots because it’s fun for the birthday kids to see his parents battle.  He said that he usually has to work to talk them into it, and we were the first couple he’d ever seen that ran over to it and wanted to play and had so much fun.

We were so confused.  How could anybody not want immediately to kick their significant other’s ass at battle bots?  We told him that if he would let us, we’d kick all those kids out of there and just play the two of us for the next hour.  Who wouldn’t want to play robots with their best friend?

Do you see why I’m bawling?

Six Month Whatever-Versary

Today is the six month anniversary of Trey’s death.  Except it’s not an anniversary, because Anni- means Year.  It drives me crazy when people talk about a one month or a two week anniversary.  Is there a word for a month-versary?  Honestly, I’m not in the mood to learn vocabulary today so I’m not going to look it up.

Six months ago today I left work, drove to my parents’ house to pick up the kids, arrived home and found my husband dead in the living room.

Six months ago today my life fractured.

I can still see the future we were going to have.  I can still see us attending our kids’ graduation.  I see us arguing over what Junior High they should attend.  I see us at the third grade neon glow party.  I see us watching the upcoming Justice League movie together.  I can see it clearly in my mind.

It doesn’t matter how hard I look, however, I cannot make it real.  That future is lost.

What did I do today?

Well, I went ahead and dropped the kids off with my folks like I usually do on Tuesdays.  A client wanted to talk to me, and I was anticipating needing the time to work.  I snuggled with them for too long and had to fight the urge to throw a conniption fit when they dawdled getting dressed.  I let K wear his clothes from yesterday.  I just couldn’t fight about it.

In other words, it was like every other Tuesday.

I dropped the kids off and rushed to my counseling appointment, for which I was 20 minutes late.

It was just a coincidence that I had an appointment today.  But it was a happy coincidence.  I only recently started seeing someone.  I believe this was our third appointment.  I still feel like I’m not sure how it helps to just talk to someone, but it does help so I’m doing it.  I enjoy our sessions.

I felt . . . normal.  I’ve felt normal for a while now.  I get sad and I get lonely.  I am sometimes shocked when the reality hits that this is permanent.  Overall, however, I go about my daily routine and function as a human.

I am not a fan of the phrase “the new normal,” but I suppose it applies.

Today was no different.  I felt normal, but that in itself felt odd.

I arrived home after my appointment to find a card in my mailbox.  A real card, with a handwritten note.  My best friend from high school, my maid of honor, knew this was coming up and she sent me a beautiful and supportive card.  It was exactly what I needed, at exactly the right time.  I sat on my kitchen floor and wept.

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I don’t remember when I last cried about Trey.  It feels like forever ago, but so does his death.  It feels like forever ago and it also feels like it happened last week.  Grief time is weird.  If I had to guess, I’d say it’s been two or three weeks since I really cried.  I needed it.

Then I realized I could not find my wallet and the next couple of hours were consumed with finding it.  And with cleaning that gross sticky spot that I had not known was under my sofa until I accidentally stuck my hair in it while looking for my wallet.

I found my wallet and headed to the grocery store to buy supplies for our celebration of Trey’s life.

Kit Kats, M&Ms, Tootsie Rolls, Tootsie Pops, Hershey’s Kisses.

Yesterday I told the kids that today would be six months.  K, who speaks like a small adult, said, “It doesn’t feel like that long.  It feels almost like it was yesterday.”

I asked what they wanted to do to mark the day.  We discussed going to the beach where we scattered his ashes, but that is a full day trip and none of us were up for it.  None of us felt like making a big deal out of it.  It’s already a big deal without us adding to the drama.

The kids’ idea?  Buy a “mother lode” of candy.

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A Mother Lode of Candy

Trey had quite the sweet tooth.  I have always claimed to not have that much of a sweet tooth, but the truth is I drink my sweet in the form of sodas and in the form of coffee drinks that are essentially liquid cake.  In any case, a couple of months ago it was brought to my attention that with Trey gone our house is devoid of candy.  I did not intentionally cut candy out of our home.  When I make a grocery list, I just don’t think about adding candy to it.  Trey always did, though.  “Pick up some Kit-Kats” he would say.  Or, if he went to the store unsupervised, he’d come home with half a cart full of candy.  So it makes sense to commemorate him with candy — although I suspect it was a bit of a ploy on the part of my kiddos.

