Misconceptions

I feel exhausted when every time I watch a movie where someone dies, I worry that Paul sees me crying and thinks I'm thinking of Rob.

It lessens my enjoyment of the movie. I wish that Paul would just take it for what it is: emotions rising from the inside of me, the passion of the piece of art I'm watching, my compassion for the character in front of me.

Or maybe he does and I'm just projecting.

Dear Rob,

I'm so happy and contented with our beautiful children. How I wish you could see them. I want to show you all the pictures I've taken of them in the past months. 

Do you remember sitting on the couch looking at Aubrey pictures when she turned one? I knew that that was to be the start of a new tradition for our growing family: to look over the past years pictures of our birthday child.

I haven't done that with Paul. I've mistakenly assumed that Paul would not be interested in looking at pictures of Aubrey and Joey before he met them. And so I didn't show him pictures of Aubrey at 1 and 2. She was 3 when Paul and I met.

But now what is my excuse? That this was our tradition and that it can't carry on to my new family? No. That's not right. That's like saying I can't celebrate the past year of my child's life through pictures with Paul because you aren't there.  ???  It doesn't quite make sense, does it?

There. I have just committed to showing Paul pictures of our little ones on their coming birthdays. And just because's.

Thanks for listening, love.

Love, Valerie

Apologies

I wanted to extend my apologies for not keeping this blog more current.  I have uncovered some old journal entries from the months after Rob died that I will be adding to the blog in the near future. My work on this project (the non-fiction book I'm compiling) will be stunted for thirty days while I participate in the NaNoWriMo for this coming month. Wish me luck and joy! 

I wonder what you would think of me now

Dear Rob,

I wonder what you would think of me now.  If you were here, what would we talk about? Before, we talked mostly of our love, about work and about moving into our own place.  We talked of love and passion and sex and blow jobs.  We talked of silly jokes and military life and I listened to you speak to me in Portuguese. A language I never learned but still think of trying every now and again.

But what would we talk of now? What I've been doing since you left, most likely.  How funny. Saying 'you left' sounds like you took a job in Alaska instead of dying five hours after I discovered my pregnancy with Joey. Your last gift. My last child. 

Though sometimes I still wish I could have more. Adopt or -- anything. But Paul doesn't want anymore and (maybe) it wouldn't be the same anyway. Because it's occurred to me that maybe I want more children so I can be reminded of the life I no longer have with you. It's a way of missing you, of missing something that hadn't happened yet; a dream we had together. Did you remember you wanted seven children?

I still smile at that. We could've done it -- you and me.  And all your Portuguese family.  That family is mine, too, if I allow it. 

I'm not close to your family, Rob. There. I feel mean and little and hard. But I'm not close to them. Oh, it's not intentional. It's not a conscious attempt to block them out. It's the same with all friends I've moved away from. We just migrate. Lose touch. Though your mom won't allow that too much. She still calls once a week or so and checks in.  I'm glad she does.

Joey actually talked to her yesterday.  He doesn't like to talk to her on the phone usually. It may just be that he won't be a phone person. Or maybe he blames her for his homesickness when he spent a month in Massachusetts this summer. Who knows. I'm awed at how much I don't know about our children.

There it is again, Rob. "Our" children. They are as much Paul's children as yours, yet I feel compelled to call them 'our' children when I talk to you and 'our' children when I talk to Paul. It's weird. I guess they really are all "our" children.  All three of ours. You fathered them in the biblical sense -- biologically. But Paul's been the 'Dad' for the last seven years.

So maybe I should tell you about this Paul guy: He loves them. He truly does. He hangs with them, holds them when they're sad or hurt, kisses them good-night and plays with them. 

He does work long hours and wishes to spend more time with them, so he's started going into work a little late -- stealing minutes to give back to Aubrey and Joey.

Aubrey's still a daddy's girl - though not as much as with you when she was 20 months old. She likes school, Harry Potter, magic, fairies, music and art.  She's in choir for her fourth year and I just watched her dance with my scarf on the side of the road yesterday.  Music was playing in the streets as we watched a parade going by. She's at once self-conscious and courageously and artistically spiritual. She's at home with who she is but can and will weep when she feels unjustly used or put upon.  

