Soccer Saturday…again!
November 4, 2006
Soccer Saturday. I must admit that I am not one of those super Alpha Moms that gets overly into the games, freaks out at a loss and pushes my kid to WIN WIN WIN. Face it. After 9 years of watching soccer games, I consider it a good deed if I go and know the name of which kiddo is playing. Today was one of those days. Get up. Go to soccer game number one with the little one. Come home. Grab a snack. Head to game number 2 with child number 2. Get home. De-soccerify (IS SO a word) the gang and chill out to a movie of the childrens choosing. Which means it is a movie I have seen a bazillion times or one I do not care if I ever see. However, shocker of all shockers, my husband decided to snuggle up on the couch with me and watch the movie. Which of course means, I snuggled in and immediately fell sound asleep. I am talking full on slobber sleeping. (Other than that it was cozy.) I remember Saturdays when that is all we did. Ahhhhhhh the good old days.
Tomorrow I will tell you about sprained knees, tearing up floors and laundry gone bad. Tonight, I am off to do more snuggling. IF I can get my man off of World of Warcraft!
How did you spend your Saturday? Post about it and link so I can enjoy a FUN filled weekend through YOU!
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Posted by Jenn @
10:22 pm | |
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How exactly does this apply to me?
June 4, 2006
See how nice I was in the last entry? How sweet and loving I was in regards to my husband. Well, it is not our anniversary anymore. And whereas I do still love him, he is still a man and says things that –let’s be honest here– get him into trouble. I do understand it is not intentional, but nevertheless, he would be found guilty in a room full of my peers. (Wives.)
Occasionally (okay often) I call him near the end of his work day to see when he will be heading home. I am not so much checking up in him as I am trying to decide if I have enough sanity left in me until he makes it home. That, and sometimes he has things to do after work. Or nights he has to work late. Or sometimes, yes, I just like to bug the hell out of him. So sue me! But this particular time last week I called just to see if he had any idea when he might be home so I could plan dinner. (I said PLAN dinner not COOK dinner.)
Me: So, any idea when you might be heading this way. (Called after his normal time that he leaves, I might add.)
Him: Why?
Me: Umm, well, so I can plan the evening and stuff.
Him: *silence*
Me: You know….figure out dinner plans, see if you would even be home for dinner. Those kinds of things.
Him: (And people, take note, this is where he messed up.) Well, I just don’t see how that pertains to you or what you are doing. How does when I leave effect what you are going to do?
Me: How it “pertains to me”?! No you didn’t.
Him: (Well, really just insert whatever backpedaling and ‘oh-shit’ ways of a man trying to get out of something he innocently said that pissed off his wife unexpectedly.)
Since that day last week, there have been many times I have taken advantage of that phrase.
What’s for dinner?
I ate. How does your hunger pertain to me (or apply to me–as they are interchangeable)?
I am out of clean socks.
I wear sandals, so how exactly does that pertain to me?
This house is getting out of control with clutter.
Really? I can pretty much look past that, so how exactly does this pertain to me?
See? It works in any situation. Oh, sure, I will let it drop. (But will reserve the right to revive it at will and my whims.)
Try it. I really is quite fun! And before you get mad at me for beating a dead horse (or an error in comment judgement by my husband) remember that we have been together 19 years. The statute of limitations of overlooking comments like that passed like 9 years ago. And don’t think he doesn’t do it back to me. I am just the one who blogs it.
So before you say, “How rude!” might I say to to you…
…How exactly does that pertain to me?
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Posted by Jenn @
2:56 pm | |
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Sweet 16! (How sweet it has been!)
June 2, 2006
Today I celebrate my 16th wedding anniversary with my very best friend in the world. That’s right. SIXTEEN years. We have actually been together for 19 years. Which is rather amazing considering that I am only 26. (Anyone buying that?)
