My parent’s road was not an easy one. They married at 18 years young and had their first child in the same year, a bouncing baby boy who turned out … Continue reading Mama
Category: Parenting
Abrasive
Monday night I did not feel well. It was a normal enough evening. It was colder than a witch’s tit out. It was raining. It was a perfect evening for potato soup. We had some friends over for dinner. I had one glass of wine. Pretty normal. By the time I went to bed, I felt like shit. I lay there, unable to get comfortable, tossing and turning. My stomach literally felt like it was going to explode. I kept going between thoughts of “shit, my appendix is minutes from bursting” and “lord, please don’t let my children find me dead in the morning” and “holy fuck, how the hell am I going to get to the hospital because certainly if my insides are exploding, I shouldn’t drive, and my driver went and died on me and I don’t want to call 911 because what if I’m really fine and just have a bit of gas, that would be super embarrassing, and I don’t want to call my parents because they’re probably sleeping and they don’t generally sleep well so I definitely should not disturb them and I don’t want to call any of my neighbors for the same reason I don’t want to call 911” until I finally go to this thought – my husband felt like this, but far worse, every fucking day for years. And that one thought stopped me in my proverbial tracks.
I am the type of person that is generally pretty good about compartmentalizing. I can come off as abrasive and uncaring, I think. Which isn’t true. It’s just how I deal. I can remember being at the park with Jack when he was around 2 years old. This was before I’d really made any other mom friends, and Ash was working all the time, so it was just him and me, hanging out, parking it up, doing the mother/son thing. He was playing on the slide. I was sort of paying attention, sort of day dreaming about what I used to do for fun before watching 2 year olds climb up the ladder, slide down the slide, giggle, repeat. Again. And again. And again. You get the picture. Next thing I know, I see Jack tumble off the side of the slide about halfway down and land with a big thump in the dirt. There are other mothers and children around. I hear the gasps and the “oh no’s” and the “is he ok’s”. I calmly get up, walk over to him, help him up, look him over one good time and tell him “tough boys are tough.” (Now, before you get your panties in a wad, Jack came up with the saying tough boys are tough and used to say it all the time whenever he took a tumble or got a scratch or anything like that – I wasn’t just being a bitch. For the most part.). I also then heard more gasps but of a different nature this time. These were the “I can’t believe she just said that to her hurt child” gasps. Here’s the thing, the fall hurt, there’s no doubt about that. But I knew he was fine. I knew the bigger my reaction, the bigger his reaction. I also knew I was being hardcore judged for my seeming lack of empathy and hightailed it the hell out of dodge.
Exhibit B – Jack played on a travel baseball team when he was 9 (he was on a 12u team and my point to that is not to say how good he is, my point is that he’s young playing against much bigger and better players, especially pitchers). It’s the weekend before Ash passed away. I’m sure I’ve told this story, but my point is different this time so I’ll allow it. Jack is up to bat and takes a fast ball to the face. And he hits the deck. I mean, he falls out. And what do I do? Nothing. I stand at the fence and watch until finally the coach yells at me to come to Jack, he’s down and he’s bleeding. So I went to him. I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I didn’t coddle. Hell, I didn’t let him skip the next game. I mean, I sort of gave him a choice but he’s my kid and he chose to play. I grabbed his tooth out of the dirt, gave him so ice and returned him to the dugout to cheer on his team.
I’m not big on coddling, I don’t get sad because my children get older (that’s the whole point of life, if you’re not getting older, chances are you’re dead), it’s rare that you will see me cry in public and I will make more jokes about my husband being dead than is deemed proper (is it ever deemed proper??? Probably not. But I deem it proper and Ash knows who he married so I’m willing to bet he deems it proper as well). It’s who I am. I can lock things up in my brain, and I can throw away the key or I can only let them out on my terms.
