Travelling Alone – Yippee or Boohoo?

Both!

This was work travel.  I was to drive for three hours (which always turns into five) to a town in a neighboring state to measure  building for a client.

This is something I used to do in my days as a younger Architect.  I took 1-2 day business trips, by car or by plane, to measure sites and buildings and sometimes to meet with City Officials.  It was always kind of scary.  It is always kind of scary for a woman traveling alone.  I assume.  I had always thought I was being timid or paranoid, but recent events on social media, as well as living in the world and talking to other people, have taught me that many women are uncomfortable traveling alone.

This time it was scarier than I remember it being.  Is it because I haven’t traveled alone in years, and I simply must get used to it again?  Maybe.

Is it because my previous trips were mainly in the midwest, and now I am in more metropolitan areas?  That may have something to do with it.

Is it because being married, even if my husband is not physically with me in the car, gives a sense of security?  Probably to some extent.

It’s a combination of those things.  I wasn’t in terror the whole time or anything, but I was nervous at some points along the way.  I didn’t like how isolated the hotel was, and was nervous being in the empty abandoned store all day.

In truth, however, I was looking forward to it.

A night away from the kids, in a hotel, where I wouldn’t have the option, much less the compulsion, to feel guilty for not doing the dishes or painting the walls or folding laundry.

A “night off” from being a widowed single mom.

A night to myself.

Just one.

I imagined listening to my new Kevin Hearne book in my Jeep on the way to the hotel.  I imagined checking in late afternoon, maybe checking out a local tourist attraction before dark.  I imagined getting room service or having food delivered.  I imagined swimming in the hotel pool or taking a long hot bath.  I imagined watching TV propped up on those hotel-y pillows that hotels have.

I knew better, but I still imagined that.

The reality was that my client prefers I get a rental car.  I was able to listen to my new book, but had to listen through a tinny bluetooth speaker I have because the radio in the rental doesn’t play media off of non-apple devices.

The reality was that I checked in around 9:00 at night.

The reality was that it was a Comfort Inn.  I toyed with the idea of asking the client if they would be okay with me staying at a luxury hotel if I billed them for a Comfort Inn stay, but decided not to broach that subject since this was my first trip for them.  This client prefers to pay directly for the hotel.  So I was booked in a Comfort Inn.  I checked for bedbugs, and found the bed and the room to appear clean.  Obviously there was no room service.  There was also no list of restaurants that delivered to the area.

The reality also was that I am on a diet.  I had brought my diet food with me.  Rather than search for an hour for local food delivery to the hotel, I just ate my diet food.

The reality was that the pool was closed, and the hot tub was weird and smelled odd.  I was a trooper and got in the hot tub anyway, and then showered right afterward to avoid getting a yeast infection or typhoid or something.

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The reality was, who wants to take a luxurious bath in a Comfort Inn tub?

The reality was that the TV got six channels.

The reality was that the hotel wifi was unsecured so I did not feel comfortable logging in and getting work done.

I went to bed at 10:30 watching reruns of The Family Guy and feeling like the loneliest person in the world.

It was nice to have the time to myself.  It was nice to car-cry and to go to bed without unfinished chores calling to me.

It was good to wake up alone.  I love my kids, and most days it makes my heart happy (even when I’m grumbling about the hour) to have them wake me in the mornings, or for me to wake them.  It was grand, however, just once, to wake up and just be me.  I wouldn’t be able to access the site until mid morning, so I woke and puttered around, putzed with the in room coffee maker, etc.  I padded down to the free breakfast in my jammies.  The free breakfast was not awesome, but I’ve had worse.  I got my stuff packed and ready to go.

My stuff.

Not my kids’ things.  Not even my husband’s things.  I was not in charge of finding anybody else’s lost socks or making sure everyone went potty and remembered their drinks for in the car.  I did not have to stop anybody from fighting with each other. There was no “five more minutes of this show” or “hold on honey let me check my email one more time.”  When I decided it was time to leave, I picked up my bag and my purse and I walked out the door.

Lonely, but awesome.  Simple.  So simple.

I then worked all day and got back in the car — some more Kevin Hearne, some more car crying.

