Nope. Not Today.

My mom and I have this thing going as we trudge through the first year without my dad. We'll talk about things we need to do, things that would have us moving forward, and just when we think that it finally might be the day to do this or do that... we simply say,

Nope, not today.

With her, it's been big things. Monumental milestones that she alone must face. Things like taking care of paperwork, grocery shopping for one, emptying out his sock drawer.

She's made it through the first two on that short example of a list. She's the strongest woman I know. The third, however, is proving to be a challenge. When she mentioned she had thought about it today and then promptly changed her mind after opening the drawer, I said what we have all said through it all,

That day will come.

I wonder when my day will come. The thing I am stuck on has to be the one thing that makes absolutely no sense. In the trunk of my car are three severely rumpled and very wrinkled suits (as if rumpled and wrinkled are not the same thing). I've had these suits in the trunk of my car since late September with one very clear destination in mind- the dry cleaners.

So why are they still in my car? I have no explanation really. It's become something of a family joke (which, by the way, brings no offer of anyone else dropping them off). For whatever reason, it is the mom responsibility which would be all fine and dandy if this mom would only respond. Every time I drive past the dry cleaners (which is quite often) and the thought crosses my mind to swing in and drop them off (which seems logical), I think to myself,

Nope, not today.

Why am I wedged in this do-nothing zone about suits, of all things? I remember getting ready to head home last year for what I knew was to be the final lap of my dad's journey and making sure all the males in the family knew where their suits were located. I gave strict instructions for socks, belts, and ties. I left nothing to chance and never factored in that I would be the one slacking after the fact.

I was so proud of myself today. After a week's worth of school antics that left me in tears three out of five days, my goal this weekend was to make a noticeable dent on something I could control... the growing madness within the home. By this morning, laundry was finished and put away, rooms were dusted and vacuumed, and my dad's picture was firmly in place within a shadow box my mom had given me a few months before. I shed a few tears as I pinned a note he had written me under his picture and shed a few more as I tucked his memorial service card inside his Bible. It was all good, though. It felt good... until the family piled into my car for dinner and the later retrieval of leftover pizza from my trunk reminded us all of what was still in there.


Yes, I know.
No, not yet.

No, I don't know what I'm waiting on.

Not one of ours, but certainly what one would look like on a hanger right now.

Hey, this is about no one but me. No complaints about the family members. I would be saying something, too, if the shoe (or in this case, suit) was on the other guy. I already said it makes no sense. The only thing I can venture to guess is that I've got a little too much on my plate right now and those suits are not a priority. That seems the acceptable explanation anyway.

But at some point, it will be the day. It'll have to be the day. I mean, a grown woman just can't keep driving around with male clothes in her car...

At least not without a good cover story.

Speechless

I'm the kind of person who does not mess with bowls when it comes to ice cream. The carton and a spoon is all that's needed to make the experience unique. I pride myself on being able to simply take a few bites (as in about fifteen) before sighing happily and pushing the sweetness away. It takes talent, I know.

Life in these parts has been on fast forward for the last couple of weeks. School is in full swing and my feet have a hard time finding comfort in my fluffiest of slippers. I haven't cooked a meal since last Friday and that was solely because of a birthday. I'm not sure what kinds of atrocities lurk behind my refrigerator door and I'm pretty sure the dishcloth by my sink has grown its own zip code.

I'm having a hard time caring. Oh, I did make a half-hearted effort tonight to take care of the dishes and vacuum the cat fur and tackle the litter box. I set the trash outside and hung up my work clothes (today's outfit anyway) and watered the struggling plant on the back porch. I called my mom and listened to the husband and meandered around the internet. I finished a case brief and submitted it late, watched a video on conquistadors just for the sheer fun of it, and fixed a cup of coffee to accompany the ice cream and the spoon... and yet, in all the madness, I cannot escape the very thing my mom and I talked about tonight.

It's almost been a year.

Taken during a visit soon after I moved away. We were going to church
 to listen to the preacher who would end up speaking at my dad's service. 

And this is where I run out of words.

In Black and White

Years ago when the oldest was four, the middle was two, and the youngest was still in the womb, I began writing in three separate journals. In the first, I opened up with tales of a t-ball game and the parental pride that goes along with it. In the second, I detailed a peek into the life of a toddler and the challenges of bedtime. In the third, I simply opened with "Dear Baby" because although the upcoming birthday was just two months away, we didn't know if the fluffy blankets would be purchased in pink or blue.