So Monday night, while I’m lying in bed convinced I’m dying, I thought of my husband. I thought of all the pain he endured and I thought of all the living he did while he was in that pain. And I felt shame. Because I never fully grasped what he was going through. I never actually put myself in his shoes and imagined how he must feel; partly because I had no idea how much pain he was feeling, partly because I had my own shit I was going through and partly because I literally couldn’t. I let myself imagine it Monday night, mainly because I thought if I was feeling even a fraction of the pain he felt, how the fuck did he not only endure it, but keep living his life while he did it? And how selfish was I to keep pushing him to do things? To complain when he didn’t feel like doing things? To feel sorry for myself for what I was going through? I’m a fucking prick. And that’s when I lost control of my emotions, weeping uncontrollably while still trying to determine if my appendix was rupturing. (Side note – it wasn’t. I’m fine.)
But all of that has led to me to this – God made me abrasive for a reason. He made my brain work the way my brain works because I have to survive. If I were to constantly think about what Ash has been through, what my children have been through, what our family has had to endure, there is no way in hell I could function. It is just too hard to bear. When I let my mind really go there, I become paralyzed with grief and despair and loneliness and unending sadness and shame and guilt and so many other feelings that are difficult to function with. So God gave me the tools to lock it up. I can let it out when I need a release, when I need to remember, when I need to feel that pain. But I can also put it back in the recesses of my mind and go on being a mother, daughter, sister, friend and pain in the ass. I can be me. Sarcastic, witty, abrasive, me.
Big, Big Feelings
It’s been a while since I’ve written. Not since I almost burnt down our house. We’ve been busy, sort of. I mean, as busy as one can be in the … Continue reading Big, Big Feelings
Burnin’ it Down
There are many things in life at which I do not excel. Cutting grass, for instance. I suck at it. I tried it a couple of times over the summer because I absolutely had to and it just didn’t go well. I tried push mowing. I tried the riding mower. It didn’t matter which one I used. They both shut down on me, I cursed a lot and the yard ultimately looked like I let an ADHD goat gnaw it down for us. So, mowing, not my thing.
Something else I have learned that is not my thing is anything pertaining to bikes (other than riding one, I’m pretty mediocre at riding one). Low tires? Can’t figure out the pump. Popped tire? Ummmm?????? Gears twisted more than an Auntie Anne’s pretzel? Yeah right!!! Can’t do it. Don’t want to do it. That’s why I have a brother. And a brother-in-law. And nearly any other human on the planet that is not me. Mechanical fixes are not my jam. And I’m ok with that.
Also not my thing – assembly of any and every thing. I’ve been searching for Christmas gifts for my children, trying to fulfill *most* of what they are asking for (that’s not even a little bit true – Jack’s list is so over the top ridiculous and expensive, I’m not even pretending that I’m getting him anything remotely close to what’s on it – other than the scooter (only needed because his brother may or may not have left it in the middle of the driveway and Uncle Randy may or may not have run it over) which is really the only affordable thing on his list). Seriously, his list consists of a Playstation 5 (impossible), an iPhone, a Chromebook, an iPad, a gaming chair (umm, isn’t that just like an office chair and won’t that require assembly on my part?!) and a million dollars. Get in freaking line kid. That’s one hell of a Christmas list. I’m not saying you’ve been bad this year, but you sure as shit ain’t getting any of that. Anyway, I got a little off topic there. Assembly. I suck at that as well. Shocking, I know based on the above where I’m proving some pretty impressive skills. I’ve been searching for only things that do not require assembly. And when did everything stop coming assembled? Has that always been the case? I bought a new vacuum probably over 2 months ago and just opened the box YESTERDAY and it was all because I knew it had to be assembled and to me, that seemed very daunting. (It wasn’t, by the way. I did it just fine. It even mostly works as long as I don’t take it on the carpet. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.)
You see, Ash was in charge of lawn mowing, bike mechanics (or any other mechanical things that may come about), assembly of all things including Legos (seriously, I cannot follow Lego instructions to save my life. I put at least some portion of any Lego project together backward, upside, inside out or all of the above. Every. Fucking. Time.) and grilling. Ash was in charge of grilling.