Overall, I give the experience a B+.  I felt like a real member of the adult working community — not as a ‘mom’ or a ‘working mom’ or a ‘work at home mom’ or a ‘wife’ or a ‘widow.’  Nobody in this place knew or cared about those roles.  I was a person on a work trip.  I was a professional doing my job.  It has been a long time since I have felt that so strongly.  It was lonely and sad for part of the trip, but lonely and sad is where I live much of the time.  It was good to get out and about.

Next time I will see if I can arrange for a better hotel situation.  I have a hankering for a $10 room service candy bar.

Birthday Party – I laughed, I cried. In front of the other moms.

My boys turned eight years old a couple of weeks ago.  This month has been a bit of a roller coaster, as I suppose you would expect.  Their first day of school also happened this month, and I haven’t yet had the stones to write about it.

Here it comes.  This post will most likely be too long to read, and will encompass the start of school as well as our Month Long Birthday EXTRAVAGANZA!  Are you in it with me?  Here we go.

At the end of school last year, I was so excited for summer to begin.  I thought that once I was freed from the daily grind of mornings and lunches and rides to and from school, I would be able to take control of my life and of my schedule.  I would be able to get more work done, take care of the house better, and of course spend more time with my kids.

I don’t have to tell you it does NOT work that way.  I must have been suffering from some sort of temporary insanity caused by wishful thinking.

It was a wonderful summer, full of late mornings watching Teen Titans Go in bed together, late nights playing XBox and two family trips.  It was much needed, but it was not particularly productive.  So as school approached, I was glad.  I was not glad in the traditional wine-drinking mom “yippee the kids will be out of my hair and occupied for part of the day” kind of way.  I was glad because once again, possibly delusional again, I believe this is when I will be able to take charge of our household schedule.

In the days leading up to the first day of school, I went on a special one-on-one outing with each of the kids.  I bought back to school clothes and shoes (I pre-ordered the supplies from the PTA last year.)  I bought Starbucks cards for the kids’ teachers, and wrote each one an introductory email explaining that my boys have therapy once a week and if the time does not work for their class schedule to let me know, and also to let me know if they notice any behavior in class that I should have the therapists address.  The teachers, of course, know that my husband died last February.  I set up schedules for homework and nighttime and morning routines.  I set up a new chore chart and star chart.  I stocked the fridge with school lunch items, bought new backpacks and lunches, and ordered new coats and jackets.  I did this all on my own.

Honestly, it’s not that different.  Trey  was not much of a ‘planner’ or ‘preparer’ (except for his disaster prepping – eyeroll.)  I would have taken care of most of this on my own even if he were still alive.  I felt good.  I felt optimistic for the school year and confident of my ability to make this work.  I took the kids to school the first day, using our schedule and star chart.  We did not have to rush or scramble, and we were not up against the tardy bell.  After school I picked them up.  They hung up their backpacks and helped unload the dishwasher to earn tablet time.  I started cooking dinner.

Then I was punched in the stomach.

This routine we are setting up — it doesn’t include Trey.  He’s not just gone now or for this first day of school.  He is going to be gone for all of the days of school.  There is no bargaining for who will be making dinner.  There is no talking each other into or out of ordering a pizza.  This is it.  This is my routine every night.  Helping the kids with homework, making dinner, washing dishes.  Alone.  This is it.

So then I’m crying by the sink again, which for a short while was no longer my favorite hobby.

Three days after the first day of school came the boys’ birthday.  For the first year ever, I managed to talk them into having their party a couple of weeks later.  I couldn’t figure how to get invitations out in time to have a party right after the start of school, and I didn’t think anyone would be up for attending a party at that time.  But I did want to mark their actual birthday.  At first we were going to meet the grandparents for some free Denny’s birthday goodness.  But naturally I am overcompensating for their dad being gone so instead we went on a Pirate Cruise.

Because what says, “I’m sorry we are having your birthday without your father being in the world” like a pirate cruise?

We went with my parents.  It was a lot of fun and I only cried a bit later that night.

The next weekend, we went to visit my uncle who lives about three hours away.  His town has a fair and rodeo, and we go every year to see him and attend the fair.  This year was weird without Trey.  It was weird largely because it was kind of nice.  Bless his heart, he really tried to be a good sport about it, and he never said this out loud, but I have been going to fairs with him for years and the truth is: he hates fairs.  Hated fairs, I mean.  In past years, the kids would go up with my folks, and then Trey and I would join the next day, close to the end of the day so we could spend an hour at the fair.  He hated the walking and the smells and how much everything costed.  I love the ridiculous food, the pig races, the world’s largest whatever.  So going to the fair without him was kind of nice in a way.  I went when my folks did, and spent the entire day with the kids getting their faces painted and spending too much money on bounce houses and unwinnable games.