No matter the true motivation, I obliged.  Today I hit the store and filled a basket with candy.  I also bought some flowers for the dining table, some tater tots for tomorrow’s casserole, and marshmallows because I have a huge box of rice krispies burning a hole in my pocket.

And I wept.

I cried in the car the whole way there.

Car crying was my favorite form of self expression in the first couple of months.  I haven’t done that in a while.  I sobbed the whole way to the store, sniffled my way through the aisles and hitched my breath during checkout.  I’m sure I looked like some sort of sad housewife cliche.  Here I am, an overweight white woman in sweat shorts and T-shirt, sticky stuff in my hair, purchasing candy and tater tots and flowers and Moscato.  (I also bought a bottle of Moscato, of which I am currently partaking, as my own private six month tribute.)

I came home and proceeded to set up my new phone.

My phone broke a while back and my new one came in today.  That feels particularly harsh of the universe.  Trey worked in cellular/telecom since 2001.  He handled all of this.  I have never ever had to set up my own phone.  It was more complicated than I expected.  I had nobody to ask and nobody to help.  Just me and a phone that somehow uses a different charger than every other device in my home and nobody to complain to about that.  It was unreasonably heart breaking to handle this myself, but I did it.  I got my new phone set up.

Then it was time to pick up the kids, and get back to the regular routine.  I cooked dinner while they played tablets.  They ate candy.  We had dinner, watched 2 cartoons, brushed teeth, read a story and they went to bed.  Now here I am, spilling my guts to the ether.

That is what happens in my life when I reach the six month anniversary of the day I stopped being a wife and became a widow.

Literally Dreaming of His Return

This is the second time I’ve dreamed that Trey returned.

This is not a dream where he simply still lives.  I have those every so often, but they are comforting rather than unsettling.

In this dream, the full reality of my life exists.  He died, we had a funeral, I have been sorting through our stuff and painting our house in some sort of weird ‘nesting’ reaction to grief.

And then he walks in the door.  As if nothing happened.

The last time I dreamed this, it was a month or so after his death.  At that time, I had gotten rid of his underwear and some of his work clothes and papers.  I dreamed he came down the stairs and I was crying with relief, “I was sure you were dead!  What was all of that?”  To which he responded, “Where are my clean underwear?”

This sounds hilarious, but in the dream it was distressing because I was afraid that he would feel like I was tossing out his stuff too soon after his death.  Like, “Good Riddance to You!  I’m moving on!”  He was confused about why I would have thought he was dead, and I explained about finding him in the living room and the whole experience.

This time, the dream crushed me.  In the dream, just like in real life, it was coming up on six months and he waltzes in the door like it is all normal.  I freak smooth out.  I’m crying and screaming, and he is calm and amused.  I start yelling, “This isn’t okay!  You died!  I held your cold hand!  We all did CPR!  The medical examiner came!  You can NOT come back and act like this is normal!”

I asked him where he had been, and how he could explain all of this.  He told me just to trust him, that he was back, and that I didn’t need to know where he’d been.  He looks around and sees the closet and the cabinets, and remarks on how they’d been cleaned out.  He is again confused that so much of his stuff is missing.  By now I have very few of his clothes left, and sold his speakers.  I explain that he was dead.  We’d scattered his ashes.

In the dream, I was afraid he would find out I’d gotten rid of a box full of his hats. He had an issue with hats.  I believe this is a common trait among men.  I must have three boxes full of his hats.

In the dream I was afraid and confused and angry.  I was so angry at him for acting like everything was normal when I had been through so much.Picture 055

The Little Things That Kill

You think you will be destroyed by the enormity of the situation.
By the knowledge that he will never see his kids graduate or marry.
That he will never be a grandfather.
That you will not grow old together.

This, however, you can survive.

