There’s a beloved children’s book series by Jane Yolen called, “How Do Dinosaurs…?” Each book discusses a different aspect of learning appropriate behaviors for things like bedtime, eating food, playing with friends and so on.
What if a dinosaur’s friends come to play?
Does he mope, does he pout if he can’t get his way?
Does he hide all his dump trucks, refusing to share?
Does he throw his friends’ coloring books up in the air?
Right now, I feel like I could use a book about how dinosaurs deal with stress. It might go something like this:
What if a dinosaur has a sick Dad?
Does she mope, does she cry, does she pretend she’s not sad?
Does she drink lots of wine and eat lots of food?
Does she yell at her kids ‘cuz she’s in a bad mood?
I’m finding this phase of my life to be a really tough one for me. Simply for the fact that I’m heavily relied upon and not able to adequately process things going on outside of my current little hemisphere. For the past few weeks since my Grandma died, I’ve found myself having to cry at night while the kids are asleep or during those short moments when I run to the bathroom and get a minute to myself. I don’t want to scare them by my grief. I don’t want my sadness to affect them. I know they will eventually need to learn what grieving is, but not now. Now isn’t the time to fill them in on the inevitable pain that comes from losing a loved one.
After finding out that my Dad had a stroke last week and will now have to have surgery within the next few days, I am once again faced with the reality of losing a loved one. I pray that everything works out, and he has a successful surgery and is restored to health. God, I do. But, the truth of the matter is, his condition is serious and the procedure that he is going to have done is risky and life threatening. My Dad and I are close. He’s close to all of us. He’s that kind of Dad. We haven’t always had a perfect relationship. We’ve had our ups and downs. But, he has been there for me over and over again throughout my life and I love him so much. I can’t imagine life without him. He’s only 60 years old. That’s too young to be faced with something this serious. He’s too young for his life to be over. We need him here longer. I need him to be around to watch my children grow. I need about 2500 more conversations with him before I will feel I’ve had enough. Maybe even more than that. I need him to mumble over the phone and tell jokes that only he thinks are funny. I need him to tell me stories he’s already told me about over a thousand times…yet another time. I need him to supply me with wayyyy too much Laura Little’s fudge from back home and cut out articles that he thinks I’d be interested in and send them to me in the mail. I need him to tell me every detail about every make and model of every car ever made and make sure I know the small differences in the body style of every year of VW Beetle ever made.
I’m scared. Maybe this crisis is riding a little too close on the tail of the previous crisis and skewing my reality. Maybe my geographical distance from the situation is making it seem more dramatic than it actually is. I don’t see anyone else in my family putting the breaks on their own lives over this. They are still updating their statuses on Facebook and going to the grocery store. They are still going to work and taking care of their kids. So, why is it that I feel like I can’t move? I feel paralyzed by the possibility of losing my father. I feel like I am incapable of doing my day to day things.
Last night I sucked it up. Despite my paralysis and disdain for hosting a party which would include lots of sugared up toddlers running through my house and having to be social, I stayed up til 1am and decorated a cake for my son’s birthday party. I got everything ready while the kids were sleeping and woke up this morning and was, for the first time ever, completely on top of the occasion. I was ready when guests arrived. I was present. I was in the moment. I was not hurried or frazzled or scattered. I was prepared. I was calm. I was collected. I was alive. He had a wonderful birthday. We had wonderful guests and wonderful children in our home. He loved his cake. He loved his presents. Life was good. Today.
Tonight, after all has been baked, decorated, eaten, wrapped, unwrapped, put up, taken down, set up, thrown away. After the house has been filled with anticipation and filled with loud, happy children who are filled with sugar. Tonight, after babies are nursed to sleep and toddlers are put to bed, the house is quiet. I can now grieve. I can now cry. I can now ask, “Why?!” I can now stand in my kitchen in my pajamas and eat more cake. I can now write to my soul’s content. I can now worry. I can now pray. I can now plan tomorrow and gather the strength to make it through another week. I can now pluck my upper lip and eye brows for 30 minutes in the mirror while thinking and processing and analyzing the entire day’s events. Because tomorrow I will have to put on a smile and wish my child a happy birthday and live our lives as if everything is wonderful in the world. I will need the strength for that. I will need clarity and peace of mind. I will need to be strong for my kids and give them my best. I can’t fall apart.
Tonight, I am grateful for:
- Precious moments with the ones we love. We don’t know when the last precious moment we will have is.
- My sweet Dad. I pray he will be with us for many years to come.
- Precious children who don’t stay children for long. Damn the system!
- A house full of toys that make noise and clutter and dirty carpet.
- Snot and spit up stained couches.
- Friends who stand in the gap when family is far away and come to your son’s birthday party.
- Husbands who tolerate mood swings and hug us when we are down.
- my Mom’s cake decorating skills. I guess I learned something along the way.
- my metabolism. It’s slowing down, but apparently it’s still good if I can eat all this cake and cookies.
- having a fitness center nearby. Need to use that facility soon.
I love you, friend. XOXOXO