What an amazing ride it has been. We have seen each other through more things in the past 16 years than I could have ever imagined. We’ve lost a child and brought 3 amazing and healthy children into this world. We have seen births and deaths, marriages and divorces, new jobs and job losses. We’ve seen each other at our best and our worst. Because we met when we were just teenagers, we have learned about real love. Adult love. Love that sticks around when you don’t particularly like each other. Love that wakes up with you day after day seeing the bed head and bad breath and still smiles at you. Love that doesn’t see those new lines in your face or the grey sneaking into your hair. Love that holds on tightly to you when your life is turned upside down and you try to blindly find your way to the new you. We have learned to love on a level so deep it is beyond description. (Though here I sit trying to do so.)
When we got married I was a skinny, big haired blonde in college with no idea who I wanted to be when I grew up. Sixteen years later, I am a not-so-skinny-thankyouverymuch, blunt cut redhead who is still trying to figure out who I want to be when I grow up. Through it all, Clint stood beside me. Never waivering. And trust me…when I go all MENTAL over a bad haircut, or get banned from Fry’s for stripping down and climbing into the washing machine, or have fights with U-Scan machines and even when I try to convince him that our laptops share the same deep love for each other that we do, there is plenty of ammunition to run for the hills and have no one think twice about his choice. But he stays and loves me unconditionally.
In short, we laugh together. A lot. So many of our late night talks end up with both of us laughing that real, belly laugh that makes you feel happy from head to toe. We find humor in even the hardest of times. He is the man I always knew he would be when we met as teenagers. He is the father I always dreamed of for my children. He is the part of my life that keeps me grounded, yet lets me reach for my dreams with his full support.
I really do love this man.
Sixteen years. I can hardly wait to see what the next 16 years bring.
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3:40 pm | |
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Sum..Sum…Summertime
May 31, 2006
Summer is here. It is hot and the kids are out of school. (Yea! No more school! This school year has been one horrific mass of deadlines, missed activities and writing notes explaining why my kid was once again absent. (Grand totals: 30 for one son and 18 for the other. Do I rock or what? And they both get to pass their respective grades. Miracles happen. Being a scary bitch of a mother doesn’t hurt either.)
But do you know what that means? Summer is HERE. The kids are OUT of school. All day. Every day. For many, many days. Oh sure, that includes the fact that I can sleep in, but it also means I usually am awakened to the blissful sounds of arguing. Or those of my daughter smacking me with a Barbie asking if I want to be awake now to play. (Which makes me ask, sweetheart, did the slobber sleeping, snoring and hiding under the blanket with my eyes closed shout out to you, “Let’s play Barbie!”??)
This is where I tell you about the many wonderful activities I have planned for the kids and the amazing fun yet educational things we have planned. Only, not so much. My plan? Keeping them alive until 5:00pm when their Dad gets home. Because OH the ARGUING between the boys can make a sane woman lose her mind. (And last I checked there were not many people who were associating my name and sane together. So imagine the flipped outedness (is so a word!) that occurs daily. And from the girl…OH the TALKING. Talking so much. Talking nonstop. Did I mention the TALKING? Not even I talk that much and I have been known to babbleass with the best of them. I actually resorted to calling my sister and handing the phone over to Gabriella to TALK TALK TALK to her for a while.
This is where the spotlight shines brightly on my lack of Stepford Parenting style.
“Mom?! (Must be shouted for some unknown, ungodly reason) Can I play on your computer?!”
“Does it involve me having to do anything?”
“No.”
“Knock yourself out, son!”
That, I can totally deal with and do so relatively guilt free. It is the little one that is going to kill me.
“Mom?! (Again with the shouting??) Let’s play with my Barbies and stuffed animals. What character do you want to be?”
“I want to be the sleeping one. You know the one who has to lay down and sleep while the others are busy cleaning their rooms.”
“Mom! There is no such character.”
“Sleeping Beauty. She gets to sleep until her prince…who would be your Daddy…comes home to kiss her awake.”
