Fuck It

I wouldn’t say I had a walk-in closet growing up.  But, my closet, in our tiny post-war bungalow was the biggest, and, my tiny body could walk into it.  So, in effect, I had a walk-in closet.

I tell you this because I want you to glean the approximate size from my words; bigger than standard, but not big. 

There were times, well beyond the fort-making stage of childhood, that I sought refuge in the closet.  I would toss my blankets in there after an argument with my parents, friend, or crush, and, with my tiny light, would read, write, and sleep inside. 

I know this stressed my mom out.  I remember her desire to dig into my psyche - Why are you in the closet? Is everything okay?  I had no idea why I was in there.  I just knew that it felt safe.  Smaller.  Or maybe it was because I felt larger.

After Penelope died, I did it again.  I saw Reuben off to work and spent the day in our tiny apartment bathroom wrapped in blankets.  It was comfortable by only my definition.  I’ve made beds on the floor, between the bed and wall, in closets, and bathrooms.  I knew it was odd, but again, never questioned, shared, or worried too much about it.

My son has started doing the same recently. His world, dramatically changed, and he seeks comfort on the ground.  I snuggled the shit out of him on the floor the other night. I didn’t press him, as my mother used to press me, to understand the why, rather, I grabbed a few extra blankets and joined him.  We talked about nothing at all, but I was right there with him, finding comfort on the ground in cozy spot. 

I’d peg my mental health as very good but recently my bed has felt really good. 

I’d peg my mental health as very good but I’m eating like shit

I’d peg my mental health as very good but the texts I actually reply to are dwindling.

I’d peg my mental health as very good but sweats and stained t-shirts are becoming the norm.

I’d peg my mental health as very good, but I’d love to cozy up on the floor of my closet and shut the world out.

But I can’t, because I’m a mom. 

I’m a mom and as I come upstairs to find my middle child sleeping in a strange spot on the hallway floor, I realize that he feels it too.

I’d peg his mental health as very good but right now, it’s slipping. 

He has been struggling to sleep,

eating worse,

missing friends,

wearing PJ’s all day, and now,

 sleeping on the floor of the hallway. 

I’m watching us slip and struggling to hold on.  More often than not my answer is fuck it.  I’m putting mental health above other things that I value: eating right, looking good, school, the schedule, being a good friend.  Fuck it, I’ll eat the kids left over chicken nuggets.  Fuck it, no one is going to see me anyways.  Fuck it, we are done school for the day.  Fuck it, we have nowhere to be.  Fuck it, I’ll text back later.  While I grasp at mental health, the rest slips.  It’s an impossible balancing act for me. 

I’m cautious to even post something on Covid-19 as it certainly is a hot-button topic.  We are all impacted, differently and severely.  I’ve already lost one friendship because of word choice.  Covid-19 word choice buried a friendship of 24 years.  You know what I said?  Fuck it. I post this because I think it’s important to recognize when you’re slipping.  When the world feels too big and you are craving the comfort of a blanket fort.  Recognize what you are and aren’t capable of.  Talk to family, friends, and management, about where you’re at emotionally.  Take some things off your plate and put your mental health above it all.  Find the things, and places, that bring you comfort. 

And, if that’s a blanket in the hallway with your 8-year-old, I say Fuck It, let’s get cozy, buddy!

Reflections on a Decade

A decade ago, I sat on a chair by the front door of our new home, busting with life.  From this chair I directed our friends as they moved box after box into this new home.  I had no idea what this decade was going to hold but I knew it would involve bringing you safely into this world, making this house a home, and growing this family.  Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined how blessed I’d be 10 years later.  There has been, in my life, no greater decade than this one.

This decade has seen me grow more than I could ever have imagined.  You helped me do that.  Much like the sea glass that you bring to me, beaming, at the beach, I’ve softened around the edges.  With your help, I’m softer, kinder, patient, and more understanding.  The green sea glass is my favourite, and even though it’s simply the remnants of Heineken bottle, we act like it’s a rare jewel, because you never know.  I hold your find in my hand, turning it over, feeling its softness.  I wonder about the timeline of your treasure; how long has this piece been in the water?  How long as it taken for this piece of shattered glass to become a jewel in my daughter’s eyes?

