Becoming Your Own Grief Expert

A book is a version of the world.   

If you do not like it, ignore it; 

or offer your own version in return.

~Salman Rushdie~

I read this quote this morning.  Which was incredibly timely, considering what I had decided to attempt to write about.

Becoming your own grief expert.

I’m no grief expert.  I would never pretend to be.  I’ve read a lot, gone through a lot of counseling, and been through a few mediums.  But I’m still not a grief expert.

What I am an expert on…is my own grief.

I’ll never forget, going into my counselor’s office about a year after my husband died.  I had read books, become well-versed on the stages of grief, and thought I knew enough to determine one thing:

I was grieving the wrong way.

“I’m grieving backwards!”  I cried to my therapist.  “I’ve spent months running around at a break-neck pace when it seems like every other widow I’ve read about spends the entire first year in bed.  I’ve just hit the 1 year mark and now I don’t want to get out of bed!  I’ve spent months convincing myself that my marriage wasn’t so great and that I can do better and now I think it was so amazing I’ll never find anything like it again.  I didn’t feel like life had ended the moment he died…it took me an entire year to feel that way.  I’m doing this all wrong.”

My counselor spent the next hour trying to convince me that there was no wrong way to go about what I was attempting to do:  Deal with the loss of my husband.  But it took years – and a lot of soul searching - for that to really sink in.

You see, I had spent so long “studying” what other people were saying…that I forgot to listen to myself.  I was scrambling for black and white information and forgetting to apply what I’d learned to me and how I cope…which makes that black and white information a lot grayer and a lot more helpful.  Some of the things I read would make me feel less alone…and some of it would make me feel worse because I couldn’t relate to it and thought that since this person had sold a ton of books…they knew me better than I did.  And while clinical experts have their place in the world, acknowledging phases of grief that we will all go through, they were not educated in the one thing that made all of their theories come together.

Me.

I was taking all of that information so literally that it made me feel like a failure.  I was listening to so many outside sources – who were saying that certain years were the worst or that I shouldn’t be ready to date until a certain amount of time had passed – that when I felt differently (and kept it to myself because I was worried that others would think I didn’t love my husband enough to grieve by the book), I felt that much worse.  I forgot to take myself into account.  I forgot to put myself into the equation.  And when I did…it changed everything.

Of course I started dating early.  I’ve never liked to be alone.  Why would that have changed after my husband’s death?

Of course, some years were harder than others.  But it wasn’t the year that had been specified to me.  My hardest year was different…and in different ways.  And if I can be honest…my hardest times were also the most eye-opening for me as far as who I was and who I was becoming.

It suddenly made perfect sense why I was trying to convince myself that my marriage wasn’t so great.  I was trying to cope.  I was trying to tell myself that maybe there were better things ahead.  I wasn’t a bad person.  I was just trying to give myself hope for the future.

It wasn’t until I turned inward and really started listening to myself – the best expert on my own grief that I know – that I began to understand what I was truly going through.  That I can read books about grief…but until I actually apply them to my life and who I am…they really won’t help at all.

Education is key.  Just don’t forget to learn about the most important element when it comes to dealing with grief.

You.

Could Grief be the Best Teacher You've Ever Had?

You know me…I always try and look on the bright side if I can (except when it comes to Halloween costumes apparently), but there have been several times when I’ve jokingly said that there’s nothing wrong with a good wallow every once in a while.

But this was something I learned a lot later than I should have.

I’ve always known that I’m an impatient griever.  Right after my husband died, I remember saying to my sister, “I can’t wait to be a year out and farther away from this whole ‘widow’ thing.”

I don’t know why I thought that.  That was before I’d read any books about grief or before I even knew any other widows.  But I had it in my head that if I could just get a year away from his death…I would be much better off.  Maybe I wouldn’t even be considered a widow anymore!

Denial.  Denial, denial, denial.

And I wasn’t just denying that all of this had happened.  It was so much more than that.  I didn’t want to feel angry because I didn’t think it would do me any good.  I didn’t want to feel sad because it wasn’t on my agenda.  I didn’t want to feel lonely because I knew that if I didn’t want to be alone, it was within my power to fix it.

How unfair I was to myself to not let it all in!  And the truth is…it came anyway because you can only push it back for so long before it takes a battering ram and gets in somehow.  Just because it was within my power not to be alone…didn’t mean that I wasn’t lonely.  And just because being angry did me no good…doesn’t mean that I wasn’t.  And even though I kept telling myself I was fine…the sadness was always there. 

