Where my daddy go?

Sorry about the technical difficulty.  I think I have a handle on things now.  At least as far as the interwebz are concerned.

The Christmas season has finally come to our house.  No, we don’t have a tree (that will come on Sunday in the form of a trip to the tree farm) but we have watched “The Polar Express” no less than four times in the last five days.  And, tonight, we made our first batch of cut out sugar cookies.  I got sprinkles from the Amish bulk food store last week.  They are shaped like candy canes and they taste like peppermint.  My house really is delicious!  Now if I could only stop eating my feelings…

My weight has creeped up and up in the last month.  The only thing different from last month is that I have not spent on minute (but have, evidently, spent $43) at the gym due to lung illness.  It’s also really cold.  And I’m really tired.  And I’ve fallen into my old routine of eating after the littles are in bed.  I hate to admit to WW that they were right…that meetings do work…but…I might have to go back.  After Christmas of course.  I’m just going to have to wear track pants for an entire month and try not to feel like I have to clean my plate in the interest of not wasting food.  Or making cookies late at night just to have the dough.  Whatever.

Oh, the littles.  They play together now.  It’s the day I have hope for ever since the second line appeared shortly after Christmas almost 3 years ago.  It’s wonderful and awful all at the same time.  Part of me liked it better when they played in their own space.  It was alot less messy and there was much less screaming.  They fight now as often as they play.  Much of it is Amelia doing something naughty (but normal for a two year old) and Ella standing by or, worse, laughing at her.  So who gets in trouble?  Ella. 

I, as the oldest child in my family, vowed that I would be different as a mother.  And I am.  But I find myself scolding Ella for what Amelia has done as often as for what she has done.  I have to catch myself.  But I’m not really sure how to convey to Ella that she needs to set a good example.  And help me to make sure that her sister doesn’t do anything that will get her hurt.  Like climbing on the dresser.  Or standing on the top bunk and twirling the celing fan.  Or squirting Gogurt (the bastard child of all the yogurts) on the kitchen floor and licking it off.

Ella and I seem to be in the same cycle of missing Stephen.  Tonight at dinner:

Honey, EAT.

“I can’t eat.  I want to call Daddy.”

We can’t call daddy.  He’s in heaven with Jesus.  Now eat your ham.

“But I’m kind of a little bit sad.  I miss daddy.”

I do too sweetheart.  Have you tried your gravy?

What she doesn’t know is that I can’t sleep again.  That I stay up too late and want to nap in the daytime.  That I don’t even want to get out the Christmas decorations.  That I can’t hardly even go through the motions anymore.  It struck me late one night that this weekend will mark 14 months since he’s been gone.  Amelia was 14 months old when he died.  He’s been gone more than half her life.

I know that Amelia doesn’t remember him.  She can’t possibly, right?  She was a baby really.  And yet…the other day when Ella was at school and I was sewing and Amelia was nursing Elmo while watching Calliou.  (Sidenote:  That kid’s voice grates on my freaking nerves…and his parents make me feel like the worst failure of a parent…not that I watch it or anything.)  She says from across the playroom…

” Where my daddy go?”

What, baby?  I honestly didn’t hear her.

She comes over to me.  “Where MY daddy go?”

Oh.  He’s in heaven, baby.

“Daddy sick?  My daddy die?”

That’s right.

“Mommy okay?  Mommy no sick?”

Yep.  I’m okay…mommy is okay.

And then she is gone again, off to nurse whatever critter might need it.  So did she remember?  Or is she just digesting what Ella and I are saying?  I might never know.

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