Anticipating Two Years

I’m approaching the two year anniversary of my husband’s death. I’ve had people ask how I’m doing, which I appreciate, particularly given the fact that as a culture, grief is brief and the expectation to return to “normal” is, like most unnamed and powerful forces: difficult to resist. Giving into cultural norms means we forget about grief anniversaries. Or, perhaps, we are, simply, like life, moving forward.  

There is an all too familiar emotional edge to the “how are you doing” question. When asked, I want to pry into the inquirer’s head see what they are referencing. I suspect that it’s focused on the sadness me or my children feel because we miss their dad. Do they picture the three of us huddled together, watching old videos of our family, holding one another as tears roll down our face? To be fair, that does happen, but it’s rare. If we do watch videos these days, it’s more nostalgic than raw. That, or we’ve acquired emotional calluses.

Where grief rears its head for me is in an inability to deal with balancing the day to dayness of life-- which, up until only a week or so ago--felt mostly manageable. And, the anxiety is palpable. I forget to breathe, I snap quickly and I spend a lot of energy (I don’t have) keeping my face from turning into the bitter scowl of a single working mother who is bothered too much by children who can’t remember to put their shoes in the shoe bin near the front door.

When the anxiety builds, I would like to hear something like, “you know, everyone understands you can’t get to every email” or “kids can sleep in their clothes a few nights a week” rather than “how are you doing?” - a question I don’t have an answer for. A few months into my single parent voyage, I texted a friend attempting to articulate the insurmountable obstacle of dirty dishes. She suggested I name Tuesdays and Wednesdays paper plate days. The suggestion was a much needed salve on an open, festering domestic wound. So simple and yet so brilliant. The truth is, the kids and I are fine on a macro level. But, day to day we are still starting fresh and the moment to moment energy it takes to recreate new lives and new identities is remarkably exhausting. Yet, it’s so common, I forget the toll it takes until the stress forces me to face it and make adjustments.

A while ago, a friend emailed me asking me what she could do to help a friend who recently lost her husband. She felt helpless and uncertain. My suggestion was to share those feelings because chances were her friend was feeling the same way. One of the things I resent most about losing a spouse (other than losing a spouse) is the ongoing tension between working to still relate to my friends and knowing I’ll always be a little different. For example, I have attempted to relate to my married, mom friends by sharing how nice it is that I don’t have anyone to blame but myself when things don’t get done- that there’s only three of us to clean up after rather than four. There is some truth to that; Ed would allow piles of papers to stack up and it would drive me crazy. There are still piles, but they are smaller and the only person to nag is me. He also did all the grocery shopping and the cooking and the kitchen clean up. And he could kick the soccer ball in the backyard with our son while I painted with our daughter at the kitchen table.

I wonder if the women I talk with are trying to relate to me the way I am trying to relate to them: they express frustration over husbands who work all the time or take months to address one item on the honey-do list as a way to say it’s just as hard to have a husband as it is to not have one. It’s our feminine attempt to say, “look, me too” in the midst of knowing only one of us could really understand what it’s like to not have a husband. I wonder if they return to their private lives, like I do mine, reflecting that the stories we shared are half-truths. I like to think that while I am thinking about how lucky I was to have a husband who was a domestic God-send, they are soaking in the cherished presence of masculine energy still in their lives.

The times I feel genuinely comforted and not isolated are rare - but they come in moments when they are most needed and when the other person is honest about their own grief and the confusion that comes with grief. Or even in revealing-explicitly or implicitly--that things have in fact changed between us but there’s still a commitment to the friendship, whatever path it may take.

Reese has been drawing pictures of me lately. For the last week, she has brought home a picture a day and they have the same look: me on the left, a door on the right. Being the metaphor chasing, English major, mystic, I immediately began thinking about what the door symbolized. Was it open? Was it closed? What does that mean? Why was she equating me with the door? Our front door was recently fixed by the guys working on the upstairs (transforming it into my bedroom suite/sanctuary). Maybe she just appreciates that the door opens and closes easily and that I’m not wrestling with the deadbolt for an extra five seconds in the morning when we’re trying to get out the door. Turns out her drawing is as simple and comforting as the recent fix. The other day, the new nanny mentioned to me that Reese told her that her favorite time of the day was when I walk through the door. Jack apparently overheard this, because when I was in the middle of questioning the true meaning of the door he looked at me and said plainly, “it’s a picture of Reese’s favorite time of day.” Duh.

So, anticipating two years is full of questions and complications; it’s about negotiating old and new relationships and cultivating new identities. But, also, thank God, it’s about just being and shutting the brain off, seeing plainly what’s right in front of us--without judgment or worry--and sometimes, being pleasantly enraptured by what’s there.

Father's Day

Dear Ed,

Normally I will write to you only through rare posts on Facebook. A few sentence post is just about all I can deal with when actually imagining talking with you But, being that's it's father's day and that your son just discovered our blog, I'm braving the full on letter.

A little over a week ago, I posted something on your Facebook wall; Jack happened to be sitting by me  and saw that I wrote to you. He told me twice- once when I wrote to you and then again when I tucked him in bed - that he liked that I posted on your wall. I had written about another one of Jack's uncanny DNA trait of yours. You already saw it, so I won't repeat it here.

Instead, I'll tell you about a moment I had on a recent Sunday morning. You probably saw it, but just in case you were chatting over rum and cokes with Adam Yauch or Mike Wallace at the Rocksport (because pubs go to heaven too), let me summarize. Jack skipped baseball this year; back in February he let me know he wanted to focus on soccer. By the end of April, he missed baseball. He knew he didn't want the commitment of a summer All Star Team, but when he found out about the pick up teams being assembled for a Tues/Thur night league over the summer, he wanted in. I emailed Keith just in time Saturday night to find out all the kids were meeting at the pee wee fields Sunday morning to have their skills assessed so even teams could be made. Jack had an upset stomach Saturday night and I could feel a familiar dread - didn't realize what that was until we drove to the pee wee fields Sunday morning. How did we forget they were below Riverview where you died?

ANYWAY. On the way there, I channeled my best impression of you: I was positive and lighthearted, trying to keep the mood upbeat in the car. I casually mentioned that it would feel like P.E. - just a few groups of kids doing a baseball unit: taking turns hitting, throwing, fielding. Neither Jack nor I breathed a word about the fact that he would likely be the only kid who hadn't been playing baseball for the last four months. (Later, we admitted to one another just how nervous we both were about the fact that Jack hadn't played baseball for about a year). As we neared the field, there was a twinge of regret in my gut: why hadn't we gone early to practice and warm up? As it was, we were a few minutes late- but it didn't give Jack anytime to think and to just get started.

Reese and I sat in the outfield bleachers and Jack was put in a group focused on hitting. Amazingly, I was calm and patient with Reese and not worried about how she would fair in two hours of baseball followed by a soccer game. I think it was because I was already *so proud* that Jack was playing with all these kids even though I knew he was absolutely nervous inside. My parenting self-esteem got a big hit when I realized that my pride for our kid was in his attempt--not the outcome. So, when that surge of support, love and pride for Jack washed over me before he even started to play, I knew your impact on us was and is timeless.