And then K decided he wanted to go on a ride called the Storm Trooper.  I thought he would be too scared, and didn’t want to let him do it.  Something I always tell myself, however, is to not let fear keep you from doing things.  So I let him go.  I’m too fat to ride those rides so my mom rode with him.  He loved it.  I could see him scared at first, and then laughing and loving it the whole time.  I was so glad I let him go, and I was so horribly sad that Trey wasn’t there to see it.

I didn’t cry.

This weekend was their birthday party.  We did bubble soccer, something we did a couple of years ago and it was a big hit.  The kids wanted Minecraft themed cakes and decorations, and then had extremely specific requests for their cakes.

Now, I bake exactly once a year — on the birthday.  I still remember cakes that my mom made for me, so it is important to me that I make the cakes for my kids’ birthday.  I reserved the bubble soccer place a month ahead of time.  I started baking a week ahead of time.  I burned up the Pinterest boards making cakes and cupcakes and decorations.  This was going to be the best birthday ever.

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Today we arrived, and it went well at first.  But, see, K has been sick for a couple of days now.  He hasn’t had a fever, but he hasn’t felt well.  He’s had a runny nose and he fell asleep yesterday afternoon.  I thought about postponing, but for a multitude of reasons decided not to do that.  (I did warn the other parents, in case they wanted to stay away from the germs.)

So when he fell down early on and twisted his ankle, he was already feeling kind of cranky and this just ended it for him.  He tried to stay in the fun, but he was pretty much a little ball of screaming crying anger.  Normally when he gets like this, he just needs some time alone but I could not figure out how to give that to him in this case.  I took him to the room where the cakes were set up.  That’s when he unleashed on me:

“This is the worst birthday ever!”

“We’ve had seven birthdays and this is the only one that is terrible!”

“This is a waste of a whole birthday! I won’t have another for an entire year!”

I know he’s a kid and kids lash out, but I was already fragile and I just crumpled.  I kept my cool, told him I was going outside for a bit and asked if he needed me to get anything before I left.  He said he wanted to lay down in the car for a while, and I thought, well duh that’s a great idea.  I can’t believe that didn’t occur to me.

This is when my dad stepped in.  Seeing my barely controlled anguish, he offered to take K to his car to lay down and have some cooldown time.  I gratefully accepted his offer, and found a quiet corner of the building in which to have a complete breakdown.

I went outside and sobbed.  I wanted so much for this birthday to be amazing and wonderful and special, and somehow I had managed to ruin it for him.  He would always remember this first birthday as being terrible and I couldn’t do anything to fix it.  He was hurting and it made me hurt and I couldn’t handle it.  So I let myself cry for just a couple of minutes, then pulled myself together (I thought) and went back in.

One of the other moms — one who knows I’m recently widowed — was in the lobby on the phone.  She saw my face.

I guess I wasn’t as stealth as I thought I was.

She immediatly hung up, stood up, and hugged me.  “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you.”  I started crying again.  I couldn’t think of anything to say.  I just cried.

I pulled myself together again – or so I thought.

We went back inside, where my other boy was having a grand time.  One of the other moms there is also a widow — she’s just over two years out.  She saw me and immediately asked if I was okay.

I started to say yes, I’m fine.

We all do that.  We all say we are fine.

WE ARE NOT FINE.  WE ARE NOT OKAY.  NOTHING IS FINE.  “Fine” just means “I managed to generally function like a human being today, despite this pervasive wrongness that I carry.”

I didn’t say I was fine.  I looked at her, she had asked if I was okay, and I said, “No.”

She said, “Of course you’re not.”

More hugging.

More crying.

So now I’m just openly widow-crying in front of everyone.  All this work to make it seem like we are moving forward okay and that we are doing “as well as can be expected” is gone.  I’m a blubbering widow-y mess.