It is the little things that crush you.
The little things rob you of your breath and sting your eyes.

Requesting a table for three.

Sorting laundry without his clothes.

The stockpile of hot sauce that only he liked.

Feeding his cat.

The unused passenger seat in the car.

Getting rid of things we kept out of habit.

Keeping that hideous Scarface poster he loved.

Moving the lamp to my side of the bed.

Helping the kids with their math.

Baking cookies using his recipe.

The empty half of the dining table.

Taking the kids on their first plane ride with my dad instead of with theirs.

Leaving his token in the box when we play board games.

Putting away the Cards Against Humanity we used to play in the evenings.

Watching our favorite shows in silence, alone.

Coming home from the store.

Fourth of July fireworks.

Watching previews for movies we were going to see together, movies that still have not come out because it was so recently that we were sitting together planning our summer.
It’s the daily details that get you, not the grand plans.
We miss you.

Vacation Without You

We arrived home late last night, after a week long vacation in South Dakota.

My mom’s family has a yearly get together.  We haven’t gone for a few years.  You were never that great at vacationing.

This year I went.  My grandparents had been unable to come to your funeral, and were thrilled that I could come to see them.  All of my mom’s brothers and sisters were there.  Only one of my cousins attended, which you would have predicted.

It was the first time the kids rode a plane.

You weren’t here.

So many ‘firsts’ you will miss, and this is the first of them.

The kids did great.  It’s funny the things you take for granted.  H opened up the tray on the seat in front of him and said, “Hey!  Look at this!”  K attentively listened to the safety instructions, locating the nearest exits and reviewing the informational card when instructed.  Mainly they played on their Nintendos.  You would have been frustrated that they were so engrossed in their electronics.  Then you would have fallen asleep.

At my grandmother’s house, I must admit it was incredibly normal for you to not be there.  You and I were there together two or three times, but my entire life before we married I was there every summer and some Christmases.  It was so natural to be there again without you.  It was almost like going back in time, except the kids were there.

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They had a blast at the lake.  They rode my uncle’s tugboat and K helped drive, sitting on his lap the way he used to sit on yours to “drive” our boat.  That was perhaps the most difficult moment of the trip for me.

On the flight home I watched the new Beauty and the Beast.  You were going to take me to see that.  I remember I had mentioned to you that I knew you would never go to that movie.  You responded, “Are you kidding?  The animated one was one of our first dates.  Of course I plan to take you to the new one.”

But then you died, you asshole, so I watched it on a tiny screen in the headrest of the seat in front of me, earbuds digging into my popping ears and stopping every few minutes to get the kids something or listen to a pilot announcement.

It was good.  I would have loved seeing it with you.  I think you would have pretended to like it as well.

Last night the kids slept in their own beds (hallelujah!) until close to morning.  I got some much-needed stretch out starfish sleep in the wake of a week on my grandparent’s pull out sofa bed.  Our bed has new sheets — cotton.  Not the sateen kind you liked.  I also replaced that fuzzy zebra striped comforter with one more my style.

I am claiming the bedroom as my space.  I am not erasing you from it, but it is not our room anymore.  You don’t live there.  It is my room and I am modifying it to be the way I need it to be.  I need my own space now more than ever.

I picked up the dog from ‘camp.’  She is so excited to be home, but appears to be perplexed all over again that you are gone.  It hurts me to see her confusion.  It mirrors some part of me that refuses to understand.

Tonight I’m putting off going to bed.  Last night I was so exhausted, but tonight I feel your absence so hard.  I have been shot back into the present day, am no longer in the past, but you are not here.

How are you not here?

Earlier today I was mad at you again.  I was mad that you left us to deal with crap alone.  Now I am just lonely and sad.

I don’t know how to do this.

The Monkey’s Paw

Well, I have pretty much everything I’ve been wanting for the past couple of years, and all I had to do was lose my husband.

I swear I didn’t wish on a monkey’s paw to be able to be a stay at home mom again.  I didn’t encounter any shady genie types and request to be able to work from home.  I never bargained with a leprechaun to allow me to quit the job I hated and end the commute I hated even more.