Which leads me to where I’m at right now in my current state of widowhood. I have been grilling for a while now. And I haven’t been terrible at it (unlike everything else listed above). I’ve been succeeding. I’ve been doing it regularly. My kids have even been impressed with me. They’ve been begging me to try grilling steak again for the last few weeks. So, I finally bought some ribeyes and tonight was going to be the night. I poured a large glass of red wine, started the grill, went about cutting up potatoes and seasoning the steaks. I had fed my dogs and let them out. The Lumineers radio was playing softly from that stupid Alexa bitch that can never seem to get anything quite right (it seems we have that in common). Everything was right with the world. Until I hear my old Bogey girl barking like crazy (which isn’t weird for her, the older she gets, the mouthier she gets, kinda like me). But it’s starting to annoy me so I can only imagine how the neighbors feel about it. I go outside to see what all the fuss is about, look to my right at the screaming banshee/crazy old dog and then look to my left to see my grill up in fucking flames. I mean, the bitch was on fire. Big fire. Scary fire. I look at it for a few seconds, open the lid (flames everywhere), open the doors underneath where the gas is and and (proudly) smart enough to know to turn the gas off. I notice the little tray that I guess catches all the yuck that falls off all the shit you grill (including the fat and grease and stuff) and pinpoint the source of said fire. I turn the burners of the grill off and shut the lid thinking certainly that will solve all my problems (it doesn’t) and then I just stand there for a minute, staring, entranced by the heat and the flames, wondering should I pour some water on the grill. But then remembering that water is sometimes bad for fire but I can’t quite remember why or when or how. So then I go grab my cell phone and call my parents house. They don’t answer (umm, parents, why do you have a house phone if you never ever intend on answering it?) so then I call my mom’s cell phone. I very calmly (and I’m serious here, my mom even commented later on how calm I was) explained that my grill was on fire and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. She suggested flour or baking soda/powder (I can’t remember) and I very calmly marched inside, got the flour and threw that shit all over the grill, the grill pan, the porch, the dogs, myself. Wherever I could throw flour, I fucking threw it.
And it worked. The fire went out before my house burnt to the ground. It’s safe to say I need a new grill. But all in all, it could have been a lot worse. But that brings me back to my whole point. Grilling was not my job. Grilling clearly should not be my job. I had no idea about the grease trap pan thing (probably definitely the technical name for it) – didn’t know it was there, didn’t know it was full, sure as shit didn’t know it needed to be changed (probably frequently).
I’ve never lived on my own for such a long time (I mean, my kids clearly live with me but they’re not so helpful in the way of chores and getting shit done and knowing how not to burn the house down). I lived with my parents (obviously) until I went off to college. In college, I had a roommate every year except for one (and even though I paid rent on a one bedroom apartment for that one year, I actually lived in my college boyfriend’s apartment and literally never stayed in my own apartment. Sorry mom.) There was a brief time after college where I lived by myself but that was only for a month, maybe less. I’ve always had a family member or a roommate or a boyfriend or a husband to pick up where I leave off, to fix what I may break, to balance out all the shit that I can get so incredibly wrong, to know that the grease trap pan thing in the grill needs to be changed or your whole grill will go up in flames. And now, at age 38, I have lived essentially on my own for almost 13 months. I guess I was bound to almost burn the house down. I’m sure I’ll make hundreds and hundreds and thousands and thousands of other nearly detrimental mistakes. That’s both the pain and the hilarity of becoming a young(ish) widow.
But, I guess the whole point is that I didn’t burn the house down. We ate steak from a cast iron skillet. We’re all still here. We’re all still healthy. We’re all still sane(ish). We’re doing it. It’s not always (ever) perfect. It’s not always pretty. It’s not always (ever) normal. But we’re still ok. And if we’re still ok (especially in 2020), then I absolutely know, that no matter what, we will always be ok (I’d better knock on some wood STAT). Even when we (I) almost burn down the fucking house.
Grateful?
Thanksgiving was Ash’s favorite holiday. Which is no surprise. If you knew Ash, I’m certain you knew the top 5 loves of his life and I’m certain food may have come in first place followed closely by golf, his 2 sons and then maybe me. So again, with his love of food, of course Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday.