Last night, the oldest came home for a visit and I found myself digging into a cedar chest of treasures. I had never shown the kids these journals, but seeing as how the entire family was in the same room for the moment, I seized the day, so to speak, and handed them each their own special book. What followed was laughs and questions and memories.

The oldest read his quietly. The middle read his aloud.
The youngest just marveled at how much her big brothers loved her.

There were tales of new words and phrases being spoken, the ever-present paddle that was never far from reach, and even a few drawings and outlines of hands and feet. Each read the story of the day they asked Jesus into their heart. Each read the story of grandparents who have since left this world. Each read stories of special friends and special pets and special days.

Each read the story of them.

Although I did not make an entry every night- after all, not long into the story of the youngest was I able to actually call her by name and welcome her into the world... life with three kids under the age of five did not allow for a lot of downtime; but I still found some time, however, to carve out for them their own little slice of something special. All in all, the three books covered a time span of seven years.

Years that I now wonder where in the world time went.

They read those journals from beginning to end. As I collected them back to tuck away into our treasure chest, they thanked me and remarked how much they enjoyed reading them. As I tried to sleep last night, I wondered why I ever stopped writing to them. Life, I'm sure. In fact, now that I think about it, it wasn't too long after the last entries that our world took a turn in the form of The Great Move. Life became less about preserving our memories and more about preserving our sanity. The books were closed and the pen was capped.

But you know what? I'm gonna pick up where I left off. There will come a day when those books will be my words those kids hear in their head. I'm going to do my best to keep them laughing.

The oldest is twenty-one. The middle is nineteen.
The youngest is days away from seventeen.

There's plenty of stories left to tell.




Your mom and dad love you, kids.

Celebrating Dad

Recently my mom gave me a shadow box to create a keepsake for my dad. It's a really neat concept and today I ventured out to Hobby Lobby with the intentions of buying some decorative pieces to fix it up. My thinking this week has been that I would spend Father's Day creating this beautiful, sentimental box that I could display in our living room. It seemed like an ideal plan until I actually found myself in the craft store today wandering aisles and thinking about what I was doing. Looking at all that beautiful "father' stuff and thinking about what I could incorporate into the box only solidified what I was actually doing...  sealing the fact that I was trying to do something fatherly because I no longer had a father to call.

I know, I know. Depressing at the very least, right? I'm gonna be honest, though, and fully admit for all those experiencing the same thing I am enduring at the moment... Father's Day is currently at the top of my list for "All Things Sucky" right now.

(as I just lost a few readers due to my total lack-of-class use of a not-so-real word).

Look, I don't know how else to put it. This one just kind of snuck up on me. I wasn't prepared for the complete lack of preparedness I feel for this one particular Sunday in June. I want my father back. Period. I mean, I think I knew last Father's Day that time was winding down- in fact, my blog entry from this time last year (found here), leaves no question to that train of thought- but, still... it is frustrating and disheartening nonetheless. So, I find myself on that dangerously, slippery line between self-pity and self-determination.

I look at the husband as he chuckles at something he is reading online. I think about how when the kids were younger, much younger, I would help them create or decorate or buy something for their dad for Father's Day and how I haven't had to do that for quite some time. Even now, the two youngest are discussing where they are taking him to eat tomorrow. I know they have already shopped on their own and have a gift or two tucked away that he will be sure to react with genuine surprise tomorrow. The oldest, who could not make it home this weekend, has already called to talk to his dad once this week and will no doubt call again tomorrow.

And that gives me cause to celebrate.

I think about all the Father's Day(s) I did have with my dad and I can only hope that I sincerely appreciated them all. I remember a sixth grade student I had years ago who lost his father a week before Father's Day and know that I have no reason to complain. I consider the kids I know today who are not even sure where their fathers are and shake my head in bewilderment.

I may or may not work on that shadow box tomorrow. When I mentioned it to my mom earlier today, she simply said, "You'll do it when you're ready." That is one thing our family is finding out for sure as we muddle through this year of "firsts" without the man who was such a big part of our lives... everything comes in due time. There is no fixed schedule for mourning; no exact time to do anything. Rushing only complicates things and "closure" is not a door that shuts easily. My mother demonstrated this perfectly a few months ago when she cleaned what has always been known as "Dad's Room". Some things had to go, but some things remained the same.

