I'M BOOOOOOORRRRRRED

Got a bored kid? Tired of hearing "I'M BOOOORRRRRREEEEDDDDDD."

"What can I doooooooo???????"

Here's what you need:

• paper
• crayons/pens/colored pencils/some kind of drawing implement or magazine pics or some such way to create pictures on the paper
• container to put the pictures in (we used a coffee can from Trader Joe's)
• stickers to decorate the container (totes optional)
• bored kid or kids

Procedure:

1. Have kid draw pictures of things s/he likes to do when not bored.
2. Label each picture with the name of the activity so siblings don't look at the picture and go WTF? is this?
3. Fold each picture so it fits into the container.

Outcome:

Bored child has now been inadvertently (yeah, right!) entertained for a good amount of time AND created entertainment for future I'M BORRRREDDDDD moments!

Next time a kid is bored, hand 'em the can, have 'em pick out an idea and get to it. Oh, she doesn't like the idea she chose? Get to drawing! Make some new ideas!

Before And After Photos

When I look through my pictures, I define them all in my head as before and after photos.

Before Bob died.

And after.

I wonder, like one wonders if she looks different after losing her virginity, if I look different to other people after Bob's death. Can they tell I'm a widow? Does it show in my face?

Before.

After.

The pictures of the kids, of the house, our pets, everything in our lives—they are all defined as before and after.

There is not a single photo that I see that I do not know where it falls on that continuum. I might not know the year, month, or place, but I do know where that one defining event lands in relationship to that picture. Always.

Before.

After.

BTW, He's Dead

I feel, sometimes, like that's how it goes.

I get an email asking for his signature, or a piece of mail, or some such thing. I reply.

Sometimes I soften the blow for the recipient. Sometimes—fuck it, I just don't have it in me.

I take a Sharpie to the envelope and scrawl DECEASED (but, leave out MOTHER FUCKER, which is what I really want to write).

Yeah, he's dead. You'll need to deal with me.

Return to sender. Deceased.

Oh, BTW, widow.

Jaded? Maybe.

Reality? Yup.

I check "Ms." and mark "widow," but I still get his mail and have to explain at least once a week that he is gone.

I explain it at the dentist. I explain it to the bank. I fill it out on forms for school. Still. Always. Forever.

How do we fix this, people? How do we make this easier? It shouldn't be this constant, stabbing, always reminder of the pain.

A week off. Just one.

I am not the only widow. I am not unique.

Tomayto, Tomahto, Donkey, Rabbit, Prick

So, I'm killing time, waiting to hear some news. No matter what happens, my day has been made perfect by this:

I've also discovered, after twenty+ years, that I CAN DRINK BEER. Well, some kinds of beer. So, I'm enjoying a lovely bottle of Tangerine Wheat from Lost Coast Brewery. It is, le yum. I highly recommend it.

Another fun find from the past week: Richmond Prick (which, is not penis, I swear) at Up & Under in Point Richmond (EAT IT. Be brave, just do it!) They also have tasty fish tacos and flaccid rugby balls masquerading as light fixtures–how is that not full of win? Also, you should seriously hit this place up if you're looking for the fellas. It was full of men of all shapes and sizes when we were there. Get after it. Or just eat and drink and enjoy your present company. That's what we did.

Shock: The Blurry Bits

It's normal, I suppose–all of the bits and pieces I can't remember.

Something will trigger a slice of a memory, but I can't find the pieces the go around that memory; I can't fill it in. I don't know if I want to. I don't know if I need to.

My head will get swimmy and full with the trying to remember if I push too hard.

I was playing a silly little game called Unblock that I play to help me get to sleep where you shuffle cars around to make way for your car to get out into traffic. I've played it countless times, but tonight the black cars reminded me of a funeral, which made me think of Bob's funeral, which made me think of how I got to the funeral, who drove me, what car I rode in, and who was with me in the car. I remember pieces, but I can't put it all together.

There are chunks of time I can replay so easily, but others that are just missing when I go to find them.

I have read and been told by many widows that year one wasn't the hardest year for them–it was year two when things really hit.

I don't know if harder is the right word, because this year is so much less of a roller-coaster than last year and, honestly, the time leading up to it. What I do know is that, so far, it's feels like the grieving process is different somehow–more solid, maybe? Deeper? More whole?

I finally have a pace to my life where I can experience the grief in a way that gets to my core. I don't think I could do that in the first year—I was in survival mode then. I had to make sure we "made it."

Now that I know we can survive, I feel safe enough to let go and feel all of these emotions that were buried. It's heavy sometimes. It is a frightening feeling being the only parent. Not a single parent. THE parent.

Now that I have a year of being THE parent, I am learning how to let myself be the grieving parent. I am learning that it is okay. I can do this. I've got this.