And little of it always will be.

It’s ironic, isn’t it, that the woman who couldn’t wait to get away from widowhood started blogging about pretty much nothing but widowhood?  But for the first, I would say, 2 years after he died, I did everything within my power to push my grief away.  I stayed as busy as I possibly could, trying to develop a life that had nothing to do with my loss.  I tried to outrun it, out-shop it, and outlive it. 

And now you have no idea how much I regret that I did that.

I wish with all of my heart that I had started blogging or journaling the day after my husband died.  Oh, I had some things written down here and there.  But the truth of it was that my life was so frightening to me at the time…to put it down in black and white was unthinkable.  The anger, the confusion, the sadness, and…yes…the despair.  With everything around me geared toward moving on and moving forward, I thought I was doing the right thing by not “wallowing,” putting on a happy face, and getting on with my life.  And I know that it must sound so odd to you that I wish that I could remember every little detail about my early days of grief now.  But I’ll tell you why.

It’s because I think that was when I was learning the most.

I was concentrating so hard on moving forward as fast as I could that I forgot to focus on the present and what I was learning.  I didn’t know that my sadness was forming my compassion.  I didn’t realize that my anger was fueling my determination.  I didn’t know that my confusion was developing my focus and helping me put together a different life.

That all of those things…they served a purpose in shaping who I was becoming.  And by ignoring them…I was denying a part of myself.

The Truth Behind the Considerate Griever

Throughout the last few years, I have thought a lot about how we all handle widowhood differently.  We all move at our own pace and grieve within our own comfort zone.

It’s been interesting to me the way I’ve grieved.  For the most part, I consider myself a pretty private person when it comes to just letting go.  I’ve never even really cried during group “therapy” because I was afraid of looking “stupid” (I know…that’s stupid, but there you have it).  In fact, I remember being at one ceremony with a young widows group that was really meant to be emotional and I was so mortified that I was there and that I might cry, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I don’t even like crying in my therapist’s office when it’s just the two of us.

Weird.

There are very few people I will get upset in front of (and even then it usually takes a few glasses of wine).  But for so long, even at the beginning, I was very focused on making the people around me feel comfortable.  No one ever knew how shallow my breathing got at the college football games my husband was missing.  No one knew how I was swallowing a lump in my throat during my first Boy Scout meeting. No one ever knew how hard it was to go to parties and events on my own…when everyone else was a couple.

No one knew how I used to lay on my bedroom floor and just sob with my pictures.

It wasn’t their fault.  I didn’t let them know.

I guess this tendency makes me a pretty considerate griever, but the truth is I’ve always been jealous of the people who have just let it all out there, not really caring what other people think.  I know that many of them have felt like a “freak” and may have possibly lost friends who didn’t understand why they’re still grieving after the first 4 weeks of widowhood…but I can’t tell you how freeing that sounds.  And for the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t one of those people. 

But now I think I’ve got it.

It’s a fear of abandonment.

Being a “pleaser” and someone who tries her hardest to make others feel comfortable in any situation, I have had a fear all of these years that if I just cry and let it all out there…people would get uncomfortable.  And then they would leave and not come back.

It’s not like this is such a random concept.  I’ve been to parties where I’ve told people, during the course of the conversation, what’s happened and we all know what the usual response is to that:

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

And then I’ve brightly said, “Oh, that’s okay!  We’re totally fine now!  So tell me more about that problem you’re having at work!”

And why have I done that?  Because the few times I’ve actually gone into how hard the situation is, I’ve run the risk of that person looking antsy and doing everything they can to get out of the conversation we’re having.

I needed people.  I’ve always needed people, even before my husband died.  I love being surrounded by people.  And I guess in my mind that has meant that I’ve had to be more reserved “in the moment”…only to release the grief monster in the privacy of my own bedroom later.

Because then I know…my pictures won’t walk away.

Grief: We Gravitate Toward People Who Do It The Same Way We Do

I once posted an article on the Widow Chick Facebook page about men seeking out gender specific bereavement groups because they feel they grieve differently.  Well...of course they do!  I can’t understand the need to go out and buy a muscle car after the death of a spouse (as some of my widower friends have done).  And I can almost guarantee that they probably didn’t go through the same purse obsession that I did right after my husband died. 