Here's the thing: I am a better parent because I was able to watch you with our children for seven years. I do feel bad that I don't kick the soccer ball around as much as you would have with Jack, or give Reese those amazing Daddy snuggles that I know she craves in her very soul, but every moment I respond with kindness, perspective or patience- particularly the times I don't have to work hard at it - I know it's you working through me. I was fortunate to be around your natural warmth and affection. Maybe when you left the world, when I last touched your wrist, you sent some of your father love into my fingers and it pulses its way through my body. Or maybe that last touch was some kind of seal- that, by the grace of God, I was given a little father to go with my mothering, or more accurately, a little Ed to go with Laura in raising our children.

Jack did great, by the way. He had a fair amount of good hits, laughed at himself when he missed a few pop flies, and fielded decently. I could sense his focus and engagement in playing - even as Reese & I played soccer and she started to complain about the heat and her "burnsun" (sunburn). There was one split second, in the middle of pop fly drills when I looked out - the sky was brilliant blue and the trees strikingly green, surrounding us securely and protectively in the basin of the field -- Jack had missed the pop fly before and was up again. I watched the coach throw up a ball and I stood there, focusing on Jack, willing him to catch the ball even as I was strangely not invested in whether he did or not. Because, you know, simple wishes and happy endings aren't real. But, he caught it. Like it was nothing. It was a nothing of a moment that felt like everything.

I picked the kids up today from a slumber party at the Mezas. At one point, Reese climbed up on Meza's lap and snuggled in like it was the most natural thing in the world. I really wished I had my phone to take a picture, but had left it in the car. I remembered that quote from your college camping trip with the Sticks: "Memory don't fail me now." You can never, ever be replaced, Ed, but your fathering influence is everywhere- in the people you loved and respected. It was so much love that it can't be contained by simple absence. Your kids know your love through all of us.

Happy Father's Day.

xoxo,
Laura

Memorial Day

Memorial Day means a three day weekend. Normally I would dread three days with the kids- partly because I am still learning how to sustain single-parenting energy for that long. I'm usually exhausted and beating myself up at the end of the weekend for not entertaining the kids enough.

But, there's been a slight shift, even though you wouldn't know it if you walked by the house Saturday. Jack was working on his photo board since he's "special person of the week" this coming week at school (each student gets the spotlight for a week). After a particularly challenging Saturday morning, when I was trying to just accept that fact that we are a family that yells at one another from time to time (and by time to time, I mean every other day and double on Saturdays), I tried to distract us by talking about what makes the week "special." Part of the special person gig is to answer some questions. Among them is "what do you like to do as a family?" When Jack told me about that question, the refrain in my head was an automatic, "crap, we don't do anything fun." I asked Jack what he was going to write, hoping he had a better answer. His initial response was "hang out with friends." True enough. I have heavily relied- probably too much-- on our family and friends to carry the entertainment load. Ed was the fun one, he was the one that would make light of things if they got too serious or make a party out of an ordinary day. Me? I make sure the kitchen is clean and the beds are made and, then--*maybe*-- turn on the music for an impromptu dance party.

Jack looked at me and said, "I could write that we yell and fight." Yes, we do. But, we have a wicked sense of humor about it.

I'm reading Jeanette Walls' Half Broke Horses.  I finished Cheryl Stayed's Wild a few weeks ago and mentioned to Sarah that I was inhaling the story of rugged survival. She brought me Half Broke Horses, a  hard core Laura Ingalls Wilder "true-life novel" about Walls' amazing no-bullshit, resourceful, remarkable teacher-rancher-pilot grandmother, Lily (the narrator). Lily spends one page dealing with the death of a family member. The last paragraph reads:

I realized that in the months since [my sister] had died, I hadn't been paying much attention to things like the sunrise, but that the old sun had been coming up anyway. It didn't really care how I felt, it was going to rise and set regardless of whether I noticed it, and if I was going to enjoy it, that was up to me.

Marrying Ed - who was naturally a fun loving, energetic, humorous person- made me lazy- in terms of holding my own court of enjoyment. So, obviously, without him, I not only don't know how to make things fun, I've also been slightly terrified of trying. Anything I knew that would be fun would also mean facing an attempt of fun without the very person who helped to create the fun memories (bleh).YET- also, obviously, I am not about to give into some not-entirely-accurate identity of the "unfun" parent.

This weekend, instead of expecting exhaustion or worrying about whether or not we could have fun, I took the kids on two outings. Two. Without anyone else. Today, we went to the Seattle Mariner's game, our first as just a family of three. (They won 9-0.) And, Jack danced just like Ed, Uncle Steve and Aunt Lisa (and, I like to think, our living room dance parties) taught him- without abandon or self-consciousness in the hopes of getting on diamond vision. Reese danced like she would have no matter what: also without abandon. As I was sitting there, enjoying baseball like I always have (there are miracles), I thought of Lily's quote. It is up to us. And, we're doing it.

So far, so good.

Earlier this week, Jack and I were sitting on the couch reading a book about 9/11 for one of his book reports. He’s been obsessed with September 11 - it’s an eerie reminder of Ed, who would spend hours reading about the attacks. Sarah (my nanny/landscaper extraordinaire) said Jack mentioned to her that he watched the 10 year anniversary with me and his dad. I had forgotten. That was September 2011, a few weeks before Ed died. So, I guess this new interest makes sense.

One of the people in the book is a firefighter with tattoos. Last year I liked the idea of getting a four leaf clover tattoo with our names woven in-- to represent each person in our family. Ed was Irish, so it seemed fitting. Jack asked me if I was still planning on getting the tattoo. I don’t want that four leaf clover anymore. These days, I want a three leaf clover- for the three of us. When I told Jack, he seemed stung by this; he said “what about Daddy?” I said it would be too hard for me to see a reminder of our family of four. We are a family of three now. Besides, 2013 has reinforced -- after burglary, surgery and a car accident (no major injuries other than the car) -- that living in the moment is my best option. I won’t look back and have no idea what will happen next. So, here we are. 

I am steadily rising to the reality that We. Are. It. The three of us. There’s no Ed, there’s no husband, no partner. There’s no dad. Before now, I could see that it was just us, but I saw it from afar, like watching the news or a movie- it was me looking in. Now, I stand in my backyard and look at this house that I pay the mortgage on. I realize that I’m making a life for us, that I am creating a *home* and making all the decisions for my children and their well-being. All on my own.

The thing is: I got this. I recognize the woman in the middle of the picture Jack drew last fall that’s still on the fridge. She used to overwhelm me a bit- how could I live up to that expectation- bearing the weight of responsibility of being the only parent? How could Jack see me like this -- in the middle, keeping him and his sister near me, SMILING-- when I was flailing and failing all the time? I keep the picture on the fridge to remind me of what we could be, what we are going to be and what I hope we already are: a connected family of three.