“Mooommmmmm. No Sleeping Beauty.”
“Okay, how about the hospital patient who is sick in bed and you are the amazing Dr. Gabriella with her team of miraculous animals who have to come up with the miracle cure in your lab but I have to lay here until you do.”
“Mom. That is SO not a fun game.” [Sounded fun to me.]
“Okayyyyy, so how about hide and seek? You go hide and I will come find you.”
“No, Mom. You always forget to come look for me.” [How cute! She still believes I forget to come look.]
We usually end up playing a board game or something to do with animals and vets and Pokemon. (Who really, really needs to just die already!) Occasionally, we play Princess where Gabrie gets all dressed up for the ball and Mommy gets to play the wicked Stepmother forced to clean the house. (Damn Disney!) The point being, all of her games are made up in her head. No set rules. They are always made up in her mind as we go along. There is no way for anyone but Gab to win. But alas, it is good for her to play these games, so I do my best to join in. (But she still never lets me play the sleeping character. We will work on that this summer.)
So tell me, friends, what do you have planned for and/or with your kids this summer? Remember my kids are 12, 10 and 5, so it makes it hard to find something for everyone. This week we get to coast. Also known as slacking off, being lazy, hanging out, indulging our inner sloth and just out and out being nonproductive slugs.
But next week? Next week I should actually pretend that I have a plan. This is where your suggestions come in. Help. Me. (Because if you don’t, I will call you and let Gabriella talk to you until she has nothing left to say. And trust me, I have not seen that moment before. Ever.) Now then, I am off to make sure that my place on the couch does not get too cool. Must use my ass as the couch warmer. It is my job this week. And I can’t be neglecting my job!
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4:26 pm | |
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Memories and traditions of Mother’s Day
May 11, 2006
This Sunday, American Moms will be lavished with homemade noodle art, fingerpaintings and clay-pots with a plant we hope not to kill before the 4th of July. I have always loved Mother’s Day. As a little girl I would nearly burst with anticipation to be the first to present my mom with my magnificent work of art that I so carefully created. (Hey, noodles are not always so easy to clue on paper!) We would always bring her breakfast in bed. I could not wait for that part. I would literally knock my brother and sister out of the way to be the first one to get to her. Not because I was eager for the breakfast she always shared (which she always shared!), but because after breakfast, I got to snuggle up beside her and cuddle nap. After we presented her with our amazing art (always oooh’ed and ahhhh’ed over) and breakfast, I would find that cozy niche beside her, lay my head on her chest and fall asleep listening to her heartbeating a rhythm that would lull me to sleep. It was a ritual we enjoyed for years. Even into my tween years. It was our time.
As I grew up, the noodle art stopped. It became cards and flowers or something store bought for her. I became busy and had things to do, so the snuggle naps were abandonned for either my own nap in my own bed or off to my “very important” social life. After leaving for college, it was down to cards and phone calls and a visit when I could get away that weekend. By the time I had my own children, it was more often than not just a phone call and card because the traveling so far for a short weekend with kids was so hard to manage. But always the phone call. Always. We would laugh about the fact that I was now the recipient of the noodle art and plants I hoped not to kill.
Now, it is my daughter who rushes into my room full of giggles and hugs. It is Gabriella who fights to get the primo spot directly beside me. Eager for our very own post breakfast snuggle nap. As I wrap my arms around her and she lays her head on my chest, I always smile. Remembering when it was me in her spot and my Mom’s arms around me. The tradition had passed down to the two of us. When I told my Mom, she would smile that bittersweet smile. Happy that I get to enjoy those moments, but sad that they have passed for her.
I don’t know how I am going to get through Mother’s Day this year. I am sure I will get the fantastic works of noodle art and plants. And, as Mom always did for us, I will oooooh and ahhhh and place them in a prominent position in our family room. For reasons I don’t even remember, when Mom was in the hospital, we actually talked about those early Mother’s Days. We talked about the noodle art and the snuggle naps. She admitted she missed those days. I told her she had to get better because this year, I was going to make her an extra special noodle art gift to enjoy again.