I can’t explain it.  It just happened.

I kind of agree with this article and I kind of don’t.  I mean, I’m guessing that I would get a more understanding nod of the head sitting with women during group therapy than I would with a group of men.  Let’s face it:  They just don’t “get it” (the need for the perfect purse, I mean).

But the truth is...I don’t think it’s necessarily gender specific.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  Grieving is like parenting.  We gravitate toward people who do it the same way we do.

Think about it.  Many of us became parents right around the same time our friends did.  And before we had that first kid, we had visions of BBQs every Sunday, constant playdates, and our children marrying and having a son or daughter-in-law that we practically raised.

But then the kids became toddlers and we noticed that our friends really didn’t care if their child spilled chocolate milk all over our carpet.  They didn’t believe in time-outs and felt that discipline would diminish their child’s creativity.  They watched with delight while their child weaved in and out of the waiter’s legs at a restaurant as we cringed and swore we would never go out in public with them again.

Soon, we started seeing less and less of each other and your dream of their child becoming your in-law became more of a nightmare.

It’s the same process with grieving.

I think, for many people who haven’t had a significant loss, they assume that grief binds us all together...especially if we’ve had the same kind of loss.  And it does in a certain way.  Like giving birth...we can all commiserate with the pain of how it all came about.

But sometimes...that’s where our similarities end.

Some are desperate to take control of their lives after loss, while others have had enough and just wait for life to happen.  Some are ready to date after 6 months and some can’t think about it after 6 years.  Some are exhausted.  Some can’t stop moving.  Some need to be with people all the time.  Some need to be alone. 

And just because your husband died in an accident doesn’t always mean that you are going to relate to someone else who experienced a sudden loss (I think in the beginning we assume that is an important criteria for a supportive friendship when really it’s just a piece of the puzzle).  Someone who experienced a suicide may really hit it off with someone whose spouse died after a long illness.

The truth is, there are so many individual ways that we go about this experience...it’s really hard to find someone else who goes through it the same way.  And when I think about my close widowed friends right after my husband died...many of them were actually widowers.  Because we grieved the same way.

I know for a fact that so many of you go through the same thing I do:  When someone hears about the loss of a spouse, they immediately call you and tell you that you need to get in contact with them or that they gave that friend your information.  And honestly...I have no problem with that.  But in the last 4 years I’ve learned that the bond of “widowhood” isn’t the only bond that counts.  And while I’m happy to talk with them, listen to what they’re going through, and commiserate...I may not be their “go to” person in the future.

And that’s okay.

I’ve said to people many times, “You can give out my information, but I many not be the friend they need right now.  It depends on the person.  And depending on where they are...they may not be ready for my friendship.”

I mean...they may not even want to acknowledge that they’re a widow yet, much less talk to some crazy woman who’s been at it for 4 years.

I’m sure that many of us have learned the hard way that just because someone has experienced something similar, they may not be our new best friend.  It’s like going out on a first date:  You’re so hopeful that this could be “the one” and when you get there...the chemistry just ain’t right.  Finding the right support has a lot of trial and error involved.  But when you find it...it’s something that will forever change you, your life, and how you help others.

And let’s face it.

The right support is the right support, no matter what we’ve all experienced.

 If it’s done well...the details really shouldn’t even matter.

Hard to Believe I've Been At This "Widow Thing" For 4 Years....

I started my 4 year anniversary today.  The reason I say “started” is because the 16^th was when my husband was in his accident.  And then he died on the 18^th.  What I  should say is that he “officially” died on the 18^th.  I knew I had already lost who he was 4 years ago today.

Every year, the anniversary time is different.  I hesitate to say easier...some things are, some things aren’t.  The days have gotten easier, for the most part.  But the sneak attack of grief seems to be harder.  Maybe because I’m never expecting it and every year it seems like I’m involved in a “grief stick-up.”  Held at emotional gun point with my back up against a wall with no where to go, my sub-conscious saying, “Give me your tears.  No...not just a few.  I want all of them or I won’t let you get out of bed for 3 weeks!”

It’s weird how I get robbed every year and it always comes as a surprise.