She is me.  But looks like you. Paul said one day that "Aubrey always looked like Aubrey. In her baby pictures -- she always looked like her." And Paul is right, too. It's true. She still looks like her baby pictures -- yet I see glimpses of the young woman that is coming fast. Before I'm ready, I fear.

Joey looks more like a Hanna -- my mom's side of the family. So more of me. And he's an Aries sign -- just like me.  And he's got a fire-y temper that burns off fairly quickly --just like me. But I suspect he has a lot more of you in him. Interesting things that I pause and wonder at. Like, he has imaginary friends - tons of them - but not in the sweet "isn't that cute?" way. More like the goblins hiding in the closet to steal the baby in that movie "The Labyrinth." Though in a sad way - not evil. 

He has a 'friend' that, I suspect, corrolates to each different facet of his personality.  Fun boy, Punching Boy, Quiet Boy, Skateboarding Boy. 

When his temper and frustrations get the better of him (as happens often), he gets rough and aggressive with the people he's around. No matter if they are adults, children or pets. Afterwards he feels bad about it and seeks comfort from me. When I talk to him about it, he says peculiar things about his "friends." His "friend" told him to do it.  His mind told him to do it -- not him. And for a couple of months, his "friends" wanted him dead.  It was quite alarming actually. I've wondered if he could be depressed like you and your grandfathers were. It does run in the family.  I watch and wonder. And wait.

Joey tried to "feed the good wolf," as he put it one day after a friend used that expression. But sometimes he's just not successful. Poor kid. He loves snakes, sharks, Tom and Jerry, and bugs. But not bees.

And now I'm wondering about me. And you. I wonder if you'd like me now. Resonate with who I am and what I stand for now. I'm still not Catholic -- though I did have Joey baptized to carry on the tradition, so to speak.  And to quiet your mom.

Me. Who am I now? Well, I dated a little after Joey was born. I journaled a lot. I treated myself monthly to nurturing pedicures and massages. I bought a house and had it fixed up. And I met Paul.

I think you know him from other lives, Rob, but I only remember one. I get the sense that you wanted me to be with him in this other life. You died in that one, too. And Paul was our friend and you wanted Paul to care for me, and for me to seek comfort with Paul after your death. Strange that it happened again -- sort-of.

I went to massage school and I'm a licensed massage therapist now.  I'm serious about my writing and I've got a bit of art on the wall and shelves around my house. After you died, I did a lot of my healing in art. I started working with clay and dabbled in painting and always wrote. I meditated and journaled and channeled and cried and healed. I tried to parent as best I knew how, with the strength I had. And Paul helped.

We share things, Paul and I. He'd parent when I was sick or at school; I'd parent when he'd had a bad day at work. Paul encourages me to continue expressing myself creatively and never nags at me to do the housework.

Do you remember the time you said, "What do you do all day?" You were looking at the toys on the floor, the unmade bed and the dishwasher half-loaded.

I remember other things, too. I remember your giggle when you were excited. It wasn't your regular laugh you shared with everyone, it was the one you only used with me, when you were being tickled or caught off-guard sexually.  It was the giggle you giggled when I showed you the pregnancy test for Joey. You jumped up and down in the bathroom, penis flopping. Giggling.

I hugged you -- "We're having a baby."

But now? If I was pregnant right now with your baby I'd still hug you and say "We're having a baby." But it would be different. I'd do it based on who I am now.

Cloth diapers, breastfeeding for a year, organic baby food, no plastic toys - only wood and natural materials like organic wool, silk and organic cotton. Natural dyes, Waldorf-y toys. Homeschool. Unschool.

I'm homeschooling Joey -- did I tell you? I think you'd approve.

Oh, and I have prayer flags on my front porch and goddess flags in my living room.  I rarely watch TV and I mow the lawn with a push reel mower -- no gasoline. I recycle. I compost. I use no harsh cleaners (no more bleach for your warts). I even bike when I can, instead of drive, and hang the clothes outside to dry. Organic everything if I have the choice, homeopathic or naturapathic medicine only. Alternative diets and yoga.