But it is too late. She is gone and that noodle art won’t be given to her on Mother’s Day this year.
Clint won’t be able to be with me this year on Mother’s Day. It will be just me and the kids. So, breakfast in bed will either be made by me (coffee and a bagel please) or made by the older boys (cold cereal and a Diet Coke). I am fine with that. I mean, I am totally not a breakfast person. But I know that breakfast or not, Gabriella will race into my room for our snuggle nap. And as she lays her head on my chest to sleep, I am sure it will be one of the sweetest and hardest moments I have had to endure since Mom died. I am sure I will cry over the memories of the snuggle naps I shared with Mom and the realization those moments are forever gone and that past memories are all I can have of Mom now. And I am sure I will cry over the blessing of having my very own child who lays her head on my chest to snuggle nap with me.
I also know in my heart Mom will be watching, smiling and will be at peace knowing the tradition continues.
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Posted by Jenn @
10:07 am | |
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Sleepless nights
May 4, 2006
I am not the world’s best sleeper (at night). I have had insomnia for as long as I can remember. I have learned to adapt. I think the worst part of it would have to be those nights when my brain won’t turn off and I begin to worry and stress about life–both the important things and the insignificant. The daily important “How are we going to make ends meet this month and still get everything paid?” or the ridiculous “I cannot believe I said that out-loud to that person 10 years ago! They must still think I am an idiot.” Late night mental mind beatings have no time restrictions.
However, last night I was overcome with a major case of feeling sorry for myself. As the tears started to flow, I got out of bed to just let it happen. Sometimes when you keep things bottled up too long, you just have to let it go. I’ll be honest enough to say that I have joked it off, brushed off anxiety to others and given the standard “I’m fine” to people who ask. For the most part I am. I have been so busy I have not listened to that little voice inside me begging me to release some of that pent up pain and frustration. Last night I listened.
I crawled out of bed and went into my family room. I wrapped myself up in the comfort of an afghan that my mother crocheted when I was a tween. I needed to feel her with me. I wanted to know why at this moment I was feeling so sorry for myself and what I could do about it because I do NOT like that feeling one bit. If I can get to it, I can beat it. As I sat there analytically trying to come up with a reasonable explanation, the smart ass part of my brain kicked in.
“Hello? Have we met? You are seriously trying to figure this out,” snarked my wise-ass brain central. “Let’s get this straight. With the past few months you have had, you are sitting here trying to logically figure out why you might be feeling like a good cry. Excuse me, but are you a dumb ass, honey?” (You see, in the South even the smart-ass part of your brain calls you sweetheart, darlin’ or honey.)
Then the tears began to fall. At first, the angry tears. The why me? tears. The this sucks and is so unfair tears. As I raged against the world and the situations that are breaking me, the anger started to subside. I glanced at my coffee table where two new books that I recently received in the mail sat and mocked me. Both came at the same time. Both memoirs. Both mother-daughter memoirs. They mocked me.
And then the real tears flowed. The painful ones.
I know it has only been a few months since Mom died. I would be foolish to think that I would be over that already. I mean, I know that. But sometimes it still hits me in the gut like a sucker punch. I miss her. I miss her more than I would have thought possible. At 36, it feels too young to lose your mother. At what age does it feel “normal” to lose your mom? 46? 56? When I am grandmother? A great grandmother? When does the label “motherless daughter” fit? I am guessing never. I am feeling never.
But I go on. I go on because I have no choice. I go on because that is what you do. I go on because there is life to be lived. Children to raise. A home to care for. I throw myself into my work because it helps me feel better. It helps me feel like there are things I can do that are productive and make a difference. But I also know there are going to be nights like last night where it all feels so wrong and it feels as if my own skin doesn’t fit. And when those times come, I suppose I need to just learn how to wrap up in my afghan and cry it out.