I started my usual grief slide earlier this week.  I don’t know why I do this during this time every year:  Where most people can’t seem to get out of bed, I can’t seem to stay in it.  Not only that, but I get obsessed with giving myself a complete overhaul.  I don’t know if I’m trying to get my outsides to not look anything like my insides or maybe it’s just an impatience with life in general and I’m doing everything I can to change anything that’s within my control.  But Thursday, I went to get my haircut and my hairdresser said, “You really don’t need a haircut.”

To which I replied, “Then give me highlights.  Do something.  Can’t you see I’m going crazy in here??”

Since I was in her chair about a week after my husband died, basically telling her the same thing, you would think we would both be used to this by now.  For the first time, it occurred to me that I might want to get my hairdresser, waxer, nail technician, and therapist on a schedule where they have a yearly conference call to get ready for the big anniversary. 

Can you just imagine how that conversation would go?

“She’s looking a little manic today.  Is that hairstyle or feet?  You know by tomorrow she’s going to be exhausted...Waxer...that’s your day.  Wake her up a little.  Therapist...you get the day after the anniversary.  Every thing will be plucked, pulled, cut, or painted by then and she’ll have no place else to go.”

I know I’m sounding a little crazy.  But what did you expect?  By next week...I’ll be starting in on year five.  At this point...crazy has been earned.  I’ve worked hard at it.  I’ve been dedicated to it.  I’m about to get my 4 year degree in Crazy (would that be a B.A. or a B.S.?).

Insanity comes with a life well lived.  Us widows are just better at it than most.

Parenting Can Sometimes Be a Leap of Faith

Ugh.  What a morning.

In the last week, my 7-year-old son has made throwing Barbies on the roof his favorite way to pass the time.  Now, I have to admit that I don’t blame him, for my own personal reasons.  Every time I look at all the Barbies laying around my house I kind of feel like throwing them up on the roof, too.  Not only do I find them a little creepy, laying in bizarre bodily configurations all over the floor like my living room is where Mattel toys find their final resting place...but one look at those perfect legs, tiny waist, and huge rack and I’m about ready to chuck them all up there myself.

You ladies know what I’m talking about.

The first time he did it, I punished him, telling him that he couldn’t play with the little boys on the street for 2 days.  As any parent knows, enforcing sentence like that on a child in the middle of the summer is as much a punishment for us as it is for them.  He was bored, annoyed, and I thought for sure he had learned his lesson.  I ALSO made him pay $10 for the Barbie he got stuck up there, which was also a punishment for me because that meant I had to go out and buy another one to add to my living room graveyard.

But I stuck to it, didn’t back down, and in the end I was pretty proud of myself and my developing parenting skills.

However.

Here we are, this morning, 1 day after his punishment was lifted, and what do I wake up to?

“MOM!  He’s on the roof!”

Shit.

Instead of throwing the Barbies up on the roof as he did before, my son had lifted his screen and thrown one out of his window.  And then possibly deciding this wasn’t such a good idea (or just not thinking at all)...he lifted the screen, climbed out the window, got on the porch roof, and got it.

Now, it’s not like he can just step out of his window onto the roof...the roof doesn’t meet up there.  He had to kind of climb over to get to the roof.  And then climb over (dead air 2 stories up) to get back.

For any mother, this would be a heart-pounding moment.  For me, I went straight from heart-pounding to sheer panic.

This isn’t entirely random.  I had my gutters cleaned yesterday and when the guy came over to do it, we decided it would be better if he climbed out my bedroom window (the first man to ever do that, I assure you) and clean them out.  I didn’t even see the little wheels turning in my son’s head as he watched the man lift the screen and head right out onto the roof.

I promise you that a longer, stricter punishment is ahead for my son.  I sat with him this morning and showed him pictures of what wearing a “halo” looks like when you break your neck.  I showed him pictures of a spine and vertebrae and then explained to him that once those things are broken...very rarely do they come back and we went into what it would be like to be in a wheelchair. 

I’m hoping, because he has such a literal mind, that seeing those pictures will be something he won’t soon forget.

But do you want to know what I really wanted to do???  I wanted to shake him and say, “A split second decision.  That’s all it takes.  One decision and you’re either gone or your life has completely changed.  And do you want to know how I know that?  Because your dad is dead.  After making a split second decision.”

I didn’t say that, but I wanted to.  And when he gets older, we may have that conversation.  Because we are not a family that can pretend that bad things don’t happen.  Bad things have happened.  It’s affected us all.  And any split second decision could make them happen again. 

Some bad things are beyond our control.  But going out onto a roof for a $10 toy is not one of them.