I did manage to pull myself together in time to call the kids to the party room for pizza and cake.  K came in, refreshed from his time alone, and was able to laugh and play and have fun for the rest of the party.  Everyone said it was a huge success, and I’m glad everyone had a good time.  I’m especially glad that K was able to reign it in and have fun for the second half.  I’m super proud of him.  That’s not easy to do.

I had fun, too.  I talked with the other moms about chore charts and allowances.  It was good.

Now I’m sitting at my computer bawling.  I had Amazon Now deliver a small bottle of bourbon and I’m quickly getting blotto and am about to watch Donnie Darko.

Thank you for listening.

Not Just Grieving

I’m grieving, but that’s not all I am doing.

This is not the post about how I’m also holding together a life and kids and managing day-to-day existence.  I’m doing all of that, too, but that is not what I mean.

Specifically with regards to my husband’s death, I am doing more than grieving.  We all do, I assume.  All widows and widowers.

We all have to find our place in the world.

Trey and I started dating in High School.  We got married as I was graduating college.  We have always been together.  I have never been a single adult.  And I don’t mean ‘single’ in the sense of being unattached or available.  I have never been a single, as opposed to being half of a pair.

My relationship with my kids, and their relationship to each other, is different now.  We are trying to redefine how we work together as a family.  It is not easy.  It is not simple.  It is not that I am now “being both mother and father” the way people say.  As a single mom, I’m not the same mom I was, with added responsibilities.  It’s different.  It’s completely different and I’m still trying to figure it out.  I’m examining what is important to me as a parent, and what issues can be let go.  I’m making determinations on our new schedule and new disciplinary recourses.  (Just wait until your father gets home is no longer a valid response to their shenanigans.)

I am also redefining my relationship with myself.  This is even harder.  Who am I without him?  I saw a movie by myself.  I got a tattoo.

By the way, apparently all GenX widows get tattoos.  I know two other women who have recently lost significant others, and we all have tattoos now.  So there’s that.

I was the shy background player, the soccer mom wallflower.  Now I’m the woman with the fish tattoo driving the neon jeep.  I want to be more than I was.  I want to be active and fun.  I’m not sure what that looks like, though.

So if you see me on Facebook or in town, and it looks like I am unphased by my situation– if it looks like I’m going on outings and pretending that everything is okay — please understand there is more to it than that.  I’m trying to stretch my wings and find my place in the world.  There is less of me now that he is gone, but in a way there is more of me, too.  I am the sole driver in my life and I’m trying to draw up a map.

Modern Viking Funeral

We drove to our favorite beach, at Ocean City. The drive is brutal. I’ve always been a passenger, in which situation it is a pleasantly long car ride with the family. As the driver, it is a grueling endless trip during which the GPS keeps extending your expected arrival time due to “slowdowns along your route.” I still enjoy a road trip, and it was fun, but it feels much longer when you are driving. That’s all I’m saying.

We arrived at our favorite beach and the place was packed! We drove along the sand, utilizing the four wheel drive Trey had insisted we would need, to reach a somewhat less crowded area. We got the raft out of the back and started decorating it.

Believe it or not, there is a company in England that makes actual flammable viking ship urns just for this purpose. We decided not to go that route. We wanted something we could build together, and also something large enough to not capsize immediately in the ocean. So we have spent the past couple of weeks dismantling and reassembling wood pallets, and attaching a series of boxes and boards together with twine. I got to use the saws-all, which impressed the boys very much and caused Korben to repeatedly tell me to be careful.

Once on the beach, we set to work decorating it with dried flowers and plants, plus some lovely flowers and ferns picked from the side of the road earlier that day.

The result was a haphazard explosion of dried plants and untreated wood, held together with twine and burlap. We made it together and I hope we achieved our goal of making it entirely non-toxic to the environment.

I pulled it out into the ocean. We arrived late, and it was dangerously close to low tide. My plan was to set it loose as the tide was rolling out. I pulled it to where it was floating, and went to work setting it on fire.

This is where the inevitable hiccough occurred. The kids and I had previously discussed that there was every likelihood that the Viking Funeral would be an epic failure and that is okay because Trey Wilson would love that too. The important thing is that we come to the beach, to the ocean that he loved, that we send his ashes out into that ocean, and that we take on this project together to give him this Viking Funeral.