And so I did.
And so I will.
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9:04 am | |
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An open letter to the creators of World of Warcraft
April 11, 2006
Dear Creators of World of Warhell (or Warcrap–whatever floats your boat),
I recently visited your website. I read your section about “What is World of Warcraft” and this is what you had to say:
World of Warcraft is an online role-playing experience set in the award-winning Warcraft universe. Players assume the roles of Warcraft heroes as they explore, adventure, and quest across a vast world. World of Warcraft is a “Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game” which allows thousands of players to interact within the same world. Whether adventuring together or fighting against each other in epic battles, players will form friendships, forge alliances, and compete with enemies for power and glory.
I have a suggestion that would help in better describing your game. Check this:
World of Warcraft is an online HELL set in the addictive-winning Warhell universe. Addicts assume the roles or Warhell junkies as they explore, adventure and quest for a bigger and better fix. World of Warhell is a “Massively Addictive Multiplayer Online Rave That Will Cause Your Loved Ones to Pull out Their Own Hair in Frustration” which will allow thousands of players to interactively become addicted within the same version of hell. Whether fighting together or against each other until their eyes are bloodshot and half blind, players will form gangs, forge support groups of addiction, and compete with enemies that are more batshit crazy from the game than they are all in the name of non-existant power and glory.
See? I really think that my explanation is so much better. Kind of like a warning of sorts.
Why would I waste my time writing this? Well, that is quite simple. Last night some strange man with hair standing on end with eyes red and glazed over walked out of my office searching for food in my kitchen. As I screamed and nearly beat him upside the head with a rolling pin, it wasn’t until a vague sense of recognition set in that I dropped my never-used-except-when-threatened rolling pin that I had brandished as a weapon to beat this stranger. It turned out to only be my son. It has just been that long since I have seen anything but the back of his head for so long. Seeing him come at me scared the beejeezus out of me.
Together, my husband–at least I think it is my husband, the back of his head is familiar– and my oldest son have initiated my youngest son into their cult of War of Worldhell. I have even heard the phrase muttered more than once, “Come on! Everyone is doing it!” (Little game-pushing bullies!)
I resent that I have to hear day in and day out about new “friends” of ours who have joined their gang guild. And then, to have those same gangmembers guildmembers calling me asking me to join. They are worse than Amway! I am forced to ask you: Are you sending subliminal messages that cause my family to be forced to have their intelligence, self-control and ability to just say NO sucked out of them?
I have resorted to wearing protective eye-wear and earplugs when I enter the office game room hell. Just in case. I don’t want to unsuspectedly be sucked in against my will.
Seriously, I have a favor to ask. I think it is the least you can do considering you have in essence made me a loner in my own home. An outcast, if you will. Can you like cut all of the servers offline for one weekend? Just one weekend. I heard my son has grown 2 inches. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him standing up in months. And my husband? He began telling me all about his amazing cool pet and some trick he taught it before I realized he wasn’t talking about our Doberbutt but rather some mythical illusion that must be a side effect of the Warhell experience.
I know your game is increasingly popular and all, but I must say…I harbor much bitterness and hatred towards you. I realize you will probably never see this as you are working on and building up your cult, but if by chance you do, would it be okay if mooned you. Because really, the entire cult of War of Worldhell kissing my ass would probably help me feel a little bit better.
With the utmost fear of your evil and dread of your upcoming new release,
Jenn
ps- If you see my husband or sons online, can you please send them my new address? I don’t think they will notice I left until the power goes out or (more likely) their food runs out.
Update: This is the response (after many funny and snarky emails back and forth with some developers from Blizzard). I love the way they respond. So, yes, now I am a gamer. And yes, now I play WoW A LOT! And yes, I sold out to Blizzard. So sue me!]
tags: gaming, parenting, world of warcraft
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Posted by Jenn @
10:54 pm | |
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What’s caffeine addicted, crazy as a loon and has short red hair?
