Easter is this Sunday. It is 3 days away. It can stay 3 days away. Or just not happen. I don’t care. It will be my first holiday ever not celebrating in what has been our tradition with my kids. It will also be my first holiday without my grandmother. While the logical center of my brain knew that getting divorced would mean I’d be giving up some of these things, and that losing my grandmother meant I’d cross this bridge, I still find myself standing on the edge of it, unable to move.
It’s been so long since I had to manage fresh grief, I feel like a rookie all over again. I find myself missing my grandmother for the craziest reasons. Bernie Sanders, Cardinal baseball, Strawberry pie, fresh fruit, loathing Donald Trump, the announcement of the Dancing With The Stars lineup. All things she loved. Things that just serve now to remind me that I’ll never hear her be a smartass again. That she isn’t there behind me in my corner anymore. She was always there. And I miss that certainty. A lot. Every day.
I dyed Easter Eggs with the kids last night, it was stressful and chaotic like always. And I now have 24 colorful hard boiled eggs in my refrigerator. They’ll do them again Friday evening with their dad at his house. And he’ll hide them and they’ll hunt them Sunday morning. And I’ll miss it. We have our own thing planned for Sunday evening when they come home. Something new and fun to add to our new normal, our new traditions. But I feel immense sadness thinking about their sleepy faces, running around the cold yard in their pajamas looking for their eggs.
I’m trying to manage both of these things together this week. And I’m not doing so well. I’m trying my best to fake it, and keep it together. But really, I’d like to climb into my bed under my poufy blanket and not come out until it’s over. Adulting ought to come with a few “Get out of reality” cards. Sometimes all the things we have to handle are too much. I could be a gold medalist in any “Stiff Upper Lip” competition, and I feel like I might crumble today. Luckily, its allergy season and I can blame my red puffy eyes on pollen.
It’s been so long since I had to manage fresh grief, I feel like a rookie all over again. I find myself missing my grandmother for the craziest reasons. Bernie Sanders, Cardinal baseball, Strawberry pie, fresh fruit, loathing Donald Trump, the announcement of the Dancing With The Stars lineup. All things she loved. Things that just serve now to remind me that I’ll never hear her be a smartass again. That she isn’t there behind me in my corner anymore. She was always there. And I miss that certainty. A lot. Every day.
I dyed Easter Eggs with the kids last night, it was stressful and chaotic like always. And I now have 24 colorful hard boiled eggs in my refrigerator. They’ll do them again Friday evening with their dad at his house. And he’ll hide them and they’ll hunt them Sunday morning. And I’ll miss it. We have our own thing planned for Sunday evening when they come home. Something new and fun to add to our new normal, our new traditions. But I feel immense sadness thinking about their sleepy faces, running around the cold yard in their pajamas looking for their eggs.
I’m trying to manage both of these things together this week. And I’m not doing so well. I’m trying my best to fake it, and keep it together. But really, I’d like to climb into my bed under my poufy blanket and not come out until it’s over. Adulting ought to come with a few “Get out of reality” cards. Sometimes all the things we have to handle are too much. I could be a gold medalist in any “Stiff Upper Lip” competition, and I feel like I might crumble today. Luckily, its allergy season and I can blame my red puffy eyes on pollen.
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