I told Jack he could get a four leaf clover tattoo when he was older. His response was a classic “I don’t break the rules” response of the eldest. He said he wasn’t going to get a tattoo and was shocked at my suggestion. I told him he could get a tattoo of the fighting Irish guy. Jack paused and said, “Good idea” and hit me with a chill high five.

When I was going through Jack’s papers from school, I found a printout of a list of prayers to practice. At the top of the paper was a line to fill in:  “Today I pray for” _____________. He wrote in “my mom.”  I asked him why he was praying for me and he said it was to give me good luck. I thought of one of Ed’s favorite movies, Rounders - how Matt Damon’s character, when told good luck before heading to Vegas, narrated “People insist on calling it luck." The movie explores the idea of being true to your calling and the risks/potential rewards in reaching for dreams that seem absolutely unreachable. From the outside, it may seem like luck, but anyone who has pursued their goals knows the unavoidable reality of grinding it out, digging down and doing the work.  

I know Jack just wants me to feel good. He hasn’t had the burden/privilege of realizing that luck is often more in our control than we realize: in how we decide to adapt and react to life, in how we choose to steer life. I don’t have to look very hard to see just how lucky we are. I've had a lot of practice in looking for the good around us and helping my children see it, too. For awhile, it was some of the hardest work we've done. I am eternally grateful that not only do I see the good more often than not, I also feel it, wholeheartedly, in my bones. And, when I don’t sense it, when the moments or days are overwhelming, or when I’m anticipating the layer of emotional smog that will no doubt bring in Mother’s day, I have enough evidence to know that we’ll sense the goodness soon enough. Luck and good are all around: as common and abundant as a field of clover.

18 Months

Today (April 8) marks the eighteenth month anniversary of Ed’s death. A while ago, I swore off writing about the “things by which I resist to be defined by” - among them, my widowhood, being the friend that always asks for help, and recently, foot surgery, which has me rolling around on one of the greatest inventions *ever* - the knee scooter.  (My favorite picture is the guy on the grassy hill:  Larry went to wine country! The brakes on the knee walker are terrible; whenever I head down even the smallest hill I am sure I’m going to crash; I picture “Larry” tumbling into a nearby vineyard).

I step back from my pledge to not speak of what I call the “self-centered, boring and pitiful” on this day because eighteen months feels like a big deal and I want to call it out. At the end of Joyce Carol Oates’s “A Widow’s Story” she writes, Of the widow’s countless death-duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband’s death the widow should think ‘I kept myself alive.’ I would only amend that should she have children, that she kept them growing. 

For me, eighteen months is almost as significant as twelve months. Yes, I felt triumphant the day after the one year anniversary. I woke up October ninth with a sense of accomplishment. I had energy to move forward in a way I honestly wasn’t sure I ever would. Yet, the six months following last October rang with the familiar melody of exhaustion and challenge. Mostly because I had to learn, and relearn (sometimes many moments a day), how to balance being real about how I felt with choosing to be positive. I guess I thought I was “done” with that after the first year. This mental work is the equivalent of training for a marathon, except it’s for a marathon that never ends.

The winter after Ed died, the kids and I vacationed in Roslyn with Ed’s brother, Steve, and his family. We were all still pretty grief raw. Steve and I confessed to one another that we felt like there would be a reward for getting through the pain- that there was something on the other end of the awful emotional tunnel. At the time, even though we both knew it was impossible, it seemed like the reward would be that Ed would come back in our lives. It was illogical that we would have to go through the hell of grief and NOT be given a fabulous gift in exchange --and the only gift for accepting Ed’s death would be, well, Ed alive again.

Facing the foreverness of death is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. The only thing that is harder is realizing that there are no rewards for accepting that reality, there is no “reason” it happened, no lottery of life on the other side; actually, accepting death creates the opposite of a reward: it can give day to dayness of life a dull smudge. The trade off is a life that doesn’t make sense anymore. And, unless someone has gone through a similar major life change there’s no way to truly reveal that reality, so the isolation is palpable because few intimately know what the ongoing process is like. I certainly don’t wish for anyone to have this knowledge. That said, it’s a lonely reality. So, while the fact that I survived the first year is an accomplishment, that I’m still able to navigate the ongoingness of our reality another six months when the “newness” of death has worn off for us and those around us, is also notable.

On the phone with a good friend the other day, I admitted how frustrated I am at having to slow down. Foot surgery has caused me to drastically scale back any momentum that started in October. Even though I woke up most of fall with the thought, “oh, yeah, I’m still here without a mate and my kids without a father,” I sought ways to enjoy life again. By the start of the new year, I lined up weekends for the kids to be away so I could slough off “mom” and “work” Laura and turn my attention to figuring out whoever I was without those titles; I discovered new music on my own (that used to be Ed’s job); I started making a lists of things I *wanted* (not had) to do and began meeting new people. Nothing like a knee scooter and the haze of Percocet to halt everything but the basics. I whined to my friend how much energy there is involved in just taking a shower--I wanted to put that energy into going out or a new hobby. She said, “taking a shower is the first step to getting a life.” I have brilliant friends.

I can’t help but gravitate towards the metaphor of foot surgery. How much the effort that goes into getting from the front porch to the car is like building a life and identity from scratch; if I am not careful, the process can be glossed over and I will miss opportunities. At least two times a day, I have to stop and engage in painful exercises that will keep my toe joints limber. I would rather not, just like I would rather not have to make breakfast and then clean up the mess after the kids have eaten maybe half of what I made--something that annoyed me in my “past” life, but now feels like a colossal waste of time as I wheel back and forth between my narrow kitchen and the dining room. Instead, I shift perspective and chuckle at how Reese works hard to avoid the bread and only licks the jelly off her toast or notice how patient Jack is when he helps his sister brush her teeth. There is something in this rebuilding process akin to learning to walk again. Here, I thought I was learning to live this new life. Apparently not because I was still running to get “stuff done.” It’s easier for me to just start running, but now I have to wait for my bones to heal and *then* I can start the simple process of putting one foot in front of the other. It forces me to take in a lot more, including longer showers.

Slowing down has other perks. I thought why not include in all my requests for help with the kids and house, asking a good friend, who is also a chef, to come make a steak dinner. He knocked the meal out of the park, of course. Last year, I would have thought such a request was indulgent and selfish- when actually it is *those* kinds of things I need more than having someone wash Reese’s hair when I can’t. I’m not sure I would have understood this unless I had surgery (Clean hair is *always* the priority, right? Maybe not...). I inhaled the steak and the company. Normally, I would have organized such an event for a weekend- when I could have many friends over and I would do the cooking. Though, I would probably put it off for when the yard was weeded and the house spotless. But, last week, I knew that I needed to do something I enjoyed to balance the exhaustion of recovery. I had to do something that meant ignoring the crumbs under the table.  So, instead of putting off “fun” for the weekend, I have to find a way to enjoy life during the week. Before surgery, there was too much to do for such frivolous activities. But, now, if I don’t make space for something that fills me up on a daily basis-despite the chaos, I am completely depleted.