Here I am.

We moved here two years ago, when the kids were five and starting kindergarten.  I thought I was supposed to go back to the typical work force once the kids were in school so I got a job and we moved.  I spent the next two years filled with regret, often crying and battling depression.  I loved being a stay at home mom, and could never adjust to working full time with all that entails.  Sometimes he would comfort me, reminding me of all the reasons we moved to a place where we could no longer be a single income household.  Other times, he was exasperated with me, pointing out that I was crying because I had to have a job like most people do.

I wanted to be more involved with my kids’ lives.

But not like this.

Because of a combination of life insurance, etc. and the lessening of household expenses with one less person, I was able to quit my job.  I re-opened my home business and am working for myself.  I drive my kids to school every day.  I help them with their homework.  We eat supper together.  I volunteer at their school and attend daytime events with them.  I bring them to playdates at the park.

All of these were things I missed, about which I regularly cried and moped.

Now I have this all back, but I have nobody to share it with.

I am so lonely.

He is gone.

Most days, it’s strange — it feels normal.  Even though every detail of my life has changed, something about the rhythm is the same.  Wake, pack backpacks, work, get kids, dinner, dishes.  I am in a routine and it feels simply like he is not here.

For much of our marriage, we worked dissimilar schedules.  He worked evenings and weekends, while I worked a standard 9-5.  It has only been the past couple of years that we have had the same hours off together.  It therefore does not always feel odd to not have him around.

Then the anvil drops on my head.  He is not coming back.  I’m not going to tell him about the awesome thing his son said to the neighbor.  He is not going to scold me for dyeing shirts in the kitchen sink.  He will not listen to the new audiobook released by our favorite author, nor will he see any of the movies currently in theaters.

I will never hear his laugh.

I will never drink a beer with him on a hot afternoon.

I will never tell him again that our dog stands up just like Rory Calhoun.

But everything else in my life is falling into place, and the guilt is extreme.  Like somehow that horrible thing happened so these good things could happen.  It’s not a fiar trade though.  It’s not and I can’t handle this.  I can’t handle going to help at the kids’ school knowing that I can only do it because he is dead.  I can’t deal with parking my car in the garage because now there is room for it.  I can’t face my clients knowing that I would still be in my toxic job if he were still alive.

I can’t enjoy these things.  I won’t enjoy them.  Maybe if I reject all of this, somehow the universe will realize its error and reverse this.

I know that doesn’t make sense.  I know it in my head, but my heart can’t bear the weight of happiness or even of contentedness.

I Matter. (unless you multiply me by the square of the speed of light)

How many times have I attempted this?  How many hours, nights, weeks have I looked at the screen, typed a few inadequate words, and abandoned the effort?

I have engaged in a nightly cycle of near-creation as I tried to find the words to express what it is to be a supporting player in your own life when the main character dies.

Trey was the life in our life.  A whirlwind of spontaneous action and wild emotion, he drove our existence while I supported his efforts.  He was fascinating and exuberant, dangerous and fun. I am boring and plain, safe and disappointing.  I was the steady line to his sine wave.  I was the calming influence on his fire.  I was the straight man in our routine.

He was everything.  I was a passenger.

How to express that?  I couldn’t get the words out.  I couldn’t express the loss of me as a person when he went.  I couldn’t demonstrate being a non-entity without him.

Because it’s bullshit.  It’s all bullshit.

I believed it all, with my entire being, throughout my entire life.  I believed it after he died.

I believed it until I heard others say it.  Until I realized that is what everyone believed.  Heard from the mouths of others, the lie made itself known.

“So I guess you’ll be moving back to Oklahoma now.”

“Are the kids going to miss those spur of the moment trips to Portland?”

“Is it crazy to be stuck with that neon green Jeep?  Are you selling it?”

Question after question, offhand comment after comment, all indicating our friends’ and families’ beliefs that everything notable about us was really just Trey.  That I would shake off the trappings of interest and fun, and would live as the bore we all know me to be.

