blackness

Photo from here....

I'm struggling. Mentally, emotionally, financially. So I sit and don't write...Actually, I sit and play tetris hoping to forget all the other obligations that continue to flow into our home and spill onto my already overflowing "to-do" whiteboard.

I hate writing about it. I loathe talking about it. But it bubbles forth from my mouth amid tears of frustration and sadness when someone offers the seemingly innocuous platitude, "How are you?". So I try to stay away from others in an effort to not infect them with my black mood. I wear my "happy mask" at work. I attempt to tire myself to the point of unconciousness at night or else I lay and marinate myself in the pathetic thoughts that fill my head.

When I do sleep, I repeatedly dream of Jeff dying in a variety of ways. Always, though, he dies. And always, I fail to save him though I try frantically.

It's been almost three years. I thought I'd be well-immersed into a new life by now. A new page. A fresh start...But I think I am possibly worse off than I was a year into this bloody journey.

I remember receiving an email from a widow who was farther down the path than I was. I was at about ten months post-Jeff. She was at three years. She told me that she was doing worse at three years than she had been that first year. I had sworn that this would not happen to me. I was horrified at the thought. The idea that my grief would not subside in a linear and concrete fashion was absurd.

But now...Now I find myself stuck in this place. Alone. Broke. Overwhelmed.

I was at ten months as well. But somehow, the fresh tragedy and trauma of it had my naive little mind searching for all the hope it could muster. I sussed out any amount of beauty through photography, silence and my children.

Now, life is so busy I can barely focus. "Real life" has fallen into the void that was made and filled it with gusto. I have more to do, accomplish and defeat than I have ever before. I am doing three people's amount of work - raising children, keeping a home filled with a dog, cat and chickens, work to pay for all the necessities....and not managing to make those ends meet. In fact, the ends are often so far apart that I begin to wonder if they are from the same cord.

To supply wood for our woodstove, I have worked out a deal with guy who sells wood - I will go after work on the weekends and chop wood for him. The kids will have to come as I can't afford childcare. All areas of my life seem to be inundated with all these extra obligations in order to creatively patch together some form of relatively rudimentary existence.

I miss Jeff and all he represents so fucking terribly that I am sure I am exhausting my "talk-about-it-whenever-you-need-to card" with my friends. I know that I should be at the point where I am no longer comparing my life "before" to my life "after". But when I am down....It is so hard to forget the fact that life was once so different.

I need to work on smiling. Remembering to see the silver linings. I attempt to drill it into my head and even write crap about how it's not so bad....But it's just hot air. It is bad. It sucks. And I am fucking sick of it. I want to lay down and give up.

**I just want to clear something up as I worry that I didn't explain how thankful I am/was that the firewood guy had accepted my offer of chopping wood in exchange for "free" firewood. He has a family to provide for as well and I don't want it ever to seem that I feel that because I am a widow with two little ones I am exempt from having to pay my way though life. It was so very kind that he accepted my offer. As it turns out, my father paid for a cord of firewood for me saving me the time and effort of having to spend the weekend chopping. I felt truly supported by my small community when I asked if "firewood guy" would let me work for wood.

amazing mamas

Yesterday, my kiddos and I attended the Bethlehem Walk at our local Baptist church. While I am FAR from religious, it was so historically interesting and allowed me to have a conversation with my kids about the origins of the Christmas tradition.
The kids loved 'everything' about it, although I think Liv enjoyed the small, fresh loaves of bread the best judging by her pleas to go back for more. Briar really enjoyed collecting stamps on his Bethlehem map throughout the 'marketplace'....and then hoped to look at them while laying in bed (I didn't tell him that I had thrown his muddy coat in the wash upon walking through the door not realizing that the 'map' was in his pocket. I am SO hoping he forgets before I have to explain him that the hard piece of whitish lint at the bottom of his pocket was once his beloved map.)
As we walked through the ancient town, we had been instructed to keep an eye out for a baby named Jesus. Halfway through we came upon a young couple in wonderful costumes amid the hay bales depicting a barn-like scene. "Joseph" was very believable in his performance as he greeted us with "Shalom" and brief small talk about the tax man. His poor wife, however, was struggling.
"Mary" was a very young mama who was trying to breastfeed her hot, tired and altogether annoyed little one. As an audience stared on, she attempted to calm her baby with her breast without giving these onlookers something they hadn't anticipated - a flash. She seemed to be trying to look "Mary-like" - calm, serene and with a instinctive mothering knowledge that could subdue her baby with just a soothing word and mama's milk. As a mom, I could see through her thin facade to the panic and frustration she was feeling and as I led my children to the next vendor I thought of all the things I wish I had known before having my babies.....