March 22, 2006
[Editor’s note: We’ve had a lot of the heavy stuff. I need a break and am betting you do, too, from the heavy. No heavy lifting in this post. I do feel I need to share about the breakdown, but that will be soon. Thanks for hanging with me, people. You are better for me than that first cup of coffee…no wait….okay, yeah, you are!]
Last Friday my sister came to town. Yes, if you do the math that is exactly one day after I left her in Houston. Trust me, it was necessary for her to come, but that is a different story all together. As she unloaded all of her ginormous trappings one brings when going out of town, I just sat and watched from my front porch.
“Hey, looks a bit heavy. Need help?” But I was really just that out of it to think to actually get my ass up off of the chair to actually do it. To that she just replied, “No, dude, I am pretty sure this PURSE is the last thing, but the offer was cool.” Then we saw the absurdity of it all and began to giggle.
I would love to tell you the tales of taking the children to the zoo and the museums and the arboretum. I would love to tell you of the movies they saw, the games they played and the amazing meals they ate. I would love to, but I can’t. Because for one entire week, my sister and I sat on the couch and read every trash gossip rag known to man. (Oh, and a few unknown and some that could possibly be called reputable.) The kids played. The dogs played. In fact, while the kids were outside playing at the same time the dogs were outside playing, they all learned a new phrase. If they were all here I would have them recite it in an adorable chorus of cherubic voices, “NO HUMPING! NO NO NO HUMPING!”
From the oldest to the baby, they all had to yell it at the dogs at one time or another. (Yes, my sister and I are so proud!) As we sat on the couch with trash tv (Can someone please just tell Shawn he is the the friggin father or Belle’s baby already??!) and read magazines that made us lose IQ points (Want to know who is expecting, how far along they are and who the Baby Daddy is?), my sister looked up at me and said in a tone that could only be described as mock intimidation, “Oh my god, Supernanny would totally jump our shit for the way we are acting this week!”
Not as funny in the retelling, but the way the conversation went and the mimicked proclamations of poor parenting and reprimands from JoJo about what lazy mothers we were, we were laughing ourselves silly. We both needed it.
At one point, I was totally interrupted from my OK! magazine with the immediate need to check the mail. (No, I have no idea why. But when you have the immediate need to check the mail, you do it. Trust me. Don’t question crazy.) So mindlessly I opened my front door.
There stood a man who to the best of my ability to guess these things, had not shaved since Nixon was in office and wore clothes that had seen better days. Let me just say he shocked the shit out of me! I screamed the scream of a woman about to be murdered on her front door step, danced the “Oh-my-god-who-are-you-and-why-are-you-standing-at-my-door-don’t-kill-me” dance while trying so hard not to pee my pants then slammed the door in his face.
My sister casually looked up from her magazine and said, “Mail not here yet or is someone about to bludgeon you because that was one scary ass scream!”
I peeked out the peephole to see the man still standing there. I slowly opened the door when I realized all he was doing was putting flyer on my door. Making an honest living and this crazy woman SCREAMS right into his face and slams the door. I am lucky I did not give him a heart attack. He just put on hand over his heart and the other hand up towards me as if to ward off my insanity and keep ME from hurting HIM. I took his flyer. I think I may now have to have my entire yard landscaped in order to appease my guilt of nearly killing an innocent man with my SCREAM OF DOOM AND DEATH.
Another afternoon I told my sister to just go get pampered. The sentence was not quite out of my mouth before she was sprinting toward the van shouting out lunchtimes and nap-times. The day went well. I think. The kids all took care of themselves and I caught up on magazine gossip and still sat screaming that “Dammit someone better tell Shawn that is the father of Belle’s baby for the love of dragging a story line on too long to do anything but make people yell at their television set.” But when my sister got home, she had a gorgeous hair cut.