It was therefore funny, and not devastating, when the lighter wouldn’t light. I had bought two lighters and some matches, and the ‘better’ lighter was not lighting. While I was trying to get it to work, the other lighter and the matches got wet in my pocket. I kept trying with the ‘good’ lighter, which would sometimes tease me by giving a puff of flame. It took roughly 45 minutes to get anything to light enough to set the raft ablaze.

But we did it. We got it to light, and for a few glorious minutes Trey’s raft floated, flaming, as we shouted our good-byes to the wind. By this time, the tide had turned so the raft did not sail out into the ocean. Instead, it would land on the beach where it would get picked up by an incoming wave and move farther down the beach. It didn’t capsize or suffer any catastrophic failure. It simply floated its way along the coastline.

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Once the fire burned out, I entered the water again to bring the raft farther out into the water and partially submerge it. I watched as Trey’s ashes swirled around, joining the ocean. As I walked back to the beach, a single white dried rose, charred from the fire and released from the raft, was floating on the water. I saved it.

We then left the edge of the water and spent the afternoon flying kites, blowing bubbles, and getting massive amounts of sand on our clothes.

I thought it would be a terribly emotional and sad experience, but it wasn’t. It was celebratory and it felt good.

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A rose, charred from the flames, found floating on the water
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Our Viking Raft
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The boys by the ocean as the raft floats at the edge of the water

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Kokomo

This one time recently I came downstairs and Trey had paused the TV show. He started it up, and the characters were talking about vacation and said, “Aruba, Jamaica . . . ”
The show went on with some other conversations, but I didn’t hear any of it because obviously I was now singing Oooh I wanna take ya to Bermuda Bahama Come on Pretty Mama
. . . And right there, on cue, two completely different characters on the show holding a completely different conversation said, “Key Largo, Montego” The timing was perfect and I was ecstatic. I clapped and laughed and was absolutely delighted by the whole thing.
Because I’m a huge dork.
Trey had seen this part of the show while I was upstairs, had known that I would sing, had known that I would be delighted and would applaud when the song was continued on the show so he rewound it and paused it and waited for me just so he could watch me be a dork.
Because he thought it was adorable.

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.

El Debarge

Just a couple of days before Trey passed away, it was my birthday and it was also President’s Day so it was a holiday. We were sleeping in late with the dog happily snoozing on the bed with us.
Trey woke up and said, “Well, El Debarge, I guess it’s time we get up.”
I said, “Did you call me El Debarge?”
“Nope. I called the dog El Debarge. You’re Johnny.”
“Who’s Johnny?” I asked.
“Aha! Maybe you are El Debarge!” he responded.
We laughed until we cried. I exclaimed that I knew the second the words were out of my mouth that I had walked into that, and he said he’d been waiting for a time to use that and that I had responded exactly perfectly. It was one of those perfect moments. We laughed about it all the next day.

Game Night Revelations

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That time our family took down a gym together

I may have mentioned this, but Trey and I were more or less hermits.  We were those people who always say, “We should get together sometime” but never do.  We like people, but we liked the comfort of an evening in PJs on the sofa even more.

It felt acceptable when there were two of us — four of us.

Now that I am the sole adult here, I don’t want my kids to grow up with a mom who is a hermit.  I think it may be damaging to them to see me home alone every night, going places with just them on the weekends.  In order for them to build healthy relationships, they need to see me experiencing healthy friendships.

Or maybe I just need to keep busy in order to escape emotional quicksand.

In any case, I invited our neighbors over for a game night.  My neighbors are a couple that are my age – early 40s – and their 16 year old daughter.  They are delightful and fun, and Trey and I always meant to have them over.

They came and we ordered Chinese food and played card games they brought with them.  One involved throwing virtual poop at one another, which was a resounding success with my seven year old boys.

Then the unexpected happened.

The kids started talking about their dad.

It began with K, telling H to not mention what happened to their dad.  K doesn’t like people to know or to talk about it, because he doesn’t like the pity or how uncomfortable it makes people.  H responded by asking why K didn’t want people to know that dad is dead.

Bless her, the neighbor then told my sons that her father died, too.  K just opened up — asking her questions and telling her about his experience.  Meanwhile, H was talking to me and to the husband and daughter.

H was describing in detail what Trey looked like when he was dead.