Such a beautiful reminder of the hope we carry, We shall meet again.





Happy Father's Day to the ones who are here,
the ones who have went on, and the ones who are yet to be.

In A World Of Wi-Fi

Between trying to figure out this blasted Windows 8 and Office365, I am nearing the edge of pure madness. I do not handle change well.

Wait.

Let me rephrase that...
I do not handle unnecessary change well.

There is a difference.

I have papers to write, deadlines to meet, and a headache from all the nonsense my computer screen is throwing at me. Seriously. Can't we all just get along? I mean, I know my laptop can't hear me, but my pleas for mercy overflow nonetheless. {Sigh}. It doesn't matter. My cries fall on deaf ears, or keyboard as it would be, and I find myself wandering into the ever-comforting glow of the blog neighborhood.

Now this I understand.

The husband looks at me from time to time and smiles. Poor guy. He thinks I am working away when really I am just sitting here thinking about that stupid car commercial we watched earlier. You might have seen it. A Chevy and a Ford are compared (imagine that) with one having the wonders of wi-fi and smiling kids zoned out on tablets and smiling parents high on the silence. The flipside of this is the less fortunate having to deal with no wi-fi on the road and less than quiet kids. I suppose the message is the virtual world is a happy world.

As the commercial faded out and the gloom of the world came back on in the form of the six o'clock news, the husband made what I considered to be a very profound statement,

"I'm glad we never had any of that and our kids learned how to talk with us."

I thought about that as we sat in silence. I can remember having three little kids crammed into a vehicle and wishing beyond wishing that we had those new-fangled  DVD systems for the car. We knew others that did and they all raved about the peace and quiet such systems brought to any excursion, no matter how long or short. Once, for a brief period and for a reason I can't recall, we borrowed some kind of contraption for a road trip. I can't really say if we liked it or not... that's one of those memories that have faded along with the pitter-patter of little feet. The point is, I suppose, is that instead of logging out of life and signing into the constant glow of a computer screen, our kids ultimately had nothing better to do than to talk to us.

Sometimes loud.
Sometimes whiny.

But always real.

Today we have three young adults who, oddly enough, seem to actually enjoy conversations with us old folks. Maybe it has to do with all those books we read to them as kids. Maybe it something with all those meals we ate around a table.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's because we could never afford all that entertainment stuff and were forced to acknowledge life head on and not muffle it through the foam and cords of headphones. A stretch, I'm sure, but something to think about, I'm certain. If nothing else, it took my mind off my own reality if even for a short time.

Now,

Back to my own problems.
Your prayers are appreciated.

Image provided by keyword "Windows 8 Nightmare." Thanks, frustrated user. I can totally relate.

The Procrastination Queen

While the rest of the world discusses Bruce Jenner and other oddities of the universe, another noteworthy event took place today that would otherwise go unnoticed except for me and this marvel of a thing called blogging at my fingertips...

A scrapbook was finished.

I've never been one to boast about being an "on time" kinda girl. Slow and steady wins the race, as the saying goes. I definitely fall into that category. It's who I am. Of course, the downside of all this procrastination is that this scrapbook for the oldest was finished just in time (?) to start the one for the middle so I can try to get to the one for the youngest. Keep in mind the middle graduated last year and the youngest graduates next year.

That's 2014 and 2016, in case you're keeping track-
And puts the finish line somewhere around 2020.

At least I've got a game plan.

My Undoing

Few things in life drive me crazy. I mean, I'm relatively a calm person. I don't get overly anxious. I don't do drama (unless you count that stint in the eighth grade). I pretty much keep it simple.

This fly, however.

This hovering, buzzing, teasing fly is going to drive me INSANE.

It taunts me as I sit on the couch. It follows me to the kitchen and wreaks havoc while my hands are otherwise occupied. It has even managed to annoy the cats.

This fly, people, has got to go DOWN.



Really? you ask.
Is this all you've got? you wonder.



Well,

I could tell you how I have roamed the house today arguing with emotions while the laundry was folded. Or I could mention the fact that I became one of THOSE people who pump gas in their pajama pants.

But then, that might make you rethink my opening remarks.

Maybe it's not the FLY making me insane.

Maybe it's life at the moment.


Nah.

It's the fly.






Absolutely.