I was green with envy. “I want one!” I whined.
So (the real reason for this entire long winded babble-assing post), I got my hair cut off. Short. It was below the middle of my back and a sable-ish color. A hint of possible red, but not really.
I am guessing at this point you want to see it? Are you sure? Okay, here is one sneak peek:
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Posted by Jenn @
7:06 am | |
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Part 2-The boxing up part of “Birthdays, boxing up and breakdowns”
March 21, 2006
Over the kids’ Spring Break, I decided it was time to go back to Houston. I knew Dad was ready to take care of some of Mom’s things and I felt I was ready to help him. So we loaded up the kids, the dog and every electronic device I could get my hands on to entertain the kids on the road and we headed to Houston. Never in my worst fears did I imagine how much of a punch in the gut it would be to drive into Houston. Never in my life had I ever gone there and not seen my Mom. Never. Even in the last 6 months when she was so sick, my first stop was the hospital. Being home meant seeing Mom. It was what home meant. As soon as I hit the outskirts of Houston I began to cry. As I passed the cemetery where she is buried, I began to bawl. By the time I pulled into my Daddy’s driveway, I was a sobbing mess. It was all I could do to get out of the van and cling to him crying. I kept apologizing for it and for not being stronger. (Much to his hushing me for saying such nonsense.) All I could sputter through my sobs was, “But home means seeing Mom. I can’t see Mom. I need to see Mom.” The kids were wonderful. They went in and let the dogs play. The called my sister to let her know that I was there. As my Daddy and I stood in driveway and I let the flood of tears flow and drench his shoulder. I had no idea that going back home would be so hard.
Home is where you go when you need to recharge. Home is where your compass is when you have lost your way. Home is where you get wrapped in the warmth that is your childhood and everything is okay…if for only a moment. But this was this first time in my life that Home didn’t include Mom. And I felt as if a cannon had ripped through my heart.
I got through that first day. I was apathetic and numb and spent a lot of time just sitting with Dad and not talking. Just being there. Just feeling the absence of part of Home. It was feeling her presence and her absence all at once.
As the days wore on, I knew I had to take care of the task I came to do. Boxing up all of Mom’s clothes, purses, shoes etc. My sister and I decided to just jump into it. To take as much emotion out of it as we could and just objectively look at outfits as if we were shopping. It worked for some items. But for many outfits, it would evoke a memory or emotion that we could not separate ourselves from. We made 4 piles. One for me. One for my sister. One for my aunt and cousins. And one to give away. Guess which one was the smallest. The give away. I could not imagine a stranger wearing Mom’s clothes. They were Mom’s. Because I am the same size as many of Mom’s outfits, I would continually put things into my pile. My sister would look at me and shake her head.
“Jenn,” she would say, “That is butt-ugly and out of style. Put it in the give away pile.”
“But I remember…”
“No. You just can’t take all of it. You know you have to do this.” She would gently remind me.
Even so, I managed to come home with 4 full bags of clothes. Many of which I will probably never wear. But for now, I can pull them out and hold them close and still smell her perfume. In time, I will have to go through the whole process again and give many of these things away. But I needed to hold onto so much still. I suppose Dad was ready. It looks like it was the little girl in me that was not.
But if I thought clothes were hard, they were nothing compared to purses. Ladies, are you with me on this one? Our purses hold a multitude of secrets and gems. My Mom’s were no different. So many things in her purses would bring me to tears. Many times laughter through those tears. I found things that I knew would immediately be transferred to my purse and probably not be pulled out until my own children are going through them. And then they will laugh through their tears at the very same items. It was heart wrenching. It was touching. It was hell. It was healing. It was something I would not wish on my worst enemy, yet something I was honored to be able to do. A contradiction in emotions and actions. Getting rid of things and growing closer to her. Finding things that showed me how similar she and I really were.