Bitch, I picked out that Jeep!  I insisted on that color; Trey wanted black.  We fought intenseley as we paid extra money for a rental car while we waited for this color to be available.  I refused to drive a boring color while ‘hypergreen’ existed in the world.  It did become Trey’s car.  I told Trey I didn’t like to drive it.  I told him I loved my truck too much.  I did this so he could drive the new car. He didn’t like to drive the truck, and he had always wanted a Jeep.  So I pretended that I was not interested much in it.  The truth was that it was me who selected the car and waited for it and named it Herman.  I bought nail polish to match it.  I love it and have since the moment I saw it.

Every person in our life believes that Jeep is just another example of crazy awesome Trey doing something outlandish, and of how I’m such a good and supporting wife for indulging him.

Those trips?  Those spontaneous trips?  Trey didn’t know there was a replica of Stonehenge in northern Oregon.  He didn’t know about the pirate landing.  Or the sandcastle competition.  I pushed these trips through when neither of us felt like doing anything, and we were the better for it.

Why would I move back to Oklahoma?  My parents don’t live there anymore.  It is true I moved us back to Oklahoma when I was pregnant and my parents lived there.  I panicked and needed comfort.  I also moved us out of there as soon as I was ready to work again.  I moved us.  I found a job on the west coast, packed us up and moved us.  I never wanted to raise our kids there.  I grew up yearning for bigger places with more opportunities and the possibility of greater experiences. I wasn’t going to live my adulthood and my kids’ childhood in the place I always wanted to leave.

I wasn’t indulging or silently supporting my powerhouse of a husband.  We were partners.  I commanded the driver’s seat as often as he did, and actively navigated as a passenger.

It is true that he managed our social life.  At events, he took the spotlight while I watched cozy from the background.  He ensured we knew our neighbors and the other kids’ parents.  He was the life of the party, the gracious host, the fun one.  And he was welcome to it.  That shit exhausts me.

As the years went by, however, he grew more reluctant to fill that role.  He was content to binge watch Netflix and order takeout.  It took quite a bit of coaxing to get him out of the house to do anything.  He talked about his big regret – that he did not take me dancing anymore when we were younger.

-You could take me dancing now.

-No, we’re old and I’m too fat.  It’s embarrassing.  Let me get into better shape and then we’ll go.

Well, I guess that day never came.  It would have been nice to go dancing.  I don’t get embarrassed anymore.

That isn’t entirely accurate.

I don’t let embarrassment stop me from doing something that could make me happy.  I got over that shit years ago.  With Trey by my side it was easier to be spontaneous, to do mildly embarrassing things.  Even if I had to push him.  Even if he didn’t join in but would laugh at/with me.  He would smile at my dorkiness and reinforce my belief that it is okay to be embarrassing.

He was my world.  But he wasn’t the whole world.

I still exist.  I am not a phantom.  I am not useless, or plain, or dull.  I am broken without my partner, yet I remain a whole person.  I will remain in Washington, and will perhaps move to Florida later.  I drive Herman and I walk the dog and I take the kids on trips to book signings and to watch a movie with a bunch of cats.  I dance.  I dance in my living room, and I also dance at the supermarket.  I skin my knee trying to ride a bike.  I meet the neighbors for game night.

And I cry.  I cry and scream and beat the steering wheel and throw my phone.  I’m lonely and forlorn and desperate and furious.

But I am not nothing, and it’s time I stop thinking of myself as nothing.

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My fingernails match MY Jeep (I’m not skilled in the girly arts.)

Screw Mother’s Day (but why do I feel like that?)

As I write this, the day changes and it is now Mother’s Day.

Fuck that.  I do not want to deal with THAT.

This makes no sense.  My mom is amazing, and she lives near me.  She has been an astounding source of support for my whole life, and so much more now since Trey’s death.  My own kids are alive and well and awesome.  So why does Mother’s Day feel so painful?

It’s been suggested to me that it may just be a matter of it being a holiday, so soon after his death.  We never did make a big deal out of the holiday, however, so I will not be missing him especially hard.