Of course, figuring out where and when to do this as a mother of two who works full time and is running a household is challenging, to say the least (it was hard enough when I had partner helping and could walk around on two feet). But, lately, it’s from necessity that I don’t see the messy toy room downstairs (mostly because I can’t go down the stairs) or worry about what my kids miss without a father. I take more time to go through Jack’s school papers and watch Reese’s “nymnastics” dance routines. I tackle projects I’m passionate about at work first-- before the mundane ones (well, at least one day a week). All this time, it’s been about duty, about getting things done, making sure the kids were okay. Slowly, I am realizing I also need to model the value of finding-- or, rather, seizing-- joy in life: and not just “weekend” or “vacation” joy but the kind that is as necessary to each day as teeth brushing.

Strangely, I wake up in a good mood. Just when I got used to the idea that good moods weren’t the norm, there they are. How is this possible? I think it’s alchemy: without explanation, instead of paying attention to the pain in the 23rd mile and wish for it to be over, I look up and notice the scenery or wonder at something simple or silly. I catch myself thinking about how absolutely in love I am with my children: I am struck daily by their tenacity, their emotional intelligence, their empathy, their energy, their ability to assume a hopeful outlook. Don’t get me wrong, I am still grumpy about the piles of paper on the console table and the three year old who won’t answer any of my questions (Do you want more toast? Do you? DO YOU?!). I feel guilty that I have yet to take Jack to the orthodontist as instructed by his dentist three months ago. I’m still uncertain about which building blocks to use to rebuild my life and grow weary sifting through the options. But, I’m not looking for the finish line and, miraculously, it’s okay. Mentally, I’m getting quite tough. Ed--the mental toughness guru-- would be proud.

Songs for post 
Miike Snow "Cult Logic"
Of Monsters and Men "Slow and Steady"

March 8, 2013

Last weekend the kids and I started our garden. We inherited two raised garden beds on the south end side of our lot next to our two apple trees. As Jack and I were planting the kale seeds, he commented: "isn't it amazing how tiny the seeds are for what they grow into?" Yes, it was the perfect opportunity to speak in metaphor, but I just let the moment soak in for both of us.

If I was on Facebook, I would have posted the pictures below and written something like "spring time is near." This comment, of course, belies the full reality of gardening with a three year old. Jack and I essentially worked around Reese, planting the pepper, pumpkin, cucumber and squash seeds for growing inside AND planting our lettuce, peas, carrots, kale, arugula and lettuce in the raised gardens. If it wasn't for a handful of wormy distractions, the planting would have been even more challenging. As it was, when someone walked by -- AND many people did as our sidewalk is a main thoroughfare of pedestrians walking up to the junction -- this is part of what they heard:

Jack: REESE! Don't walk there!! I just raked the soil.
Reese: Ignores Jack and stomps harder on the other end of the soil bed.
Laura: Reese, sweetie, please don't walk in the beds; here, help us get the dirt ready.
Reese: WORMY!!
Jack: "REESE!! Don't walk there!! You're pushing the dirt together
Laura: Reese, love, please get out of the garden and see if wormy wants to play in the grass.
Reese: Ignores me. 
Laura: Reese, get out of the garden.
Reese: AH! Where did wormy go?!! (throws handfuls of dirt out of the garden, looking for a worm desperate to escape)
Laura: REESE! Get out of the garden!! NOW!
Laura (suddenly calm, to passerby): Hello, good afternoon.

Only two worms died on the sidewalk that morning due to exposure. I am grateful for their sacrifice.

Today had as much, if not more, sun than the pictures from planting last weekend. I walked through the rock garden on the north side of campus this afternoon, trying to figure out why I wasn't enjoying the weather more. I just began to recognize the impending, somewhat crushing darkness when I remembered that today is the 17th month anniversary of Ed's death. The other night, Jack sat on his bed staring at the October 4, 2011 Sounders US Open Cup soccer poster (the game he went to with his Uncle and his dad four days before Ed died). I didn't realize what he was doing until the tears were streaming down his face when I tucked him in. He said he was missing daddy. I chalked it up to random grief. But, this afternoon--I realized-- the whole week has been leading us to this anniversary. It's still remarkable to me that the body remembers before the mind. It's been a while since I've had such a visceral reminder, but, that is mostly because the last few months have had plenty of distractions. Still, I thought the monthly reminders were over- I'm ready to move to six months or year. Maybe that happens at 18 months. In the meantime, we'll marvel at those tiny seeds and see what they grown into. 

Insert Ed's favorite John Lennon Quote Here

Ed was a master of mixed tapes and CDs. The last summer he was alive he included Death Cab for Cutie's What Sarah Said on our Seaside 2011 mix. I listened to the song a few times before I realized what it was about. And, then, after Ed died, I would listen to the lyric Love is watching someone die and be *amazed* that I could feel absolute grief and gratefulness at the same time.

Oh, but, wait, I'm over feeling bad, so that's not what this post is about...

Things are moving forward at the house. Not quite in the way I had planned, OF COURSE. That's why I bring up the song- I had the first line in my head today:

And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time...

Just when I was ready to call the contractor to get started on my new plans for my master bedroom suite upstairs, the doctor informed me that the foot surgery I was planning for two years from now- this summer at the earliest, actually should happen, um, yesterday. Somewhere, father time was chuckling at my plans. Silly me. Looks like that project will start a few months later than I had anticipated.

So, while I was gearing up to post some before shots of the upstairs in anticipation of the beautiful after shots (because that's why we watch an entire show on any DIY or HGTV station- for those three minutes at the end of before and after shots, right?!), I barely had time to steal some shots of my backyard before my incredibly amazing nanny/landscape specialist, Sarah, headed over this weekend to tackle some of the outdoor projects we've talked about.

After wrestling with a particularly gnarly grassy stump thing, even calling on the aid of her boyfriend with his pickax, we were discussing what to do with the now spacious pile of dirt next to my backyard deck. We talked about how living with the lack of something-- the blank canvas--is crucial for discovering what to create. That's how I often decorate or re-decorate a room: I have to remove everything but the basics before my imagination can fill in the space. Same thing with my career: at one point, both Ed & I had to say no to our jobs before knowing what jobs we would say yes to. That space in between the "no" and the "yes" is absolutely terrifying, but it's a crucial place for transition. I relish that I know both the place of no and  yes, and particularly, of the value of the in-between. It's what Ed would call the "being comfortable in the uncomfortable."

Anyway, I continue this path of the in-between, where life, I suspect (or hope), is fertilized for more richness. And, I too, can chuckle at the plans. Though, I do find some sweet satisfaction in the "before and after" photos of the backyard:

The last picture is the blank canvas of dirt- I'm thinking this year we'll plant pumpkins.