We were gifted a piano shortly after moving into this house.  Working to create a home, we placed it in the living room.  I decided a long time ago that music would always fill my home. Fuck the TV. I want to dance in the kitchen forever; I grab you as you walk by and sing awkwardly to your friends as they come into the kitchen for water.  I have a photo of you at 18 months climbing this piano.  You were near the top and neither of us were afraid.  Rather than grabbing you and safely placing you back on the carpet, I grabbed the camera, capturing the moment.  It was like I knew I was capturing your tiny spirit in that one simple photo.  You hold no fear.  In that moment you showed me that you could do it and I showed you that I believed in you.  We took this spirit through the decade.  Let’s take it into the next as well.

You’ve made friends with ease, never hesitating to just introduce yourself and asking for what you want from a young age.  Do you want to be my friend? In the last decade this boldness has served you well, take this with you as well.  I’ve liked every single pick you’ve made in the last ten years.  You follow your instinct and chase kindness.  My heart swells with each friend that has entered our home. They sit at my table and I talk to them.  Knowing them and understanding why you choose them helps me to learn you.  As you grow, exploring the neighbourhood now with your friends, I get less time with you but more time to witness your interactions with others.  I couldn’t be prouder.  You are a good friend; each one lucky to have you.

And, at the end of the day as we snuggle having our much-desired girl time you say, without fail, Mom, can I tell you something? To which I reply, Baby, you can tell me anything.  This is our standard question and answer, verbatim every time.  Verbatim, every time.  My goal is that perhaps after a decade my words are so deeply engrained that you’d never hesitate to bring the big stuff to me.  As we move into the next decade, if you take one thing with you, it’s baby, you can tell me anything.

So, on this day, the close of the greatest decade, I feel reflective: I wonder at what point my edges softened? At what point did I become a jewel in your eyes?  The answer: It took time.  It was a slow, and sometimes, painful process.  So slow that I didn’t even see it happening, yet, ten years later, it feels like I could have blinked and missed it.  Every day was busy watching you climb and be bold and every night, exhausted, we snuggled and talked.  We moved this way, as the tide does, every day for the last decade, softening my edges.

One Last Errand

I knew you were gone before the confirmation came.

I knew you’d do me the favour but was so hesitant to ask.

I knew as your name washed over me that you had a hand in this.

Grandma

I wake from my dream, rattled, and feel you near.  Your name washes over me and I feel you near.  To my knowledge you are still with us, for I haven’t been told yet that you slipped away during the night. 

The dream:  I stand, on one side of a dirty glass pane.  The sun shines through, obstructing my view of a little girl on the other side.  I stand, feet firmly planted and twist my head every way imaginable to get a better view of the cloudy image of her.  This is my dream, the one I cling to, the one I hope to return to, the one that you gave to me as you slipped into the unknown. 

Thank you, Grandma, I say under my breath as I come to my senses.  I lay in bed and try to slip back into sleep.  It’s gone.  I’m unsuccessful.

I resign to the fact that once a dream is over, there is no going back. I get up, get dressed, and begin my day: coffee, toast, teeth, hair in a top knot.  I’m out the door before I know it to run errands, making a stop at my mama’s house. 

By the time I arrive, I have shaken the dream free and when, a few hours later, I am sitting in my childhood kitchen, I don’t even notice the sadness in my own mother’s face.  How did I not pick up on the fact that your world had just been ripped from you in the night?  How did I not see that in your eyes, mama?

I start in on the dream.  Tell my mama about the dirty glass, the little girl on the other side, I’m certain of two things: firstly, this little girl is mine and secondly, grandma had a hand in this. 

I notice your tears and assume that they are happy tears for this is the first dream, I tell you, in which she’s ever come to me. I disclose that I have wanted to go up to the hospital to see grandma to ask her, as she lay on her deathbed, to do me a solid and send my baby through. I was trying to find the words to both acknowledge her impending death and my selfishness in it.  How does one ask for this favour?  I couldn’t find the way to do it, so I didn’t.

Tears stream down your face, mama, as you tell me that grandma is gone.  Her soul left last night.  You were with her; she was not alone.  Then you tell me that you, my mama, asked her to do me that very solid as she slipped away.  You leaned over her, telling her that you loved her, and, before she left, you asked her to send my baby through to me. 

And, she followed through. 

I often think about where we go, how it works, and who is there waiting for us. I can’t help but chuckle at the thought of you, Grandma, delaying the process while you complete just one errand. You scan the faces waiting for you; family, friends, and lovers all gone long before. You tell them to wait, finding the smallest one, wrapping your warm arms around her and ushering her back through to me. 

And like a long line of women before me, you were selfless, even in death.

I feel you sometimes, Grandma. 

This morning I feel you.

I feel you as I sit, type-typing away on my back deck. 

You are missed, you are loved, you will never be forgotten.

Thank you, Grandma