I thought it might have something to do with our infertility.  For six years we struggled to have children.  During those six years, Mother’s Day was salt in my heart.  Then we got pregnant.  For the following six years, Mother’s Day was a low-key but joyous event.  I never got though the MD season without remembering those difficult six years, all of those Mother’s Days that I wondered if motherhood would happen for me.  It feels wrong that our celebration for conquering infertility should happen without him by my side.

The real reason, however, I believe is due to me feeling less of.  When Trey died, I lost my role as wife.  This was a huge part of who I was, and it was gone.  I am lessened.  I am less of a person, much less of a woman, and less of a parent.  We were a parenting team.  Sure we were a team that constantly fought about the rules of the game, but we were a team nonetheless.

One of the well-meaning phrases I can live without is, “You’re both the mom and the dad now.”

What?  Shut up.  That’s not accurate at all.  I was a parent, and I am still a parent.  I used to be a part of a parenting team, a dynamic duo, a squad.  I lost half my team, and am much less of a parent without him.  Without his ‘dadness’ to contrast with and compliment my ‘momness’ I’m less of a mom.

I couldn’t protect my kids from seeing their father dead.  I can’t protect them from that memory.  I can’t give them enough comfort, and I do not know how best to support them through this.

I’m not 2x the parent.  I’m less.  Less of a mom, less of a person.

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I Sobbed Through Gardians of the Galaxy vol 2

“It starts May fifth.”

I have been hearing this from my boys for months now.  May 5th.  The opening of GOTG 2.  It was big news in our house.

The movie is rated PG-13, and my kids are both seven.  I realize it is a grown-up movie and my kids are kids.  I therefore refused to bring them opening weekend.  My kids and I are a hurricane blasting through wherever we go.  I try to be respectful where I can, however, and one thing I can do is keep the littles out of the theater when it is filled with fans who went out of their way to see it opening weekend.

The movie has been open for a week now, today is Friday, and the kids have the day off school.

So we went.

And I wept.

If you have not seen this movie, I will not spoil anything but will say that some of the themes in the movie are a bit on-the-nose.  (You will remember from the first movie that he grew up without a dad and that his mom died when he was young.)  This, however, isn’t why the movie wrecked me.  I have found that spouses/dads dying in movies does not evoke a huge emotional response from me.  You would think that watching someone lose her husband or father would bring back my own memories and situation.  It doesn’t.  The truth is that losing him is so big — so fucking huge — it just has absolutely nothing to do with whatever is happening to a character in a movie.  I could watch movies depicting parents and spouses dying all day long and it would not affect me.

20170512_124607 (1)THIS movie, though.  This one.  Guardians of the Galaxy vol.2.  This movie wrecked me.

This movie — the one we had been planning to see as a family.

The one that is rated PG-13 but I can’t say no to the kids because Trey would have brought them.

The one for which Trey taught my kids to remember the opening date.

The one that has Kurt Russel.  Kurt fucking Russell why did Kurt Motherfucking Russel make it into this movie?  Trey had an unhealthy obsession with Mr. Russel.  Do you have any idea how many times I’ve seen Overboard?  We’re not talking about Escape from New York or Big Trouble in Little China.  Every time Overboard comes on, we’re watching it.  This is true of the other movies as well, but they don’t come on as much.  Trey loved Kurt Russel.  On his birthday this year I requested that friends and family post pictures of Kurt on Trey’s Facebook wall.  Two months before he died.

Our family of four is now a family of three.  Plans we made will never be fulfilled.  We will not attend graduation together, or give girlfriends a hard time.  We will never make the holiday Leavenworth trip a family tradition.

We will not see Guardians of the Galaxy 3.

My weeping began during the previews.  Today previews were featured for the new Star Wars movie, Wonder Woman and Thor.  All movies we knew were coming and we were planning to see.

Together.

The four of us.

Then the movie starts, and it is so amazing and he would have loved it.  The kids are loving it and would have loved sharing it with him.  And then Kurt Fucking Russel appears onscreen.

It was all over for me.

I laughed at the movie, and cheered and loved it.  Through it all, though, I wept for all the dumb little plans we made that we will never fulfill.