Some weeks are harder than others. Some days are harder than others. Hell, some minutes are harder than others. This is true for anyone on any given day. It’s also true for the grief stricken. Enter Jack, Colt and me.

I barely remember a lot from the past week. (The confusion part of grief is really taking its toll on my brain or maybe I was always this confused. Who knows? Not me. Because I’m the confused…) The shit I do remember is just that. Shit.

We’ll start with Colt, or Mr. Tolt as I like to call him. My Mr. Tolt is so much like Ash it’s uncanny. He looks like Ash. He acts like Ash. He’s wildly independent. He’s hilarious. He will very bluntly tell you his opinion whether you want it or not, right on that fine line of oh how endearing to man you’re kind of a dick. (Side note – I don’t call him a dick to his face, but he certainly can be one). Colt is strong, brave and could careless what anybody thinks of him or what he’s doing. Just like his father before him. He’s an outside the box thinker and enjoys individual pursuits far more than group activities. I mean, if you knew Ash, I could very easily be describing him right now – they are so similar (that’s some strong DNA). But my whole point is, when it came to grief, sadness, acting out, anger, or any of the other myriads of emotions and outlets you can think of, I wasn’t all that worried about Colt. He’s not afraid to show his emotions – he breaks down nearly every day, it lasts about 5-10 minutes and then he moves on, like any normal 5 year old. Certainly he cries more often than he used to, over silly stuff that never would have bothered him in the past. But overall, I feel he is handling this fucked up hand he has been dealt like one bad ass 5 year old.

Enter this week. (Apparently enter is the word of the day today). I guess it really started the week before last, but I totally blamed it on Ash’s puppy. I found a large pee spot on the floor in Colt’s room right next to his nightstand and bed. I thought it was an odd spot for the dog to pee but just went about cleaning it up and moved about my business. A week later, my house, more specifically the area of the house containing Colt’s bedroom, is emanating an odor quite unpleasant to the senses. I go in his room to find another large pee spot, this time nearly under the bed. I think it’s Ash’s damn puppy again but do question how she squeezed under the bed and how she possibly could pee that much. I’m confused, my brain is spinning and then it dawns on me – this urine does not smell like dog urine – it smells like human urine. It’s also too large to be puppy pee. It has to be people pee. Yay. So I, like any insane, panicked, crazy ass mother that has too much shit to deal with every fucking day, lose my shit, just for a minute, at my poor Colt. He confesses that he has peed on his bedroom floor 3 times. He first tells me he forgot we had toilets (insert eye roll here) and then tells me he was mad at the puppy so decided to pee on the floor.

Luckily, my brother is a carpet cleaner and Colt’s bedroom is now fresh as daisies again. Unluckily, my little boy is having some big feelings, missing his father some kind of terrible and has taken to pissing on the floor because that is something he can control. He can’t control his feelings. He can’t control that daddy is gone and never coming back. But he can control where he takes a leak. Except, he can’t control that either, because mama won’t allow it! Go in the toilet, go outside, but ABSOLUTELY DO NOT PISS ON THE FLOOR ANYMORE! And he hasn’t done it again. And maybe he won’t do it again. And maybe he will. If you need me, I’ll be in a heap on the kitchen floor listening to Lewis Capaldi (is there anyone more depressed than that guy?!) crying my eyes out because I don’t have the handbook on what to do when your child starts pissing on the floor because dad’s dead. If anyone has a copy, send it my way.

Next, we have Jack, the child that is just like me. Shy, sensitive, sarcastic, a little mouthy and a lot angry. He wears a necklace that we found one day when going through an old box of Ash’s things. It’s just a cheap, white, shell necklace on fishing line with one of those spinny clasps that always pull out the hair on the back of your neck. It probably cost Ash $6.99 in 1999 (side note – we even have a picture of Ash wearing said necklace years ago which is pretty cool). Anyway, the point is, while the necklace may not have much value, to us, it is priceless. So of course, boys being boys, decide to wrestle on a trampoline and the necklace gets ripped off Jack’s neck and woe is fucking us! The boys diligently collect all the shells through their tears, we place them in a ziplock baggie with what’s left of the necklace and I drive it 30 minutes away to a friend of mine that makes jewelry because she’s awesome and is going to fix it for us because, again, priceless.

Also of note this past week, Jack had therapy. He always makes me stay with him, I think it helps him feel more comfortable and more willing to open up about his feelings. It also gets me to open up about my feelings, which I’m not all that good at, could be where Jack gets it from. Therapy day is always a hard day anyway. This one was particularly hard, I guess because we had the broken necklace tragedy and the Captain Pisses on the Floor tragedy and you know, the dad is dead, reality that he’s never coming back hits harder every day and what the hell do we do with ourselves now tragedy. Either way, nothing crazy or terrible or wonderful happened in therapy. We talked about grief, apparently Jack is still getting over his dead fish, and I cried because that’s basically all I did last week. Cry.

Moving on to me. I will be honest and say I am an absolute train wreck. Especially this last week. My new favorite thing to do is get the kids where they need to be, drive around listening to sad music and just cry (hello, loser!). I had a dream about Ash last week. And it was a good dream. I don’t remember much about it other than him telling me he loved me. And I think it nearly killed me. A girlfriend of mine also had a dream about Ash the exact same night I did. She said they were at a social event, talking and she looked at him and said “Kellie really misses you” and he said “I know, but I’m ok.” And she said he looked healthy and healed. And that nearly killed me even further. I feel so grateful that he is healthy and healed and ok.

And I’m also pretty fucking mad that he’s ok. Because we are down here struggling our asses off when all we want is to be ok. And we are ok but we’re also pissing on the floor, still grieving our beta fish and crying all over town because we’re so fucking lonely, we don’t know what else to do with ourselves. We’re placing feelings where they don’t belong, or maybe where they do belong. We’re confused. We’re sad. We’re angry. We’re tired. Colt has slept in my bed twice this week, something I don’t generally allow. Jack tried to spend all weekend with a friend because distraction is so much better than reality. And me? I don’t know how I’m doing on any given day. What’s that song my mom is always singing? Some days are diamonds and some days are stones. I’ve never questioned my mothering skills so much. I’m trying to be everything for my babies, but I’m definitely coming up short. I’m also in my own head so much, questioning every move I make, every conversation I have and how I really feel about anything that my anxiety level is at an all time high. Who knew that was even possible?!

Either way, I do know that Ash is ok and healed and healthy. And I also know that, one day, we will be more ok than not, we will be mostly healed and we will be healthy. And until then, I guess we will piss on the floor and cry in the car. And maybe this is rock bottom, and there’s nowhere to go from here but up.