Put out the sun, dismantle the moon, tear up all the flowers

The bloom is off the rose of love.  Or so it seems when your Valentine killed himself one year ago. How did I mark the anniversary of being notified of my husband's suicide? I had a couple kids over for a sleepover and let the four younguns trash the house.  How did I mark the anniversary of the Valentine's Day I had last year, when I was tearing about buying pills and clothes for my kids to wear to their father's funeral?  I had a cookie decorating and craft party for my daughters and friends, and let the five younguns trash the house. Despite my fifty dollars worth of icing, cookies, new scissors and rolls of tape, they ended the affair not with things of pink but with making Fairy Soup by grinding grass and bits of plants with rocks into a wooden bowl of water on the front porch.  And I let the bowl stay there, to attract the odd Fairy who might happen by. I hope she might put the bloom back on the rose. Maybe even plant the rose.  And when we got good and exhausted, the next day, to mark the anniversary of the funeral, we stayed in our pajamas and hung out, and hung on, and we rested.  Enough grieving. I've been a widow for one year, and the book sucks, so now I need to add some new chapters,

Goodness, that was a lot of extra

I keep hoping my energy is on an upswing, and my mood right behind that, but then it swings back down.  I don't need to tell you this, but do try to never get hit by a personal life Tsunami, because it really is an ass kicker to come back from in so so so many ways.  I am tired of not being who I used to be, tired of being tired, tired of having to lie down and read something soothing after paying a bill or taking a phone call or having a thought.

Today, I am tired by the normal!  Progress!!  Still tired by other stuff too, abnormal as it may be and always will be, but I did more this week for parenting purposes and did not 1) lose my sobriety, 2) lose my faith, or 3) actually let the house get any dirtier.  Success!  The things I did this week that were extra were making a yarn wig for Raggedy Ann (tips to follow), making a poster for my daughter to be Star of the Week at Kindergarten (turns out in my mid 40s I still can't cut out a star free hand, but now I have Google and I can find a template to use, lickety split), attend and assist at 2! class parties, decorate the front porch (I did not however, carve pumpkins, and I tell myself that PTSD means I shouldn't use a knife that sharp while I still have this shaky hands thing going on. Spilled cofffee is one thing, knicked knuckles is entirely another). And like mt depressed people who weigh too much, I ate as many Reeses PB cups as I could, and a smattering of other stuff, so of course I am tired.  Perfect for that extra hour of sleep.

Friday Haiku - This is Halloween Hangover Town

We were late to school
So was everybody else
Sugar is tiring.

School parties were fun
and the Parade was more so
Wonder Woman rocks

Raggedy Ann flops
Now I can make a yarn wig!
But I am wiped out.

Another "first" day
to be gotten through with grief.
I did it, barely.

The one that got away, and other domestic failures

Observe, the tri-tip roast.  Notice the extra sparkles, glinting on the surface of the carefully prepared meat, perfect for a Sunday dinner?  No, those sprinkles are not a new take on an old theme (glazing) or I guess maybe they are, but not intentionally.   While this roasted at a fairly high heat, per a carefully chosen recipe from the Internet, natch, the Pyrex pan exploded.  I wish I hadn't been out shopping, as it purportedly gave out quite an unexpected BOOM when it went, which had followed a few sessions of the smoke alarms going off as the olive oil burned off the roasted root vegetables also being prepared.  Sigh.  Yes, I am that good.  I stayed away long enough to ensure my husband could get the oven cleaned up and order in pizza.  Happy Anniversary, Lord Honey!  We had actually celebrated with a date night the previous evening, so it wasn't too likely to cause marital devastation, even though we courted each other with me preparing food for him while he worked on my house for free, thus generating a perpetual expectation that I can provide a decent meal every night.  Not so, but whatevs. 

I don't have my tree.  I took last year's Christmas cards off the mantel today.  I have yet to complete the long threatened toy purge although I did at least begin.  But the middle of that project leaves things in a muddle, rather, as the 17 pieces of 17 toy sets are sorted back into a harmonious grouping of like things alike, leaving roughly 1900 pieces of toys on the floor waiting to be grouped.  I have not completed my Christmas shopping, and I have baked nary a treat for my neighbors. 

Eggnog, it's time.  Come to Mama.  Bring Captain Morgan's spiced rum, please. 

They say it's your birthday . . . you're gonna have a good time!

My baby left babyhood.  Those of you who find me sentimental, well, overly sentimental, should perhaps skip this post.  I am going to wax sentimental, and I won't likely wane.  May I introduce my daughter, Hannah Rose?  We've been working on saying "pleased to make your acquaintance" and formally shaking hands (mostly because it is a nice OT type maneuver to get that hand to turn thumb up) but also because it is fun.  I remember when Claire had just been born and I asked Lord Honey if he had been practicing saying "and have you met my daughter, Claire?" in his mind, in anticipation of introducing her to someone.  He was baffled that I might practice such a thing, but I was excited.  I wanted to say "my daughter" far and wide and frequently.  I liked that daughter so much I wanted a second child and hoped mightily to get another daughter.  And fortune smiled on me, and I got this daughter.

 

Have you met my daughter, Hannah? Born on the eighth day of the eighth month of the eighth year, and under a lucky star.  As much as we could say we were unlucky that she had this annoying metabolic disorder, and more unlucky still to have had a metabolic crisis and a stroke in her first two days of life, we were lucky that Claire's lucky and unlucky c-section birth set in motion a need to have another c-section, and that having had Hannah delivered by c-section meant she was still at the hospital when her temperature dropped and her blood sugar tested low and after feeding didn't work she was eventually given a glucose IV (coulda been faster, like oh, say, STAT, the way it was written in her chart, but still) and that administration of glucose put an end to more damage occurring then and there.  So the luck and the unluck combine, the yin and the yang, the peanut butter and the jelly, and you still get a lovely girl, a lucky one, my daughter.

Some say she is lucky to have me, but I think I am luckier still to have her.  Go back and look at that first picture here.  Go on, I'll wait.  She is airborne.  She is brave and bold and funny and strong and beautiful and wicked smart.  And best of all, she is mine.  She says "I got you, Mommy! I got you!"  I got her.

She worships her sister, and who wouldn't.  Claire is so sparkly she competes with the sun.  Really, she does.

Look at that muscle tone!

Admire the hand placement.

Even at a birthday party where three-year-olds get amped up on Costco cake and become increasingly irrational, who wouldn't smile with a daughter like this one? Costs of renting a bounce house facility for a private party - more than some say is appropriate for a toddler.  Seeing her airborne?  Priceless.

Eoster: behold the power of a candy filled egg accompanied by plastic tat in large quantities

It may have begun as a Pagan celebration. Bells might fly from Rome to give French kids chocolate. I will possibly go to hell for giving out Easter cards with a cartoon style drawn bunny handing Christ on the cross a decorated oeuf saying "have an egg, you'll feel better." I suspected the Peeps and Hallmark folks had a hand in blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I don't know why I fell for it for all those years before I had kids but now I know: Easter was created by occupational therapists.