I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I think I’ve done a pretty good job of raising my kids through grief.  We talk about it.  We acknowledge our loss.  And we live our lives.

But I’ve been wondering today...if I’ve done too good a job.  There is a lesson to be learned in my husband’s death and maybe I haven’t taught it:  That life is precious, we all make mistakes, but do your best to think things through a little bit before you do something that could change it forever.  I’ve been concentrating so hard on making them not afraid to live their lives even though we’ve been through this...maybe I’ve gone too far the other way.  Maybe I should have made them a little afriad.

Part of our issue is that my husband died when the kids were so young and the way we live now is just their normal.  We talk about him and look at pictures...but they were too young to really go through what I and an older child might feel having that kind of loss.  Chances are, it might affect them later.  But as far as understanding the fragility of life and how quickly it can be gone...I don’t think they get it.  Yet.

When I write blogs, I usually try to end with something I’ve learned along the way.  I can’t do that with this one because I think I’m still learning it.  And I honestly want to know...

....what do you think?

I Would Rather Pass a Kidney Stone Than a Milestone

It’s late and I’m tired.  Which means that this blog may not turn out like I want it to.  But since I’m alone and left with the History Channel (which has somehow changed from how the states were formed to how the pot industry has grown)...I guess I’ll write.

My birthday is next week which is the 2^nd hurtle in the line of 4 that I have to deal with in the next month.  The first was Father’s Day which I somehow managed to sleep through.  I’m still not quite sure if this lack of consciousness was due to a virus or my inability to deal with the day.

Something that only you Deep Grievers will understand.

All I know was I had no business being behind the wheel of my daughter’s foot-pushing toddler car...much less the powerful engine of my minivan.

This year will mark 4 years.  FOUR YEARS.  Four years of my sad little cluster of dates.  Father’s Day.  My birthday.  His “death-a-versary” and my wedding anniversary.  I’m seasoned.  I’m a professional griever.  I’m halfway through my medical degree in grieving.

And I spent my few hours awake wondering why in the hell it was still so hard.

I came to a conclusion that I thank my “thinking sweats” for ( you know...those clothes that you’ll wear for days and think no one actually recognized you in.  Like you were incognito while you were in your “break down wear.”)  (Side note:  They noticed you but were too embarrassed to claim you.)

So here it is.

It’s not the milestone.  It’s the revelation.

Think about it.  With every birthday, holiday, or Monday...you’ve passed something.  Yes, I realize that it sounds like a kidney stone.  But the truth is...it’s much more painful.  And more enduring.  And can’t be broken up by lasers.

Last year, around my birthday, I had a similar breakdown.  I realized that I was about to turn the same age that my husband was when he died.  And that made me sad.  UNBELIEVABLY sad.  So sad that my insides turned out.  So sad that my life, which I thought had already been turned upside down...turned upside down again (which I realize should make it right side up...but it didn’t).

Deep down, in my core...just...sad.

And then it passed.  Life went on and I was so relieved to just be over that milestone.  I thought for sure that I would never feel that bad about my birthday again.

Until this year.

A couple of weeks ago, I felt the milestone coming again.  I’m going to tell you what it looks like.  It looks like the clouds are building...but you think the storm is going to pass you by.  Then they turn green and threatening and you wonder if it’s possible to take shelter.

And then it’s there on top of you...like a swirling vortex of life you can’t dodge.  And all of the contents of your life are circling.

And you wonder if they’re going to land intact or in pieces.

My milestone is coming.  It’s circling.

My sister asked me today, what I wanted to do for my birthday next week.  And I told her, “I don’t care.  I just want it to be over.”

She said, “That makes me so sad.  You’ve always loved your birthday!”

And I said, “No haven’t.  Not since he died.”

I’ve always been the youngest of my group of friends.  I have always been a few years younger, or a few months younger...something that everyone has joked about.  I’m the baby of the group.  I was the last one to get a license.  I was the last one who could get into a bar.  That was my job.  That was my place. 

This year...for the first time I realized...I’m not the youngest of our group anymore.

He is.

© Catherine Tidd 2011

"Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again." --Peter Pan

I can’t remember growing up.

I don’t mean that the way it sounds.  That sounds like I had some horrific childhood experience that blocked my entire youth from my mind.

What I mean is...I don’t remember the exact time I became a grown up.