OMG I'm 39

Walking into the kitchen to make coffee yesterday, it hit me: I'm 39. But, rather than dwell on what that means (or doesn't mean), I started to think about the last decade. Here's a snapshot:

• 2003 (Age 29): Graduate with Masters Degree in English, move to West Seattle, begin new career as part-time English instructor, miscarry, get pregnant
• 2004 (Age 30): Have first child (Jack)
• 2005 (Age 31): Move to Boston, become freelance textbook editor
• 2006 (Age 32): Secure full-time, tenure track English Instructor position 
• 2007 (Age 33): Move back to West Seattle for second full-time, tenure track English Instructor position
• 2008 (Age 34): Become Writing Center Coordinator, get pregnant (a year earlier than planned)
• 2009 (Age 35): Have second child (Reese), create new position at work as a mentor to online instructors (which gives me a lighter teaching load), Jack starts kindergarten
• 2010 (Age 36): Adjust to life with two children (clearly, a lazy year)
• 2011 (Age 37): Witness death of husband (with children and close friends)
• 2012 (Age 38): Face grieving process head on, move from teaching into administration as Associate Dean, buy first home and move
• 2013 (Age 39): C'mon, it's only February 

I was reading over the few posts from the last year, noticing how often I said that I was exhausted or tired or some version of extremely sleepy. Honestly, it sounded a little whiny. But, I read this list and wonder how I didn't take more naps.

Rent versus Own (from September 2005)

I found a draft of a post from fall 2005- just a few months after we moved to Boston. Can't tell if it's me or Ed writing, though I assume it's Ed because it's both concise and witty. I can't help but hear Alanis Morrisette's "Ironic" in my head as I read this...

They should have confessionals for married couples in their thirties who don't own a home. I can only imagine:

Real Estate Priest: "So, how old are you?"

Laura & Ed (shifting uncomfortably on the lone kneeling bench): "31." "32."

Real Estate Priest: "And, how long have you been married?"

Laura: "Nearly nine years."

R.E. Priest: "Children?"

Ed: "One. Jack. He's fourteen months."

R.E. Priest: "Sounds good. You both are keeping in tune with the great American dream of getting married and having children. I assume you both have established, well-paying jobs, being that you both have master's degrees, and that you're diligently saving for your very own home."

Ed: "Um, well, that's why we are here. You see, we're still searching for that perfect job and in order to do that, we've accumulated a fair amount of debt...."

Laura: "Basically, it will be a long time before we can buy a home. We don't tell our friends how long it will be, but we needed to tell someone. That's why we came here."

R.E. Priest: "I see. It's good you've told me. My best recommendation is to push yourselves to near-breaking point so that you can buy that home as soon as possible."

Ed: "That's what we're doing."

R.E. Priest. "Good. Keep it up. Go to your current residence, say four 'hail mortgages,' and have a good night sleep."

Yeah, right. Lately I've been trying to figure out why owning a home is so important. Why it is just expected that buying a house is the logical next step in our lives. Why have I bought into the "dream" of a mortgage?

Reboot: 2013

Lent started earlier this week: one day before Valentine's Day, actually. Jack made a point to NOT give up candy because he knew Valentine's Day would be that much harder. I reminded him that we get Sundays off  - a loophole we discovered last year. Since Lent is technically 40 days, those six weeks before Easter include 7 extra (Sun)days. We count those as freebies to indulge in whatever we gave up. He decided to give up his new Xbox instead (which, by the way, he hardly plays with).

I gave up Facebook for Lent. I think it's brilliant- and, I can say that because it wasn't my idea (came from a friend also giving it up). I gave it a trial run a few days before Ash Wednesday; I turned off my chat and hid the notifications page. I then uninstalled the app on my phone. I must admit, there was a strange relief. I lurked for a day or two, but by Friday, hadn't really missed it. It was becoming more distraction than connection with others. I am not disparaging the social media; in fact, it was my lifeblood of connection with the support of so many people those first few months after Ed died. Then, it became an opportunity to find my way into a new normal- fewer of my posts were a reminder of our tragedy and more about plain ol' everyday life.

But, then, plain ol' everyday life just can't stay put. We were robbed Friday and among the stolen were the new Xbox (which was hardly played), my wedding ring (which was broken) and Ed's wedding ring. I'm sad, of course, but I am mostly upset about the loss of my Ipod nanos, one of which had a ton of pictures from Boston and when Reese was a baby that I couldn't figure out how to download after the computer crashed with the old Itunes. All my jewelry is gone, save my necklaces and one pair of earrings I was wearing (part of a necklace/earring set Ed had given me, so that's something). The worst part, of course, is that Jack's security has been rocked- again.

I posted about the robbery on Facebook. I used my "free Sunday" on a Friday. It was an automatic reflex. Immediately, I received a ton of response and remembered the value of my Facebook community. The West Seattle Blog picked up the story which was picked up by the local media. I was interviewed Saturday and on the news that night (thank goodness for anonymity; those garden clogs could have been a story by themselves).

By Saturday night, though, I was done. I am ready to no longer be the standard by which others might compare their own tragedy. Not that folks are doing that, but to read a sampling of my Facebook posts over the last year and a half is just plain pitiful.

So, I'm declaring a reboot of 2013. I'm just plain bored with all the crap:  from sickness to surgery (more later) and sadness to stealing. I'm declaring enough. Don't get me wrong- I'm not expecting it all to come up roses and easy living- I just don't have time to react anymore. And, honestly, the extent of "tragedy" is misrepresented for how much it actually impacts our daily life. Roughly 80-85% of our life is good, secure, and positive (aka those boring Facebook posts).  I've reached my limit for grief. It's actually nice; I woke up this morning well rested. What a lovely surprise to realize that I only have so much capacity to feel bad.

The Art of Quitting

There is a plague upon our house. I'm not kidding. Since mid-December, Jack, Reese or I have been sick. I had strep throat at one point. Reese ran a fever of 103 for a few days. This week, Jack has been home sick with a high fever and the flu.. I can't count how many sick days I've taken at work (the guilt over that is solidifying my Catholic status).

Driving home after dropping Reese off at daycare this morning, I recognized a familiar angst. It was a messy mix of fear, excitement, and anxiety. I think it stems mostly from my decision to update/remodel my upstairs. I should say that this is a response to three weeks of sickness, exhaustion and life curve balls.

Illogical to add more chaos? Maybe. Habit? Definitely. I think of all those times Ed & I stopped our life mid-track and pushed in a different (more fulfilling) direction.

I haven't felt this since Ed & I began planning to save for a down payment on a home - a twisted mix of excitement, fear, and hope prompted by setting a goal that felt unattainable. I stepped outside myself and called out the angst: Drive. Ambition. It's that feeling of pushing forward, barreling through, getting to the next level. I also realized that my drive is a response to feeling trapped, trapped in a life I often can't make sense of.

