I tried not to think about the number on the calendar and the celebration that wasn't taking place. I didn't want to cry. Friends, I tell you, I am so very, very weary of tears. So I wrote yesterday's entry and then I tried to pretend it was just any other day. The funny thing about pretending...it's easy to pretend to other people; not so easy to pretend to yourself. And heartbreak doesn't go away just because you refuse to acknowledge it.
Later in the day, a friend called, needing a favor, which was a good distraction and allowed me to further distance myself from the pain of wanting of my Mommy.
Isn't it peculiar how that never leaves us? We bring babies into this world, battle sickness and banish darkness and brave ever new frontiers as parents and as people...and yet...when we are afraid and unsure and a little bit lost...it's our Mothers that we think of and long for. When I was giving birth to my first child, lost in a haze of pain nearly unbelievable and almost certainly unbearable, though my husband held my hand and bathed my brow and even held the basin as I vomited...it was my mother I wanted. Then, as now, I knew it was impossible, but it didn't stop the wanting. I don't think it will ever stop.
So though I went through my day dry eyed and efficient as always; chauffered my children, tended to my friend, taught my class...it was all a charade, and a fairly tenuous one at that.
I came home from my class exhausted and sweat soaked. Husband had prepared dinner while I was gone, which has become the custom on nights that I teach. The meal was delicious and the hour was late; we all ate heartily. Husband cautioned us to save some room, as he had bought a special treat for dessert. I sighed and ran a hand through my still damp hair, trying to summon the energy to drag myself upstairs to bathe. It was then that husband placed this in front of me with a small flourish:
Of course you know what happened then. Taken by surprise, I could do nothing but bury my face in my hands and sob. While I cried into my palms, Husband and the boys each shared with me their favorite memory of my Mother and vowed to celebrate her life instead of mourning her loss.
And so I ask you...how can I bitch about toothpaste splatters on the bathroom mirror when he does crap like this?????????
Do you SEE the problem here? The man leaves me with a woeful lack of ammunition for future marital battles.