• Wear slip on shoes - you will always find your hands full of baby paraphernalia, car seats and bags when you suddenly realize that you should be equipped footwear as well.
• Make sure to cross your legs when you cough, sneeze or laugh really hard - I don't know that any explanation is needed here. Oh! And say 'goodbye' to your days of jumping on a trampoline.
• Do you remember those catty girls in junior high who gossiped about everyone no matter how perfect and fabulous they were? Get ready for round two. Mom's can be harsh to and about each other. Find a group who is as self-deprecated as you are and don't take the others opinions too hard. You're doing a great job - the best you can. And really, they worry about their inadequacies as a mom as much as, if not more than, you do.
• You are amazing. You created a life within your body. Yes, the skin on your stomach resembles the face of a Shar-pei - but for very good reason. You made a tiny HUMAN BEING within it!
• You wouldn't know if your baby was ugly. It's better this way. Who would want to snuggle a trash can lid? You will stare into those shiny little eyes and know that this is the most amazingly awe-inspiring little one ever to have graced this Earth with its' tiny feet and mustard coloured poop.
• When people have issue with your breastfeeding in public, stare at them and speak loudly at the person with you, "I can't believe they are eating in public! How disgusting!!" I believe breastfeeding is normal, natural and healthy. It seems that the over-sexualization of the breast in our society has done terrible things for our children's eating habits. Would you eating your lunch in a dirty, public bathroom stall? Blech.
• Everyone may have an opinion on what you do and how you do it. YOU are the expert on your children. Trust your gut as you're the one who loves them the most and have their survival and mental well-being first and foremost....and you'll presumably be the one paying the therapy bills when they hit their teens.
• Also, though you may be feel judged while others look on as your sweet, wee one pitches a holy fit atop the wood chips on the playground thus embedding thousands of tiny slivers beneath their soft skin to ensure a long and drawn out reminder of this damned humiliating venture to the local park; they most likely are just reminiscing over the fact that the only way to soothe their child's impending tantrum at the grocery store recently was to allow their kiddo to plunge a damp, chubby finger into their parent's nostril as they strolled down the aisles in the shopping cart....while all the other parents stared and thought about their most recent brush with 'CIH' (Child Inflicted Humiliation) .
• Play with them whenever you can. Even singing "Super Planet Janet" for the fifty millionth time while you secure their lifejacket before swimming at your summer cabin will go a long way to defining you as a great and attentive parent.

...and by the way

Photo from Auburn University

I am seeing all sorts of old and familiar faces since we moved back to my hometown. It's been great getting reacquainted with now-grown children of my youth. We discuss how the town has changed. That the one stop light in town is no longer the one stop light in town. Gossip about the nastiest boy in our class has changed and where he is now.
I find it so very interesting to know who or what the townsfolk have become, who they've married and how many children they've had. Looking at the faces of their little ones makes me grin seeing the familiar face of their parents as children staring right back at me.
Somehow during the conversation I seem to blurt out, almost Tourette's like, "My husband died."
I feel like a dork when I say it. But I can feel it building inside me like a burp and suddenly spew it out at my long-lost aquaintance. The moment after resembles the pause that I could imagine occurring if I had indeed loudly belched in their face. My burped words seem to echo between us.
If I somehow manage to come away from our brief visit in the parking lot without this almost involuntary admission, I feel as if I have mislead the other person somehow. That they are missing some huge part of the puzzle. But if I include it, it's an echo invoker.
I still, after two years, do not know what is the appropriate way to include this humungous tidbit into a brief summary of my life.....and socially, I don't know if any one really wants to know?

Moe Schmoe

Our cat, Moe, puts up with everything. Literally everything.
Briar, the perpetually love machine, carts him around upside-down as an impromptu backpack. Moe regularly endures being cuddled in a well-meaning but overly zealous fashion while the little people in our house attempt to fall asleep. He rarely complains when being dressed in baby clothes or as he zips down the driveway in a doll stroller. Once, I even had to interrupt a friend mid-conversation to inform her that she was standing on Moe's tail as she spoke.