I have moments where it's all too much (as any parent-particularly single parent--knows). Balancing work, family, house, finances, doctor appointments, childcare, oil changes, blah, blah, blah takes its toll. Every now and then, I need a break when breaks aren't possible. Two weeks ago, when I was scrambling to figure out last minute changes in childcare, Reese decided that was the night she would throw a fit about going to sleep. Of course, these two things in and of themselves aren't much- but when they come at the end of a crazy day, sleepless week, and sickness, the world closes around me. The only thing I can do is deal with the current moment, then the next, then the next. That night, I went in Reese's room and focused on holding her hand, breathing, looking in her eyes and setting a calm tone.

When she (finally!) fell asleep, I reflected on those first few months after Ed died when Reese wouldn't sleep: how all I wanted was some space to grieve, alone, in my room instead of sitting there, holding her hand, willing her to give in to sleep. Instead, I had to give in to being trapped. When Reese's recent sleep tantrum interrupted my pending panic attack over finding childcare for the next day, I was surprised at how easily I could transition into the moment. Apparently, my stamina for dealing with entrapment is growing.

To survive my new life, I gave up on looking too far into the future. For a while, it was moment to moment. About this time last year, I could comfortably look only a day ahead. Recently, I've looked as far as an entire month. And, with the plans to remodel, I'm clearly looking a few months ahead. The remodel idea prompted a three page list of projects to tackle. The pages are sitting on my console table.

But, Jack is sick. And, I'm trying to work from home. In the mid-day quiet with the windows open and my poor little man sleeping, I am overcome by the bliss of sheer exhaustion. So, I'm paying attention to this re-emerging habit of pushing forward to make positive change. And, I'm giving in, throwing in the towel, quitting anything but right now (at least, right now). I am remembering the strange bliss of being in the moment amid panic attacks and a crying three-year-old. I'm realizing--despite myself--that calm and contentment are a matter of attention, mentally tuning in and letting everything else fall away.

I read an article this weekend by one of my favorite authors (Martha Beck). In the article, she writes about "Knowing When to Quit." There is benefit to giving in:

Recently, psychologists Gregory Miller and Carsten Wrosch set out to investigate the mental and physical health of people who resist quitting, and of those who throw in the towel when facing unattainable goals. The second group—the quitters—were healthier than their persistent peers on almost every variable. They suffered fewer health problems, from digestive trouble to rashes, and showed fewer signs of psychological stress.

I'm not saying that I'm quitting the upstairs upgrades or all those other projects. I appreciate that I am able to plan -- let alone think -- that far in the future. Yet, I'm also grateful for the gift of grief to help me step back and recognize the mental freedom from entrapment. And, to know, in my bones, that there's no real urgency. I give in. And, here I am.

December One

I woke up early, before the kids, this morning. This makes me a little nervous; rarely do I wake up early, wide awake, before the rest of the house. The three other times I remember this happening include the day Jack was born, the day our car was smashed into the neighbor's yard by a drunk driver, and the day that Ed died. I've decided, though, that I am just aware of the first weekend of Advent and am ready for the season of anticipation and hope to begin.

We pulled out the Christmas decorations last night. Years of looking forward to the holiday season have become habit; I automatically feel an anticipation of wonder and contentment. Of course, now, as soon as I bring up the boxes flooded with memories and dreams of another life, I am forced right back into today's reality: it's now about creating new memories, redefining contentment, and--maybe--*just* maybe--imagining there are new dreams that could be fulfilled (but, shhhh... that's too dangerous yet to think about).

Despite our  new reality, we still use the decorations of another life because, I suppose, we are reminded of a lot of the good from that life. And, for all the work and investment that went into that life-I can't completely let go. Nor should I, for my children's sake.

Yet, I only hung up three stockings: Jack, Laura, and Reese. Just like the Christmas card I am sending out this year: from the three of us. Just like the picture on the fridge that Jack drew of the three of us and written above the picture: "I am thankful for my family." And, it's a family of three. I am amazed and proud that Jack could face drawing that picture; I was in the middle, holding the hand of each child on either side of me. The three of us fill the entire frame of the paper-as if there isn't anyone missing. So, I'm not sure why it knocked me over to hang up only three stockings. I had to pause, sit on the couch and let the grief wash over. Reese came and sat by me, hugged me, called me sweetie pie and told me that she loved me. Then, we set out the Advent wreath and candles.

Comparable Darkness

My front porch light is out. And, it's not as simple as changing the light bulb. Of course. Much like finding childcare. Never simple. Anyway, my front yard is dark. At night, I leave the light on just inside the door; I can see a sliver of its light outside my bedroom window, just beyond the lilac tree. Last year, after Ed died, the back porch light at the old house went out. For weeks, it was dark. Dark, dark. I didn't get it fixed because I was dealing with other pressing issues like not losing my mind. I dreaded that darkness because it seemed to have no soul, no out, like a black hole. I dreaded it because it mirrored what I felt. I will never forget that dark space and my strange, if intimate, connection to it.

This year, a year later, the porch light is out again. In the new house. But, it's not as dark. I am wrestling with the familiar, exhausting reality of daily frustration, isolation and the slow process of building a new life and identity. But, it's not as dark.

I've been taking pictures of the house when I think of it. I never took "before" pictures, but do have some after. The first one, below, is the Southwest corner of the living room.  Before,  this wall was covered with a big slat of paneling painted  light, faded mauve. Now, there are new walls with insulation underneath. The paint is "Nimbus Grey," which is the perfect blue.The picture below it shows the front porch with its newer blue door, part of the front yard and the walk to the door.

The last picture I took yesterday. It shows the blue, blue sky that has been around for the last two months. And, one of my favorite trees (yes, I have at least four favorite trees!): I love the deep red maple leaves. I include this only to document the season, a fall that has been uncommonly sunny and bright (which feels alternately helpful and mocking). There are more pictures. For now, though, it's about light, blue hues, shadows and slivers of hope.



Labor of Love

I am surprised that I am looking forward to fall. Tonight, when tucking Jack in, he told me how sad he was that summer was over. My response was that it must have been a good summer if he was sad it's over. We talked about what a gift that was- that we could have a good summer, our first summer without Ed. I then told Jack how I used to get the summer blues. Even through my twenties, I would depressed at the end of August. In the last few years, though, those blues have given way to a sweet anticipation for fall. I didn't fully realize until tonight that it's been years since I was sad over summer's end. And, last summer, I distinctly remember feeling filled up by summer--that we lived it as fully as we could have--that I didn't need any more of it.

Maybe it's habit that I'm looking forward to fall; maybe it's that I am just relieved I survived summer-the move, the "vacations" with the kids--who knows. Part of me is also aware of the power of denial and that lurking around the corner is likely a wave of grief so strong I may discover (or re-discover) a fall that isn't so full of the warmth and richness of the changing colors. Or, maybe not. I've learned to wait and see.