I remember times when I thought I had grown up.  When I married my husband at twenty, I expected to wake up the next day transformed (a la Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles), when in reality I woke up to find that I was twenty years old and suddenly a wife.  There were 2 words involved (“I do”) but growing up didn’t seem to be required.

When I had my first child, I thought surely the fact that I was that responsible for another human being made me an adult.  Little did I know that I would make so many mistakes...I would sometimes feel like she was the more mature of the two of us.

When my husband died, I was confident that that would fast forward my growth and put me at a level of wisdom that would surpass my peers.  Little did I know that that experience would leave me floundering and that I would regress right back into infancy...when all I could handle was curling up in the most comfortable position I could find and hope someone would take care of me when I couldn’t express what I really needed.

There was no defining moment when a whiny “why can’t I” became a whiny “how can I.”  It came, as most important moments do, when I wasn’t paying attention.

All of these “important” moments, those “milestones,” have been just stepping stones.  And in between them I’ve been leaping into adulthood.

I know that in reality I’m kidding myself right now.  I think that I know that what’s really happening is that I am becoming who I’m supposed to be.  And I will be doing that until the day I die.  There never be a moment when I sit back and say, “Ahhhh...I’m perfect.  Finally...it’s happened.” 

I’m assuming that when I’m 85, I’ll be laughing about the things I didn’t know in my 70s.

We all try to do what’s best.  We have all had moments that have been posed and preserved.  And as we get older, we understand that it’s the moments that sneak up on us...those are what we will really remember.  There is magic in spontaneity.  There is true laughter in many of the mistakes we make.  There is growth in the times we defy what’s expected of us.

When I think of life that way...I hope I never grow up.  Being a grown up seems to sometimes block what’s still magic inside.  It seems to admit defeat and acknowledge that an ordinary life is okay.  And whatever we do in life...whatever moves us...it should be extraordinary.  To us.


For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2010

I Thought I Could....

Since I blogged this morning about my intention to have a good day today, my husband’s birthday, I felt like it was only fair to bookend it with how the day actually went.

I’ll give you a hint...I’m sitting here with a vodka/orange juice in my hand because on top of what happened today...I feel like I’m coming down with a cold. 

This beverage is the only way I can figure out how to combat both my day and my cold at the same time.

The morning started out okay.  We left the house full of hope and optimism, setting out for the grocery store to buy balloons before we headed up to the mountains.  All the kids decided to get the same color balloon (which was a miracle in itself) and having this decision made would save me at least an hour in the Helium Section.  

As we walked to the floral department, I decided at the last minute to buy my husband one single yellow rose (like he used to give to me) as a birthday present if they had one.  I looked up at the “single” bouquets and there it was...a single yellow rose right smack in the middle of a bunch of white ones.  It was the only one they had.

All good signs, right?

We left the store, all holding a Starbucks cup (hot cocoa for them, caffeine for me) ready to conquer the day!

Apparently that was when Good Karma decided to leave early for Thanksgiving to beat the holiday rush.

We were about 30 minutes out of town, driving in the old minivan, when my oldest suddenly screamed out, “MOM!!!!!  She drew on the seat with marker!!!” 

Sure enough, I would find out later...my 4 year old had decided to make her own permanent seat covers by doing some sort of abstract drawing of a “zebra playing catch with a fish while driving a semi” creation on the third row seat of my car.

Now...what I was expected to do about it while going 75 miles an hour on the highway...I still do not know.

The most interesting thing about this was that it sent my son into a frenzy of reprimanding her.  Never mind that he had actually stamped his own name (in permanent marker) on the back seat last year.

Anyway.  Still determined that this would not get me down, I took a deep breath and just decided to get over it then and there.  I could wash it off, right?  In the grand scheme of things...what’s a little marker (or mural) in a minivan anyhow?  That child could be famous some day!  She probably just raised the value of this car by thousands.

Yeah!  That’s it!

As we started getting closer to the “last stop” before we really got to the middle of nowhere, I thought I should be proactive and stop for a potty/lunch break, even though my son had assured me that if he had to go to the bathroom, he could find an obliging tree.  Feeling like peeing in the middle of a cemetery might be frowned upon, I pulled off the highway and spotted the only restaurant in town that didn’t involve fries (Qdoba).

Once inside, my 9 year old daughter very politely asked if she could sit next to me in the booth and I (not seeing the shit storm ahead) said yes.

