I not so unintentionally slept in this morning and missed church. I did get up in enough time to get Ella dressed and out the door with Robyn who taught Sunday School class for me. Is it a bad thing to teach and then not attend the service? Because that’s what’s been happening. By the time Sunday School is over, the girls are done and I’m sweaty and I know that I’ll just be chasing kids through the pews and not get anything out of it anyway.
That, and I’m officially angry. It’s spring. There are things to do. Memories I have of warm late afternoons, supper with the windows open and trips to the ice cream store. There were talks of traveling, event weekends, kids’ birthdays, family visiting. And I have none of it. It was stolen from me.
I’m angry. 2 months ago I wasn’t awake enough to be angry but now I am. Awake and angry. Not outwardly, mind you. I appear to function quite well (except that I hemmoraged money this weekend but whatever…) and my kids are thriving. Every day isn’t in survival mode. We make plans. We sleep. We eat more than Easy Mac and Doritos. We have things to do. But I. Am. Angry.
I am angry that I’m not pregnant. I am angry that I always wanted to raise three kids and it didn’t turn out that way. I have baby lust in a bad way.
I am angry that I am both the good cop and the bad cop. I’ve tried being one or the other but it doesn’t work that way. I don’t have anyone to back up my discipline. My kids must hear “wah, wah, wah, Ella, One, Two, wah, wah, shoes, wah, wah, out, wah.”
I am angry that if anything is going to get done, that I must be the one to do it. That if a decision is to be made, I’m the one who must make it.
I am angry that I have to arrange and pay for time for myself.
This? Is not how I imagined things to be. I didn’t want to work this hard. I didn’t want to cry this much or be this bitter. I don’t want to be tough. I don’t want to be alone.
I know, I know. I will always have my kids and that’s true. But it’s not the same. They will grow up and move on and marry and have their own families. And this is it for me.
I have a regret. I will never speak of it again but I regret having Stephen cremated. It’s not in my family’s nature to do the cremation thing. And it *is* what he wanted. What he has written down. But all I can see is burning things. It’s my nightmare. So instead of seeing a peacefully sleeping image (like the one I have of my son) I see burning things. Not all the time. Not every day. But it makes me regret the cremation. It doesn’t feel final because the last time I saw him or touched him was at the hospital. I wear his ring but can’t bear to wear mine anymore. Ella won’t let me wear his tshirts. I would do anything to find a sound or video recording of his voice. But I don’t think one exists. So, that’s my regret. *I* wasn’t the last one to touch him. Or touch his body. Or whatever.
Part of this stems from the whole headstone thing and and the other part stems from having to clean out 75 pounds of rotton, re-frozen meat from my chest freezer. It took me all day. Thaw a layer, peel off, throw away, repeat. For 6 hours. And then bleach sanitize everything in sight. At least the swimming pool smell is better than the yucky meat smell. But it would have been nice to at least have some company. Some commiseration. Some help.
So, yeah. I’m angry. I’m angry that God let this happen to me. Yeah, it happened to him but, in the grand scheme of things, I’m the one that got left with the mess. All of it was out of my control and maybe that’s the lesson here. I could be the teeniest bit positive here and say that there’s a lesson to be had. Let go. Don’t try to be in control of everything.
But I’m still angry.