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.

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.

Cherish These Times cannot always be the answer (alt title: why some other mom bloggers can kiss my butt)

This is specifically about kids sleeping in your bed, but I’m sure it can be applied to other situations.

“Just cherish this time. It won’t last forever.”  This is RARELY, if ever, a workable solution.   At best, it is a mantra to be used as a coping mechanism.  Too often it is an admonishment, verging on shaming.  Whenever a parent has difficulty with his/her children, at the edge of frustration and at wit’s end, and reaches out to the fellow parenting community, the response that comes back is to stop complaining and be grateful.

Sheesh.

Here is some background about our sleeping situation.  When my boys were babies, it was of utmost importance to me that they learn to fall asleep in their own beds.  I knew many people who wound up in an unintentional family bed situation, which is stressful for the parents as well as for the kids who don’t have the skills to fall asleep on their own.  To this end, I spent many nights on the floor of the kids’ room.  We wound up putting a small sofa in that room so I could be near the kids to comfort them while allowing them to remain in their beds.  I fought that battle every night, all while people told me that I should let the kids sleep in my bed and cherish that time.  There was nothing wrong with me.  I was not a cold hearted person who did not want to snuggle.  I believed (and still do) that it was the best for them to develop that skill.  All their lives, they could come to our bed in the night if they woke, but the initial go-to-sleep had to be in their own beds.

Then it all changed.  Enter widowhood, single mother-hood, and parenting two kids who have experienced a trauma.

They now sleep in my bed every night.  I resisted at first, encouraging them to fall asleep in their own beds, even promising to wake them and bring them to my bed later in the night.  At this point, however, I have given in.  They go straight to my bed.  Both of them.  Every.  Single. Night.

I cannot get a decent night’s sleep.  I wake twisted and sweaty, with an elbow in my face, a knee in my gut, a dog on my pillow and cats chasing my feet.  No matter how many blankets I put on my bed, I still must battle throughout the night for the right to cover my toes.  I have to sleep in the middle of the bed to prevent a war between the littles.  This means that anything requiring access to the side table, such as turning the lamp off, checking the alarm and/or clock, etc. requires acrobatics while I hover over a sleeping child, both tangled in the blankets, to reach my glass of water without waking anyone.

Nighttime is already rough for the widow.  I can no longer go to bed nestled in the crook of Trey’s arm.  I can’t put my arm around his chest, listen to him breathe, let the day’s stresses release in the safety of his touch.  I also do not have the consolation prize of getting an entire bed to myself.  I don’t get to cozy into bed, burrito myself up in the blankets and read until I fall asleep.  Instead, I get extended Mommy duties.  Mommy duties that last all night and into the morning to start the next day again.

I have accepted all of this.  I know the kids need me.  I’m the grown up.  I will not stamp my feet and insist on keeping my own bed sacred.

Sharing my bed is no longer enough, however.  Now after bed time the kids come downstairs repeatedly, taking turns to ask when I am coming to bed.

They do not just want to be in my bed.  They want me to come to bed when they do.

I can’t.  I just can’t.  I know this could help them sleep and it would help them feel safe and secure, but I just can’t go to bed when they do.  I have things I need to do in the evenings.  I review my daily to-do list and mentally split it into tasks that need to be done after the kids go to bed.  I absolutely need that time in the evenings.  I sought answers in the interwebs, and wound up on several mom-blogs.  What advice did I get?

“Cherish this time!  It’s so valuable!  Your children are your most important priority, so make that time for them! This is your chance for dedicated one-on-one time with your child!”

Suck it.  That doesn’t help.  I actually need time in the evenings.  I actually have things I need to do.  My kids are my priority, but that doesn’t mean nothing else exists.

One of the blogs was promising.  She began the article by talking about one of her kid’s repeated requests for her to stay with him at night.  She listed her reasons for not joining their children at bedtime as being things like needing to tend the other kids, needing time to eat dinner with her husband, needing to finish up some work before the next day.  These all are legitimate concerns.  Finally a mom who understands and  hopefully has a solution that helps her kids but also allows her the time she needs.  Instead, her article then went on to outline her epiphany that this is the best time in our lives and that when your child asks you to come to bed with him, you should make the time to prioritize that over your other tasks.

Seriously?  Is she suggesting that one should not have dinner with their spouse, tend to the siblings, or complete work that needs to be done by the next day? Keep in mind that the reason the work is unfinished is probably in part due to putting it off in favor of family time earlier in the day.  Also keep in mind that I wish I had spent more time making my husband I priority instead of always pushing him to second fiddle. None of these things are important?

It sounds so simple — cherish this time together and remember it won’t last forever.  Cherish your time now, while you can.
Cherish the now.  Hmmm….  Let’s have a quick peek at what my ‘now’ looks like.
Now, I am struggling to be a single mom after the death of my husband three months ago.  Our whole dynamic is different, and I’m setting the structure under which our abbreviated family will work in the future.
Now, I have twin seven year old boys. If it is after bed time and I am speaking with one boy, the other soon wails, “Why does HE get to stay up and talk to you while I have to be in BED?” I therefore do not get this prized one-on-one time that I am supposed to be appreciating.
Now, I remember all those nights I slept on their bedroom floor, because I felt like it is important for a child to be able to fall asleep in his own bed.  I feel like I am losing everything I fought for in those early years.

Now, I cannot read in bed to fall asleep because it disturbs the sleep of my two little men.

Now, right now, at eleven at night, my to-do list includes making lunches for tomorrow, sorting socks, cleaning the toilets, registering my business with the SBA, researching code requirements for three work projects, and writing letters to my husband’s doctors asking for forgiveness on his final bills.  Yes, I can wait until tomorrow to do all of these things, but tomorrow has its own to-do list.  Plus work.  Eventually something has to give.  I have to be able to make time to take care of our lives.