I had been hoping that I had shielded their view of it.  I knew they had seen, but I was hoping their young eyes only saw someone passed out or sleeping, even though it was obvious to me that something was very wrong.

I tried to get them out of the room quickly, without alarming them.  I tried.  I thought I succeeded.  But I didn’t.  I didn’t succeed at all.  H saw, and knew it wasn’t right.

So he started saying what it was like to come home and find his dad dead.  He described the events of the evening.  I listened intently, giving him all of my focus.  The most important thing in my world was making sure that he could unburden, and that he knew I heard him.

I glanced at my neighbors, to find their eyes thick with tears.  They, too, were focusing on him, letting him talk, letting him get it off his chest.

I am grateful to them — more grateful than I can say.  I tried to apologize to them later.  It was meant to be an evening of fun, and I hadn’t intended to lay all of that on them.  They assured me that it was fine and not unexpected.  Of course, they knew my husband had died and were prepared for the potential of this conversation.

They are wonderful people.

Easter

20170416_004039Trey wasn’t into holidays. This worked out, because I am SUPER INTO holidays. We would have been full-on Griswold for every one of them if he had been as enthusiastic as I am. I had actually been thinking we should start decorating the house and yard for Fat Tuesday, and almost had him on board.
He didn’t ever stop me or act grinchy or comolain about my holiday preparations, and I didn’t ask him to help decorate. Invariably, however, he would wind up doing most of the hosting and final cooking on the day of the holiday, as I had exhausted myself in preparations.
He never seemed to mind. He liked hosting, even if he didn’t care for the trappings of the holiday. My enthusiasm, however, seemed to perplex him. He never could get excited about a holiday like I did.
I choose to think that he found my love of the holidays to be charming and not irritating.
Tomorrow will be our first major holiday without him. Easter was his least favorite. Coloring eggs put him to sleep. Literally. Every year he dozed off while we were coloring eggs. He wasn’t a fan of ham, which I insist is the only meal to have for easter. He did love the ham salad my mom made with the leftovers.
Our Easters were subdued, me saving my crazy holiday credits for christmas and halloween.
So this is not the worst holiday to tackle as our first.
One time, when the kids were three, I had hidden the easter treats by leaving them.in the truck. When I went to grab them on easter eve, I found the chocolate bunnies had melted and looked pretty gruesome
Trey went i-don’t-know-where in the middle of the night and scored us two new chocolate bunnies for the easter baskets

This One Time in New Orleans

This was many years ago. I will say that again. This was many, many years ago. I was driving our Jeep Cherokee, Trey was in the passenger seat. We came up to a stoplight where I needed to get into the other lane, and this other driver was not going to let me. I expressed my negative emotions about this in a loud manner, with disregard to the open windows.
The man in the other car unleashed an incoherent sound of rage, opened his door and launched himself out of his car. Certain he had a gun or something, I proceeded to roll up our windows. Because, you know, Jeep Cherokee windows are bulletproof. I don’t know what I was thinking but I rolled them up.
The man proceeded to stand in front of my car, screaming at me and slamming his hands on my hood.
This man was BIG and SCARY. And LOUD. I was frightened but I was also mad. So I started yelling back at him. There we were, him yelling at me and hitting my car with me yelling at him – but not opening my windows.
Then the light turned green and I thought “Oh good, I guess he’ll get in his car and go now.”
Nope. He just kept slamming his hands on my car and yelling.
So I put my foot on the gas and nudged him out of the way.
This was not over, however, as he got into his car and started to chase.
At the next red light, he pulled up beside me, got out once again (but did not stand in front of me this time) and started yelling, “You want a piece of me?!?”
This is when the light again turned green, so I just gave him the hand and drove off 
again.

This is when Trey started to laugh.

Up until this point, Trey had been a spectator in the incident. He had made no move to calm me down but also did not jump in to offer assistance. I assume he would have if he had felt like I needed it.
Now, however, he started laughing. He thought the whole thing was hilarious.
The man started following us once again, and Trey started giving me directions to lose the guy. I am not a fast driver and traffic was thick so speeding away or any kind of fancy/dangerous weaving around cars was not an option. Trey kept saying “change lanes here. get on the highway. exit here. change lanes again” eventually we lost the guy or he gave up after a while of extremely slow and boring pursuit. I was always a bit curious as to how and when Trey became an expert at evading a pursuer.