I’m shattered again. I want my Daddy. I want to hit the rewind button and tell everyone in the church at the funeral what a vital part of mine and my kids’ lives he was. That when my respective ex-spouses decided that involvement was too much to handle, my Daddy stepped up.
Then I want to hit the rewind button again and keep the accident from happening.
Relating the news to people who didn’t know is still difficult - I feel like I’m whapping them in the head with it. And I’m still running into folks who yell “Tell yer Daddy I said Hey!” over their shoulder as they leave. What, specifically, is the protocol there? Am I supposed to chase them down and tell them? Call ‘em up and say “I know you didn’t know, but….”?
There have been quite a few occasions where I’ve said “Daddy, where did you PUT IT??!!??” and heard his voice in my head saying “It’s right there in front of your face!” in that irritatedDaddy tone of voice. (And? It was.)
I drove a Toyota Celica when I was pregnant with Alannah. When my belly got too big for me to slide down into that car, Daddy gave me the keys to his red pickup and I drove it until after she was born.
When my first husband left (for the last time) Daddy stayed with me until he was sure that the man would not be coming back to my house.
When it was time for me to leave Tig, I called Daddy. A plane ticket was waiting for us the next day to come home. After Tig moved out of our apartment Daddy flew back, packed all my stuff and brought it to me.
Daddy was at the hospital when I delivered Joseph. Not in the delivery room, but he was there.
When they were old enough, Daddy would take them “hiking in the forest” behind our house and then creekstompin’. He taught them the necessary skills - carry a stick, don’t touch THAT VINE, and how to pee on a tree.
He asked Alannah what kind of car she wanted. With all the bravado of a teen that knows EVERYTHING she tossed off the name of my dream car - quite certain she wouldn’t get it. The car was sitting in the driveway two weeks later. It needs some restoration work, but it runs (and yes, I’m driving it. Hush.)
We weren’t done yet. And I’m angry about that.
Lorelle issued a Blog Challenge: Blog About Being Big - aka Successful. Specifically, to write about a moment when I felt “big”, or to write “what it would look like if I were big”.
When I first read her post yesterday, I was all prepared to pick and choose between conquering anxiety attacks, restarting college as an adult, being a single mom to three, writing this blog, being promoted at work, losing weight, and teaching computer skills classes. Dating again (though I daresay that hasn’t been as successful as I’d like). All perfectly good examples of “when I felt big”.
Then I went to look at apartments with The Teen ™ and got the great joy of hearing about how I need a new vehicle (I really do), she needs new clothes (what teen doesn’t?), and I need to find her a job so she can start saving up for her own car (she can find her own damn job). And how she’s going to live her life differently so she doesn’t have to live the way I do. In my daughter’s eyes, I’m a hard-done-by loser. (She wouldn’t necessarily use the word “loser” though).
After that wonderfully uplifting discussion, I got to come home and listen to My Sainted Mother. Why in the WORLD would I want to live in an apartment when I can live in her Doublewide Paradise.
(Yes, I’m serious.)
And then I felt really really small and alone. And the see-saw started. Quitting school would meet my daughter’s immediate need for a vehicle “she can be seen in” and a house “she can invite people to”. Oh, and we can’t forget “shopping at the Mall!” Quitting school is not an option; I categorically refuse to be a retail and/or pink-collar zombie again. I don’t want to live with my parents anymore, but if I moved out I would have to add regular, frequent visits to check up on them. How would we handle scheduling? We, hell. How am *I* supposed to fit all that in?
And yet, right now, I feel more BIG than I ever have before. School is challenging and wonderful, work is routine but enjoyable. The Folks ™ and I have established a mostly-functional relationship. My children are happy and healthy (shallow teen-living aside). Writing is only more difficult because I’m waiting for that whole “time to write” thing to resolve itself.
What would it look like if I were BIG? Exactly the same as it does now, only with a partner and a house with in-law quarters 1/2 acre away. Oh, and I’d be an at-home mom again.
I’ve been working a LOT more hours (much more than I expected) since I promoted. The boys are (predictably) more clingy.
I was hoping the Sneaky Chef thing would be more of a series than it actually is. I do believe the people able to sneak this stuff past their kids are NOT parents of a supertaster. To be quite frank, the only thing he’s actually eaten a tablespoon of was the breakfast ice cream I blogged about, and the ONLY reason he kept tasting it was because I let him say “more chocolate. More sugar. It still doesn’t taste right, maybe how about more chocolate?” After that, I decided not to jack with his list of “approved” foods. The absolute last thing I need is him refusing to eat any foods at all because “it didn’t taste right that one time”.
Tomorrow I’ll be touring an apartment. I’m not thrilled with the idea of apartment living in any way, shape, or form again (I need a few hundred yards between my neighbors and me for complete comfort) but we neeeeeeeeed to move while The Folks ™ and I are still on friendly terms. And I’m gently freaked about moving (again) in general.
The semester is about to start, and I’ve been nailbiting, reviewing notecards, and trying to schedule study time around my New! Improved! work schedule.
My dating site profile is still pulled. I’m thinking it’ll stay permanently pulled. The problem with the gene pool is there’s no lifeguard.
I miss my friends in the box… I promise I’m reading!