Last year was our first one without him, and while I’m sure we felt his loss, it was all so new (him being dead and all) and we had so many people trying to keep us distracted, it wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it was going to be. We went to my parents (we actually spent the night there, which may sound normal to those that travel for Thanksgiving, but my parents literally live 7 minutes away, so spending the night wasn’t exactly necessary). We had a fried turkey and a smoked turkey and all the normal trimmings. I may have teared up a time or two throughout the day but it was mostly uneventful, emotionally wise. We did have the moment where my mom’s curtains fell off the wall of their own accord (which was actually quite hilarious – you may or may not know this (because I may or may not have already written about it) but Ash and I had a history of breaking curtains in hotel rooms every time we traveled. It started on our honeymoon in Antigua – we consumed entirely too many Jack and Coke’s, returned to our room in a drunken, laugh-filled stupor, attempted to close the curtains, couldn’t close the curtains so clearly used more force, more strength because that was most definitely how to fix the problem and ripped the curtains right from the wall. It didn’t stop there. We had a streak for quite a while of ripping curtains right off the wall in our ignorant attempts to draw them closed nearly everywhere we went.) So I felt like that was Ash’s little sign last year, to say hi, to let us know he was ok and to make us laugh.
Anyway, that was a really long winded paragraph to basically say we made it through our first major holiday without Ash pretty unscathed. This year, I don’t quite feel the same. I am lacking in the holiday spirit, if you will. We decorated for Christmas on November 11 (don’t judge us, we needed some cheering up and nothing cheers my children up more than Christmas and decorating and colorful lights). And it helped for that day. But I feel like (and bear with me here, this is going to sound really overly dramatic. Because it is overly dramatic.) my holiday spirit is currently on life support. I am no longer excited about any of it. I used to be great at Christmas and not to toot my own horn here, but I was great at giving gifts. It’s one of my talents, and I don’t have many, so I’ll boast about the few I do have. I love the music, the movies, the spirt and decor, the shopping, the baking (ok, I love watching my mom do the baking), the eating, the planning and gift giving and holiday lights and all the things that are everything Christmas. And now, I’m not necessarily dreading it but I can’t say that I’m too hyped up about it either. I have no idea what to give anyone. I could careless about listening to the music or watching the movies. It’s like there’s this big dark cloud (kind of like the ones outside right now raining down on Ash’s favorite holiday – thanks, babe. Again.) parked over my soul, sucking all the joy out of all the things I used to love. (I told you I was going to be overly dramatic.)
And it’s probably not as drab and dreary as I’m letting on. But I’m having a hard time finding my holiday joy. I’m having a hard time finding the motivation to even care that it’s the holidays. Don’t worry. I will put on my happy face and make it as good as I possibly can for my children. But once they go to bed, and I’m alone, I feel this overwhelming exhaustion from pretending all day that this doesn’t suck, that I’m fine without my husband, that I’m a great single mother, that I don’t spend most of my day barking orders and cleaning up messes that I didn’t make or yelling at little people to clean up the messes that I didn’t make. It’s all exhausting. And overwhelming. And just a general pain in the fucking ass. I’m tired. I’m the opposite of jolly. And my family deserves better than that. But I haven’t quite figured out how to snap out of it.
Yesterday I decided to not yell at my children all day. And I was mostly successful. So maybe that’s a step in the right direction. And I realize that I have so much to be grateful for and that my life is good and we’re very fortunate for everything we have. Just right around this time, it’s easy to feel very unfortunate for what we don’t have.
Ok, pity party over. I will put my smile on. I will enjoy this day with my family. I will focus on what I do have. Happy fucking Thanksgiving.
Time
I have 2 children. This is not news. They are *almost* 11 and 6 years of age – both boys. 5th grade and kindergarten. Now, if you don’t have children, … Continue reading Time
Good News and Bad News
The good news (we always like to start with a little positivity, right?!): I am not dead inside. The bad news: Same. I am not dead inside. Now, before you … Continue reading Good News and Bad News
Worthless
Am I worthless? Is my life worthless? I lost my dad. There’s a pandemic. I hate school. I hate my schedule. I hate almost everything. I can’t find joy. These … Continue reading Worthless
Widow Is My Name, Awkward Is My Game (Month 9)
Dear Jonesie: I am day late and a dollar short but that seems to be the way it goes these days. In my defense, I did start writing this yesterday, … Continue reading Widow Is My Name, Awkward Is My Game (Month 9)
Open Mouth, Insert Foot
In the interest of keeping things real (because that’s how I roll), this morning was not great. It never fails, every time I write something regarding strength and happiness and moving forward, something happens that totally negates everything I think I believe. And it’s not that I don’t think I’m strong or that I’m not moving forward. Because I am. But without fail, once I put it in writing, something smacks me in the face (like memories and all the ways that I’m potentially failing my children) that says whoa bitch, calm the fuck down, you have nothing figured out. I guess that’s the nature of losing your spouse maybe.