At that moment, for some reason, my 6 year old son suddenly decided that sitting next to my 4 year old daughter was akin to sitting next to 50 pounds of plutonium and proceeded to throw a complete fit.  And I mean...a fit.

I learned a very valuable lesson today.  My desire and determination to “make it a good day” is no match for the temper of my 6 year old boy. 

I gave him “the look.”  I gave him that scary mommy-angry-under-the-breath voice.  Finally I dragged his 6 year old butt over to the check out where I was standing, just trying to buy quesadillas in peace.

The very sweet people working there asked if they could help me to my table and I calmly replied, “No, thank you.  He can carry his lunch and I’ve got the rest.”

At which point my son stomped his feet and his lunch slid to the floor.

Seeing what I’m sure looked like my eyes spinning around and smoke coming out of my ears, the wonderful woman at the cash register looked at me and said cheerfully, “We can clean this up!  Here’s a free quesadilla!  And here...chips and guacamole!  It’s okay...I have children!”

It was like she was trying to convince me that, with enough greasy Mexican food, I would have the strength to raise this child to adulthood.  I was about ready to hug her and take her home with me.

I sat at the table, a lump in my throat so big I couldn’t even eat.  What was I doing???  Were the “powers that be” trying to tell me that I couldn’t do this alone???  Why didn’t I pick a restaurant that served wine??????

Once back in the car, tears rolling down my face (and my kids blissfully unaware of my nervous breakdown thanks to Scooby Doo on DVD), we finally made it up to my husband’s final resting place.  I placed the rose on his headstone.  The kids and I sang “Happy Birthday,” made a wish, and let the balloons go.  We were having such a nice time, we decided to scrap our original plan for the second half of the day...wandering around the Museum of Nature and Science.  We thought we’d just catch the IMAX on the Hubble Telescope so that we could hang out by the creek a little longer.

For about 30 minutes...everyone was happy.

I finally called the 5 minute warning so that we could get to the movie downtown on time.  I had left us plenty of time and even worried about what I would do to keep them occupied when we got there too early.  As some of you may know...the IMAX doesn’t let people in early.  And, at the appointed time, the doors close and NO ONE can get in.

We were 2 minutes late.

Still determined that I could beat this day into submission, I checked my phone for other movie listings.  And...what’s this????  Another IMAX that’s showing the Hubble movie???  And it’s closer to my house????

Choosing to ignore the fact that I was dumb enough to not check this in the first place, I rushed the kids into the car and went as fast as I could (in rush hour traffic) to get to the theater.  For the first time, I felt like Fate was offering me her hand and saying, “Here.  Let me help you.  I’ll even get you there early.  And you can grab some pizza with the kids before the movie starts.  In fact...let me buy you a Bud Light for your trouble.”

As we waited for our pizza, the man at the next table leaned over and asked, “Excuse me?  Do you know where the IMAX is?”

And I said, “Yes!  It’s right across the street!  We’re headed there ourselves to see the movie on the Hubble Telescope.  Is that what you’re seeing?”

He said, “No.  There’s a movie about migration.  Gosh...I didn’t know they had so many theaters.”

Now wait...I couldn’t have this wrong could I???  I dug out my phone and checked trusty old Yahoo! movies and sure enough...Hubble Telescope.  November 19th.  Six PM.

We finished our pizza and made it there right on time.  I parked the car in front, flipped on the hazards, and told the kids, “Wait here.  I’m going to double check and make sure it’s playing.”

Sure enough.  I walk into the theater and what do I see?

Migration.

I plop myself back into the car, ram the gear shift into drive, and yell, “HOME!  Pay Per View Movie!” 

This declaration was met with noisy applause from the backseat.

I almost make it home when it hits.  Complete hysteria.  I’m laughing.  I’m crying.  I’m laughing so hard I’m crying.  I’m afraid I may have snorted a couple of times.

The kids are suddenly very quiet in the backseat.  Finally, my oldest says quietly, “Mom?  What’s so funny?”

Still laughing uncontrollably, I answer, “Oh sweetie.  This was just a bad day.  I mean, not all parts of it were bad.  We did some fun things.  But sometimes things get so bad they’re funny.  Remember how I always tell you if you’re getting bullied the best thing you can do is laugh right in their face?  Well, today bullied me.”

HA.


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© Catherine Tidd 2010