I made pulled pork for Ed's family, who came up today to celebrate Labor Day. I needed to find a bbq meal without a grill (I sold that at the yard sale). I spent too much time at work on Friday looking up recipes for pork rubs and coleslaw. But, it was worth it- the pulled pork turned out great. Jack had three helpings- which made it all worth it for me. There was a fair amount of work involved. Hours before Jack and everyone had their first helping, I stood, breaking apart the tender pork butt with two forks, carefully removing a lot of the fat. My lower back was a little sore from standing in the kitchen. I felt like I was standing in Ed's shoes. I was in his kitchen, his domain, his world, giving time to the meal and enjoying it. Jack was playing downstairs with a friend and Reese was taking a nap on my bed. Unlike so many moments that I attempt to do it all and end up completely frustrated and yelling at the kids, I was given the gift of uninterrupted time to finish the meal: Ed's meal. I am unbelievably grateful for that time- - time that will fold over itself in memories- how I will will remember making pulled pork for the first time in our house and how the making of it blends in the years of Ed's holiday meals.

October 8th approaches. It's like a far off storm, or hurricane, that may or may not fully hit us. I am aware of its force, so I imagine I'll be that much thankful for any smooth sailing.

A Week and a Day

We've been in the  new house a week and a day. The sheet rocking is nearly complete in the living room, so in the meantime, after we wake up, Reese and I sit on the TV room couch that is currently in the dining room next to the kitchen table. The washing machine went out so I bought a new washer and dryer that was delivered yesterday. All I can say about that was at least I'll get a chunk of miles out of it.

It has been hot in Seattle. This weekend the temperatures are near 90 degrees. Last night, we went to family swim at Coleman Pool. We would go last summer as a family. It used to stress me out, mostly because I resisted the work to get to the pool and then worried about Reese.The stress, preparation and worry overruled any enjoyment in swimming. Being a single parent has forced me to enjoy the times, however small, that are available. So, despite the preparation, the long walk to the pool, the reality that I would be holding Reese the entire time and not able to swim own my own, we went swimming and it was lovely. We went to friends after for dinner, and when we got home, the house was stifling.  It was 9:30, but still in the 80s. We watched the Olympics in the cool basement while I caught up on the laundry and even though I was spent, there is a shift in comfort. I like being here, in my house.

In a lot of ways, the house reminds me of our house in Boston. The hard wood floors (oak?) are old; likely the originals from when the house was built in 1946 and they are unevenly stained. When it's hot, there's a feeling that I can't ever get all the dirt off the floor and my feet are sore, cracked and filthy. I meet the end of the day with a steaming hot wash cloth to wrap my feet and take away some of the day's wear and tear. This single act represents my summers of 2005 and 2006 in our house in Roslindale. I have flashbacks to weighing the costs of my feet with the costs of putting small rugs in the hallways and bedrooms. There is also crown molding around the doors, doorways and windows that is very similar. Boston was an amazing place, an experience that is now out of place and time. I relish that I am able to have some of it here with me, now, in Seattle, without Ed, because it keeps him and that magical time more present in my day to day life.

Last night, driving home, Reese asked if we could go to the new house. When I tucked him in, Jack said he is liking the back yard more than he thought. This was a good move for us.

Time Bomb

A few weeks ago my therapist mentioned that this move would be challenging. My response "you think?" She pointed out that the new house solidifies that our family is what it is: the three of us. Ed won't be there with us. Seems obvious, right? For the kids, that reality is far more powerful than I would have realized and I am glad I have language to understand their behavior. With the move only two days away, the tension is thick.

Jack is quick to irrational anger, the kind that makes him throw fake punches at his sister for sitting too content on the couch. He teared up (which is rare, when related to Ed), and expressed sadness that Ed isn't moving to the house with us. It must be safer to take the absence in small parts- rather than dad is gone forever, Jack can articulate a sadness in the less abstract reality of daddy not moving with us.

Reese arouses from sleep -more often from naps- absolutely pissed off. She will scream and yell and demand her dad. I let her work it out- as devastated as I am relieved that she is working through it.

My reaction is little to no patience. I apologize at least once a day for snapping at little stuff that doesn't really matter, but that feels huge when I am days away from completing the packing that is now hours away. I feel like I should be making this move more special- doing things to commemorate the change, but I haven't.

I live in the bitter barn or the grateful den. The mood swings for moving in normal circumstances test just about anyone and I'm on an emotional rollercoaster that has me nauseous. I hate that I am doing this by myself- but still amazingly overwhelmed at the folks who are making time to help me out.

When I worked at a Congregational Church in Bellingham during graduate school, I mentioned to my boss, one of the pastors, that I couldn't wait for life to start once I was finished my Master's degree. He told me that graduate school *was* life. Ed and I spent so much time waiting for life to start; last summer there was a shift and it actually felt like we were learning to live in the moment. Yet, I think of all those years we were waiting for the optimum moment to begin living (and, living, after all, is enjoying the moment). I am working hard not to wait for this move to be over or to get used to the new job before breathing out. These moments of absolute stress and tension,-this time of transition- is life.

Shades of Grey

(Don't I wish that it would be one of those kinds of posts..not quite yet...)

I think I've found the paint color for the living room. It's a blue grey and perfect. I wanted the second bedroom grey to match my color scheme and Reese's (since it will be my room for the foreseeable future and then hers), but I've been through about nine different greys and it's impossible to find one that isn't too blue or too green. Besides, that's a lot of grey in the house (at least Jack's room is a bearable Sounders green - from last season, not this year). So, I picked up a light lilac paint sample today and I hope it works. We start painting on Monday (we being me and a few amazing, generous friends). We'll be painting while the sheet rock guy puts up new walls in the living room. Yup, there's no turning back now.

On the drive home from the kids' birthday party today (Ed's brother and best friend, Steve and his wife, were gracious enough to host in part to avoid me having to host in a half packed house and in part to keep the memory of Ed a little further away), I realized how familiar the unbearable has become. My 20 year high school reunion is tonight and I wished I had more foresight to have figured out a way to go. It would have been lovely to see everyone and to remember who I was before I was a Kingston, because I think it would have given me some inspiration. Besides, the drive home from family events is awful. So awful. The kids are tired and tuned out. There's nothing on the radio, so the silence is stifling. I find myself facing the reality of Ed's death in the car- it's so real, I can't wrap my head around it. After nine months, the fabric of a new routine has woven itself around our daily lives, and part of that thread includes the wrongness of our life as three, not four. Long drives home are a brutal reminder of that reality and there's no where to hide.

And yet, there are moments- very brief- that I can feel a surge of something besides common despair. I can't wait to get to the new house. I love it there; I unpacked the kitchen this morning while the kids were at the parade with friends and I was energized. On the drive home, I realize that some of blues were because I wasn't driving to the new house- but because I was driving to our current home, the house I have, in the best of times, put up with. Do you realize that this means that there's a possible FIX for the blues- that they may not actually *all* be permanent? This is HUGE. And, earlier this week, I had a glimpse of what I could be at work, how my job is a great fit and that there's a lot I want to do with it. With this career move, I'm redefining myself and what a gift to have a new professional canvas to draw on.

The paint color in the living room is called Divine Fog. It seems appropriate. I can't see very far in front of the current moment, and though the mood is often heavy and grey, there is some clearling and it reveals something promising, even exciting.