We had planned to keep Moe indoors for two weeks after our move to ensure that he knew where 'home' was. We didn't want our special and sweet teddybear of a cat to go missing. After a week of Moe's pleading, however, we succumbed to his requests for some outside air. He stuck close to home but rolled around in the fresh grass as if he was expressing his extreme pleasure in the luxuriousness of its' lush green carpet. After that he came and went as if he had always lived here.
One morning last week, as the plumber and contractor came and went I noticed that Moe was looking a bit nervous with all the activity involved with all the new bodies in our house. He stuck close to the ground and ran in short bursts from corner to corner of the room with a wary look in his eye.
That was the last time I saw him. Heartbroken, the kids and I made ads pleading for Moe's safe return. Liv wrote her own posters and I went from door to door asking our new neighbours if they had glimpsed "Mohito Meow Mein".
Days passed and no Moe. I started to brace myself for the worse and worried as I made my rounds yet again to the ditches on our street that I would find his little body mingled with the mud and weeds found there.
Three days later as I sat on the toilet (Sorry for too-much-info there) in my nightly preparations for bed long after the kids had fallen asleep, I thought I heard a slight "mew". Listening more intently, I realized that it was coming from the wall beside me. Staring in disbelief at the drywall between the bathtub and toilet the contractor had repaired three days previously it dawned on me. Moe is in the wall!!!!!
I ran to the garage to arm myself with some tools all the while loudly reassuring poor, entombed Moe that it was going to be okay. I ripped that wall apart, pulled out a pile of insulation, and to my joy and amazement two little golden/green eyes stared back at me.
An extremely grateful Moe devoured his food and lapped up water for an amount of time I would have thought abnormal if the situation had not been so far from normal.
Although he was so dehydrated even his little puckered bum-hole was even dried out and flaky (again, too-much-info - Sorry), he has fully recovered after his under the bathtub burial and he doesn't even seem to hold any ill feelings toward the bathroom.

Our sweet little, Moe-lasses! We love him to bits and pieces!

who made me 'mom'?

Some days, I marvel at my skills as a mother. I am not talking in the 'thump my chest and proudly diplay my fabulous parenting abilities' way. I am talking in the 'Oh Lord, what have I taught these poor children NOW' way.
I find it hilarious when my three year old displays his middle finger marred by a hangnail.
I am tut-tutted by a seven year old when I talk 'potty talk' at the table...almost every night.
I change words in songs to "poop", "bum", "boogie", etc.
I attempt to laugh quietly when my son removes his fingers from his bum crack, takes a sniff and promptly chases his sister around the house with said fingers.
I occasionally sneak the last of the halloween candy, nanaimo bars, or coveted snack and then claim ignorance when ask who the offending party may have been.
I use the f-word occasionally often.
Sometimes, if I sit and take score of all these skills socially inacceptable behaviours that my children have learned, I am horrified. I am stunned by my inability to act mature and adult-like. I chide myself for the crap job of showing my little ones "appropriate" behaviour....
But when the next fit of giggles overtakes the three of us as the dog passes wind, I get over it.
Life is short. Life has too few laughs and too many hard lessons. I say "Bring on the poop jokes, pull out the whoopie cushions and use foul language occasionally"....just make sure MY mother doesn't hear!

tmi?

Last week, Briar watched me carry a box of feminine hygiene products from the grocery bag to the bathroom.

"Are those for your bum?", he asked.

"Um.", not sure as to what the appropriate response for a three year old boy should be. I decided honesty was best.

"Not my bum", as I walked by.

"Your penis?"

"No. Mommy doesn't have a penis."

Following me, he asks, "Your bagina?"

"Um. Yes. My bagina...er, vagina." After all, I've heard that using proper terminology is best.

"Oh.", he says. I breathe a sigh of relief hoping that I handled this encounter with anatomy, life cycles and privacy 'properly'.

**

Hours later, Briar enters my bedroom for a visit while I put away laundry. As is common, he is naked. We chat about something before I even glance in his direction. When this look occurs, I can't help but notice something....on his nether regions. All my evolved and cool mom exterior is forgotten as I gasp, "What did you do, buddy????"

He answers, "I wanted to be like you." and looks down at the bandaid stuck upon his private parts.

The next twenty minutes are occupied attempting to peel terribly sticky bandaid glue from horribly sensitive little parts while discussing which people have which parts and who uses absorbent materials in their underpants and why.

Oh, joy. My poor boy is going to be so well-versed in all things female by the time he reaches age 10.