I’ve been staring at the cursor for over an hour, mulling over the day and how very little got accomplished. We did things. I did things. But they weren’t things on my list. I did things.
That’s how I feel. If I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done. I know I can’t expect Ella to help out with actual “chores” (although I am looking forward to the day that she will become the indentured servant that she was born to be) (kidding) (kind of). And although she knows better than to go behind me and tear things up, she eggs her sister on to doing whatever isn’t supposed to be done by laughing her fool ass off. So I did what any self respecting mother would do.
I sent her to bed early, ate a piece of pie and watched my show. (That would be Grey’s) Because I am the mother and that’s what mother’s do. That’s what mine did. Except it was “Dallas” and instead of pie, it was probably a protein shake and granola. Or it was the Oreo’s she had hidden because, and I quote, “You’ll just eat them.” Think on that statement for a moment. Food. Purchased under the guise that it will someday be consumed. Hidden from husband and children. Because “you’ll just eat it.” For the record, she still hides things from my dad. He thinks he’s onto her but I say she leaves the decoy treats for him to find to deter him from looking any further. Is it any wonder that I am gleeful every time the conveyor belt at the grocery store moves and it contains my selection of yummy things? That I am paying for with my own money and can consume any time I feel like it? I also don’t hide food from my kids. I just put “my” treats in a different place than theirs. Totally different story.
Every day something happens to remind me of what I am missing. Today it was several things. One is that I managed to grill some very tasty pork chops. We had a family supper for the 2nd night in a row. The girls ate well and I remembered all the steps to lighting, cooking on and shutting off the grill without a) blowing off my eyebrows, b) giving us all ecoli or salmonella and 3) leaving the gas on so that it slowly leaks out and is absent the next time I want a grilled hot dog or something. So fairly successful. But sooo not my job, grilling. Also, we will get our stimulus money in, oh, 21 minutes. Other than buying some beef to fill my empty freezer, I have no plans for Uncle George’s money. He would have helped me come up with a plan. Or we would have had a kick ass weekend off somewhere, living large. For a day. Which means Cheesecake Factory instead of Chilis but whatever.
The third thing is that there is a little boy in Washington who has been battling cancer for 4 freaking years. He died this morning. His mother has been detailing his ups and downs over the years. I just got caught up the other night. What that kid went through makes my story look like Stephen came down with a cold. Seriously. Don’t go reading it if you are overly emotional or pregnant or nosy. I don’t want to hear about it. But if you do, the update from today about how and what time he died is almost a mirror of how Stephen died. The way Samuel’s mom described it was so wonderful. It makes me have some regrets.
We should have involved hospice. But we didn’t. He thought (and I did too at the time) that involving hospice was admitting defeat.
I never kissed him goodbye after he was gone. I know he was “gone” hours before his body quit working and maybe that’s why.
We were quick to do the funeral and I had his ashes buried. I should have kept some. Don’t know why. But now I wish I had just a little bit. I go back and forth about the cremation. Fire scares the snot out of me but it wasn’t my choice. It was his and I have to respect that.
We should have taken lots of pictures last summer and didn’t. We should have gotten a video camera and we didn’t. I should have recorded his voice. Because I miss it. And I didn’t.
But most of all, I regret that it even happened. Much like Samuel, I don’t know what good came of the illness that threatened to tear us all apart and turn us into people we don’t even recognize. And I really regret that the girls are too little to have very much, if any, memory of their dad. And that hurts.
Wow. Didn’t mean to get all Debbie Downer. It’s just been kind of a twitchy day.