Over the nowhere arches the everywhere.  ~ Maria Rainer Rilke

July 13, 2012

I signed the date a dozen times or more today sitting on the 23rd floor of the Columbia Tower, watching a spectacular light show. Last night, I set out the majority of my "stuff" to be sold at tomorrow's yard sale including furniture and toys and games. The weather forecast said sun through the weekend. This morning, on the drive downtown, I heard "possible thunderstorms" on the radio. In between signatures, I looked outside to see multiple bolts of lightening flashing over the city. It poured downtown, but not in West Seattle (I still texted my kids' summer nanny- Aunt Lisa- to get the tarp over the furniture).

Grief is a double-edged sword that cuts the gut. And both sides cut, usually at the same time. Leaving this house and moving into a new one forces us to face that we are, indeed, a family of three. Ed's not coming back home because we are in a new home. He doesn't know where we live. I sort through our things and pack up our stuff facing that reality. It's a brutal reality. One that I'm glad I took a month from work off for. The brutality of it has me ready to fight. (Or flight, apparently, since I'm moving). I thought I had no patience before, but it's gone now. So much so that I can't stomach small talk or laugh at domestic niceties. I avoid email and conversation so the friends I cherish won't breathe in my disdain and mistake it for a personal attack (I can't imagine what damage I'd do at work). I suppose that if I didn't have the anger, it would mean I wasn't facing this all head on. I suppose if I didn't have the anger, I would sleep the month of July away because God knows I'm tired. I'm beyond exhausted.

Though, driving home (out of the rain), I felt okay. Okay in a way I haven't in a week. For a moment, I had a glimpse of a future. I have no idea what that future is, but to have a sense that there is one, is great. I was reminded of the power of status quo. Like, when Ed & I were married; somehow, despite the fact that we were only 21 and 22 years old, we were suddenly seen as legitimate- that saying "I do" to something we had no idea what we were saying "I do" to transformed us into responsible, credible adults. We would talk about the ridiculousness of that notion, but were also seduced by how easy it was to be transformed. Buying a home is similar. I am equally irritated by this as I am in awe, because it is the power of "normal" that seduces and leaves those less than normal, us outliers, isolated. Though, I felt okay. These days, I'll take "okay" at almost any cost.

I'm ending with a quote that I've returned to all week. It gives me permission to barrel forward and not judge the anger- mine or my kids (who have also been incredibly angry in spurts). But to respect it as the normal response:

She taught me that grief is a time to be lived through, experienced fully, and that the heavens will not fall if I give voice to my anger against God in such a time. -Elizabeth Watson

What a Mess

I would post a picture of my kitchen-particularly the dishes in and around the sink-if I knew I wouldn't be mortified later. Reese is asleep next to me on the couch with a fever; Jack is at a barbeque enjoying the amazing 80 degree sun with his friends and their parents (my friends). Of course, I couldn't feel farther away from everyone if I was at home or near the fire pit. C.S. Lewis wrote in "A Grief Observed" that grief was like a veil, or a blanket- not sure which, but it's a film of yuck between the person grieving and the rest of the world. It's awful. And, no one wants to ask how things are; no one wants to taint the beautiful weather and good times. I don't blame them; I look at me through their eyes and am amazed that anyone would want to be even near such awful sadness.

But, like I said, my house is a mess. I am so aware of how my standards are sliding; Ed and I would come home from vacation and the bags would be unpacked within the hour; the cat box cleaned, the garbage put out, the floors swept and the rugs vacuumed. We got home yesterday and the weight of Ed's absence kept me from doing all but what he would do first (cat box, sweep, vacuum). I let my kids have cookies for brunch and Popsicles for dinner. If they brush their teeth twice a day, I feel like I should get an award.

I read something yesterday that it takes about seven years to deal with grief. Seven. Years. I'll be 45. Maybe then I'll enjoy fireworks again. We watched them at Coeur d'alene this week- it was such a great vacation. I wasn't sad at all and genuinely escaped- all of it. The long moving to-do list. The birthday planning. The July without Ed. Anyway, the fireworks have always been my thing- what I loved so much. But, when you are with someone for 16 years, even sharing the joys of my love - and his (have I mentioned that I actually enjoyed watching the European Soccer Championship tournament?)- becomes tainted.

So much is changing. And, I'm working really hard to find out what is worth keeping (getting the kids outside, quality over quantity) and what is judged by a standard that perhaps doesn't fit in my world view anymore (keeping the yard weeded or the kitchen clean all the time). The thing is, there is a big part of me that feels like I'm failing Ed by not keeping *every* part of our life the same. And that part of me wrestles with the one who says that I have so much life to live and here's an opportunity to recreate in a way few can.

I just miss Ed. Which is good, I guess; some days I've been afraid that I'm just missing my domestic partner. But, in the midst of this messy house, all I can think about is having him here.

Blue Slate

I took the kids furniture shopping today. When we move, I will have no living room furniture. And while I think it makes a lot of sense to live in a house for a while before buying new furniture, I don't want to live too long in a house with *no* living room furniture.

I looked at four couches before Reese started getting loud and Jack's body language screamed I'M BORED. The saleswoman walked away before I had a chance to really think about anything. I'm getting to the point where it's okay to try formerly solo activities (like grocery or furniture shopping) with the kids without getting absolutely annoyed or perfectly isolated. But, I need to find space to look for couches alone. Like the move itself (which happens in about ONE FREAKIN' MONTH!) I'm beyond overwhelmed and have NO IDEA how it's going to get done.

Luckily, I have a lot of experience in seeing things get done that initially seem impossible (moving across the country with no jobs and a toddler, balancing childcare and teaching, adjusting to single parenting...yada yada yada). It's about breaking down the big jobs into smaller ones. It's also about limiting options. I'm of the camp now where good enough is plenty; I don't have time to spend weeks figuring out the best color. So, I'm going with a decision of color for the living room. Well, a tentative decision: blue slate. I realize that picking a grayish color when I live in the Northwest may seem monotone, but I've always come back to blue. And, I do love the beach. It's my most favorite place to escape to. I will always live near the coast and we always vacation near water. So, I'm taking the colors from there (blue, gray, wood) and bring them inside. From here:

To here:

And, I want a gray couch; it will work well with a blue slate and can be punctuated with color and texture. I think the colors will go with the light oak floor. I don't know I'll use yellow, but I like how it pulls in the oak floors and allows natural wood accents. I do have red as accents in my blue living room now, so I may keep that for awhile. One paint color I will sample is Mountain Laurel (Benjamin Moore) but I think I will need to find a rug before anything else.

There's a good chance blue will be in nearly every room in the house, at least for awhile. I always return to blue; it's been my favorite color since I was a kid and as much as I try other colors, it's the one I am most attracted to. I hope it's not reflective only of the layer of sadness in our family. I think if I find the right blues, they will reflect the richness of possibility true grief brought on by true love brings.