Yes, it would be wonderful to cherish this evening routine with them.  To read a story and then all snuggle up and go to sleep together at 8:30.
But here’s the reality.  I do need to make lunches and snacks for the next day. I need to make sure there are library books in backpacks and food in the dog’s dish. I need to wash the dishes, fold socks and, yes, get caught up on work. It is easy to say that none of this is as important as time with your kids, but this has to be done sometime. If the kids’ request was 1-2 nights a week it would be an easier matter, but  is every single night. When am I supposed to take care of these things?  Part of making your kids a priority is making sure that their life is running smoothly.

Not to mention, God help me for saying this, but I do need time to myself. As moms, and especially as single moms, we are always told to take care of ourselves. I am always being told that I need to make time to ‘veg out’ or to go to a salon, or see a movie or even to drop the kids off with family for a weekend.  I don’t want to drop my kids off for a weekend.  I do want some time after they go to bed to unwind, to watch Supernatural, to paint my nails.  When I protest that I don’t have that small getaway, I am met with the argument that I should be grateful for my kids while they are young and take advantage of all the time I can so I don’t miss it.  What are you talking about?  When am I supposed to ‘take care of myself’ if I am on active Mom duty 24-7 including while I sleep?  My fellow moms are accusing me of not taking advantage of time I could spend with my kids?  Really?

It hurts. It really hurts to get this from the other moms.  There is nothing wrong with me. I believe that. I do cherish my time together with my kids. I quit my job and found a more flexible working situation so I could spend more time with them. Who are you to suggest that I am not cherishing our time?  That I am not taking full advantage?  I take them everywhere and love every minute of it.  I love them, and I love their snuggles and I love being with them.

But Jesus.  I need two hours to myself at night.  I need it 4-5 nights a week.  I’m just asking for a couple of hours.  I promise I won’t take it for granted.  I’ll pick up the floors and run the dishwasher.  I will get tomorrow’s backpacks ready and tomorrow’s work staged.  I will, sometimes, watch something that the kids can’t watch or may do a ‘spa evening’ with face mask and nail polish.

Or maybe I’ll spend the entire time crying, remembering my husband as I curl up in his spot on the sofa.

Or maybe I will stare at the wall and be empty for a while.

These are things I need to do.  I need them for my sanity and to keep our lives from falling apart.  I need the ‘after bedtime’ time.  The suggestion to ignore everything else, the implication that I somehow do not care enough or am not ‘cherishing’ enough if I need this time to myself is belittling and damaging.

2017-05-30 00.55.37Let me take a moment to apologize to the mom blogger on whose post I wrote a lengthy and not-entirely-positive comment.  I will not post a link to her site here, as I am not being super complimentary.  Overall, however, it is a good blog and if you are out there and are reading this, I hope that I was not disrespectful or harsh.  If you do want a nod to your site, let me know.  Also, that comment and this post have come about as a result of seeing several blogs with the same issue.  I finally decided to say something.

By the way — the solution I have found is to go to bed with my kids, and hope they fall asleep first so I can get up and finish my evening.

 

 

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 member of Trey’s family 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?  I have no family of my own there.  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.

20170519_100843_resized (1)
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.

Fuck Mother’s Day20170514_003035

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.

Things that Made Me Cry Last Week

Sometimes the reality of him being gone, it just smothers me.  I fall into a routine and everything seems relatively normal.

Until the permanence hits me.  Once again I remember is not out of town, at the dentist or at work.  He is not coming home.  This routine is forever.  This alone routine.  And I weep.

There are other times, however, when something random or minor will set me off.  Over the past week, here are some of the specific instances that cut me deeply enough to scar.

“Runaway Train” sang through my radio, reducing me to a blubbery mess in my car.  Why?  Was it ‘our song?’  Certainly not.  Was it a favorite of his?  Nope.  There is no reason this song should have pulled such a response from my heart.

A character on The Last Man on Earth gave birth.

I said that Chris Pratt was nice looking, and K instructed me to NOT MARRY Chris Pratt.  I almost died laughing,, glowing with the K’s adoration that he would even see that as a possibility.  He continued, “Don’t marry anyone else ever, OK mom? I don’t want another dad.  I had a dad and he was the best dad in the world and I don’t want a replacement.”

Shadow on American Gods packed up his dead wife’s belongings.

I saw an ad for The Gunslinger.  I loved those books, and waited for years to share them with my non-reading husband.  This would have been amazing.

I realized we kept meaning to go to a Supernatural convention.

I found a stack of papers with his handwriting on them.  One had his signature.

I revised my will.

I took my child to an Occupational Therapist.  Alone.

I took my kids to a pro baseball game.  With my parents. The other kids there all had dads with them.

I realized Mother’s Day was coming up.

I saw the Anne Hathaway episode of Lip Sync Battle.  Again, no reason for this to spark pain.  I have no idea why her lip syncing to “Wrecking Ball” would make me cry.

I saw someone smoking.

I watched the second episode of American Gods.  I laughed and applauded at this stunning adaptation of one of the few books we both read and loved.  I cannot say enough about this show.  Trey would have loved it.  We would have watched every episode together multiple times.  I cried my way through the entire episode, through the laughter and applause, the tears and sobs.

I thought about getting rid of that horrible Scarface poster above our bed.  I hated that thing from the moment he brought it home.  This is the kind of thing that happens when your husband arrives at your new apartment a week before you get there with the rest of your stuff.  He buys a ginormous Scarface poster and hangs it in the living room.  Throughout the years I’ve managed to get it shuffled off into the bedroom.  I could now get rid of it.  But now I won’t do that.  I’ve gotten rid of acres of his things, but not that thing.