I woke up this morning thinking I should make my children breakfast. (Not that I don’t feed them breakfast regularly – like cereal or grits or something equally lacking in effort on my part – they do get fed. If you’ve seen them, you know that. Well, it looks like Colt doesn’t really eat – he’s long and lean – but I promise he eats more than Jack and I combined – kind of like his father.) Anyway, back to the point, if I have one. I woke up, laid in bed for while contemplating making bacon and eggs and pancakes. I got out of bed and made my coffee and talked myself right out of making breakfast, drank said coffee, then asked the boys if they wanted me to make them breakfast. Emphatic yeses (is that a word??) all the way around – you know, all 2 of them.
And it hit me. I have not actually made breakfast since Ash died. So as I’m frying up the bacon, I lose my shit. Food (and eating) was one of the most important things is Ash’s life, which I get sounds weird. But that man LOVED to eat. And eat he did. Seriously, he ate like he weighed about 507 pounds. But he didn’t. He was little. He just had that metabolism that burned up everything as soon as it entered his body. He was kind of an asshole that way. Unlike me that looks at a French fry and gains 3 pounds.
So, I’m making the bacon (hey oh!), crying my eyes out, trying to figure out what in the actual hell is my problem. Breakfast is not a big deal. But today it was. Because when you become a widow with 2 young children, everything becomes your job. EVERYTHING. (Obviously) The messes. The meals. The injuries. The sports. The school. The chores. The tantrums. The really good things. The really bad things. When shit goes wrong in our house. When shit goes wrong in our other houses. I had to fix an electrical problem this morning. Do you know what I know about electrical problems? Apparently one thing that actually worked. Today anyway. Hell, I even started cutting grass this week. (Side note – I suck at cutting grass. I managed to make both mowers – riding and pushing – stop working. I missed several spots. I ran into the garage and knocked off the garage door censor. I left the gate open and lost my dogs for a bit. I burnt my neck on the cord thingy on the push mower because I thought if I just pulled it harder, certainly it would start. And I pulled it right into my neck. I was not good at mowing grass. But I did it. And the lawn looks mediocre at best (and that’s being generous). But still, I did it.)
I used to make breakfast all the time. It was one of Ash’s 3 favorite meals. Ha! But once he left us, I never brought myself to do it. I didn’t think the boys cared. They never asked for a home cooked breakfast. I make them lunch. I make them dinner. I just gave up on breakfast. But today you would have thought I hung the fucking moon. They were so grateful and happy. They hugged me. They thanked me for the “best breakfast ever”. There were I love you’s all around. And it was just pancakes and bacon. Nothing complicated. Something I used to make all the time.
It’s strange, the things that change when you lose someone you love. I promised the boys that I wouldn’t wait another 10 months before I made them breakfast again. And they were happy with that.
There were also so many memories swirling in my head for the rest of the day. Ash and I fought. A lot. Especially for the first 5-7 years of marriage or so. It took us a long time to adapt and accept all the things that we could not change about each other. So not all the memories swirling in my head today were good. But some were. And I just miss him.
I just started watching Yellowstone. And it’s good. But Ash would have loved it. It would have been a show that we got sucked into together, staying up entirely too late, bingeing as many episodes as we could until one of us (usually me) couldn’t make it any longer. But he’s not here to watch it with me. And today, it hurts. Which I know is normal. It would be weird if it didn’t hurt. I also realize I’m talking in circles but sometimes I talk in circles.
Hug your people. Tell them you love them. You never know what’s coming in the chapters ahead.
JonesBoysMama 