I can honestly say that week was one of the hardest weeks on me emotionally. I broke. I don’t mean I cried alot and came home sad. It broke me. It shattered me. It immobilized me. It took my sanity and slammed it against the wall to see if it would stick. As I slowly watched it slide down, I knew this was more than being sad. More than being depressed. This was that time in your life when you either cry uncle and get help or you go down in the depths of that darkness and possibly never return.
I cried uncle.
That is the breakdown. I will tell you about that next time.
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Posted by Jenn @
7:30 am | |
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I’m just so tired. So raw.
February 15, 2006
There are many days I wonder when or if things will ever feel better. It has been 1 month, 9 days, 12 hours and 10 minutes since Mom died. (But who’s counting?) And I still feel so discombobulated it is unreal. Sometimes it feels so unreal that I think it must be some huge mistake that has been made. Other times it is so real it feels as if a cannon has been shot through my heart and I can’t breathe. Last night I was talking to Dad and he said he “took flowers to Mom and took some for me.” Coming out of my mouth before I was even aware of the thought I heard myself ask, “So how is she?” The long pause is what caused my brain to kick in and be bitter. “Yeah. Still dead. Sorry Daddy.” And I burst into tears.
I want to just crawl in bed and wake up when everything will feel “right.” Yet, I want to rush forward and make everything like it was. I can’t do either. This having to go through the process part really sucks. I think I am doing okay and then I will realize that I can’t stand being around anyone and have to go for a walk so that I don’t become the crazy angry mom. Or I think that I am in a happy mood and see something that makes me smile, but then I start to cry because, well, my mom is dead. It is lonely. I want to grab someone and say, “Just sit with me. Let’s just sit together. We don’t have to talk, but if I need to, let me without telling me that it will get better. Or let me just sit with you and cry and you don’t have to tell me anything. Just let me.” But it is lonely here. Even with my very understanding husband. As much as he loves me and supports me in this, I know he wants me back, too. I am not ME. I don’t know who I am, but it isn’t ME.
I am raw.
I am angry.
I am alone.
I am motherless.
I am hurting.
But I still don’t know who I am.
I didn’t know, I couldn’t have known, the intensity with which I would miss her. If I had known, I would have crawled beside her and begged her to tell me how to go on without a mother. I would have insisted she give me every single bit of advice that mothers are supposed to give. Not just up until you are 36, but much, much longer. Gabrie is only 4! I have so many mother-daughter questions. Did I learn enough just being a daughter to be able to be a good mother during the teen years? The lessons we learn from out moms…did I learn them all?
I don’t want to cry anymore. I don’t want to be angry or raw or scared anymore.
And then we add the guilt. Oh, the guilt.
The boys are really struggling right now. They need their mother. They need ME. But again, who the hell is ME anymore? I am a shell right now trying to come back. One of my sons is really struggling in school. His grades are dropping and he is not focusing. He cries so easily. He gets sick and then worries that he will get more behind. He needs his mother to be there for him. And I am trying. Oh how I am trying. My other son, he wouldn’t cry over his grandmother’s death. He just wouldn’t. But now, he needs me more than ever. He needs me to help with school work. He needs me to let him know that he won’t feel like this forever. He needs me to hold him and let him know that I am there for him and will always be there for him to help him get through this.
I feel so badly that I have lost sight of them in my grief. That in my own pain and fog, I am forgetting that my boys hurt too and they, too, need their Mommy. And I am here. But I am not. I have to try to pull it together for them. They have to have the support of their mother. I know that. And yet, I am feeling so empty and distant from the world, I don’t know how to help them. And my heart is breaking for them. Because here I am in the flesh and they are begging for me to be ME, and I don’t know how to get back there. I don’t know what path to take to make it all okay for them. To let them know that their Mom WILL be okay. That I am here for them even if I seem a bit off right now.
I am tired of hurting. Of letting people down. I am tired of this nightmare.
I am tired.
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Posted by Jenn @
4:02 pm | |
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