Yeah. My life has changed a bit since I've known you.

But I still miss you. And I still wish we were together. I love you.

Love, Valerie

RobDaddy

I was walking my daughter to school this morning after a last minute switch from home-schooling.

"You know why Mrs. Ryan is so happy to have me back this year?" Aubrey grinned and did a little hop-skip.

"Why?"

"Because I'm so good at math."  She smiled.

"You are good at math.  You know why?"  I looked over at her as we walked from the office to her classroom.

"Why?" She tilted her head, curious.

"Because RobDaddy was.  He was great at math."  I try to bring him into the conversation in positive ways because often she associates him with pain, grief and tears.  I want to help her get past the connection that when she feels sad she must me missing RobDaddy.

She smiled and said, "I'm great at math, too.  I just really hate it."

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"I like going to the cemetery alone"

I like going to Rob’s grave alone better. On this trip we only had a few minutes. Fernanda said a quick prayer, Aubrey laid a mournful hand on the tombstone (but I can never tell if she’s just being dramatic – especially with her headphones on), and Joey was trying to look sad but giggled instead, covering his mouth with his fingers. Like trying to pull the smile from his lips.

I took a couple pictures of them at his grave and we left. The closest I got to an honest emotion was reading off his footstone aloud to Joey.

“Sweet dreams,” I traced with my finger. Inside I said, I miss you. My throat swelled and I ignored the heat rising in my face to trace his name and date of birth for Joey and reminded him we light a candle and sing ‘happy birthday’ to him.

If I had been alone I would’ve had more time to talk to him and meditate on how I really feel right now. Every year (well, every chance I get actually) I like to check in and feel around and test for pain and/or healing. Like using your tongue as a probe to feel for the hole your excised molar left after the last trip to the oral surgeon.

Is the pain still there? Hmm. A bit. Some left over. Yes, that deeper patch way in back. I imagine it a black color like a deep cave cut into rock. It's smaller than last time. But is that because I’ve layered cheerleader happiness over it or because it’s really healing. And I probe some more. Noticing any tender spots.

Once a year Aubrey, Joey and I try to visit our East Coast family, and this time -- for the first time -- my children are staying on after I go home. Fernanda has asked me to do this every year since they were born. I deep saying, "When they're older, when they're older." Well, I guess they're older now. Gulp. They are staying with their grandmother for one month, which is good for them -- getting to see cousins and staying a part of Rob's family -- but feels terrible to me.

Fernanda has slipped twice this trip and called Joey ‘Bob’ -- her name for Rob. That’s never happened before. She must be seeing more of him in Joey lately, or it could be that we were talking about Rob as a child this afternoon.

In the middle of one reccollection, Fernanda’s voice gave a sad little gasp after the word, “I”. Like, maybe she wanted to say, “I miss him so much.” Or maybe it wasn’t “I” but “Aiy,” as in an exclamation of pain that is overwhelming sometimes.

I leave tomorrow. I hope the children are ready for their solo stay. On the drive home Joey asks me:

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“When we get home can you do something with me?” He’s been feeling a little left out of life lately. Aubrey’s growing up and letting go of Joey and he’s just not ready for that. Especially without any other friends to galavant around with.

“Of course.”

“I’d really like it if you’d ... I’d really like it if you’d … give me a hug,” he said. I reached behind me and touched his shin right above his Spiderman sneaker. He grabbed my hand and squeezed. I wonder if the cemetery visit had more of an effect than I thought.

“Mom?”

“Yes, love?”

“Is pus an infection?” ??? Umm . Maybe not.

“Yes.”

“I hate pus.”

“Why? Do you have some right now?” You’d think I’d know. I see his body often enough and he always tells me of his owies right away in an attempt to receive a waiver from chores. (“Ooo, Mom. I can’t set the table. See? My bruise.” ) This usually involves elaborate limping that switches feet every other step.

“No. I just hate my school where I got it.” Now that I knew he was talking about a past boo-boo, I switched gears from pus to school angst. I perked my ears up again and sat straighter in my car seat. I couldn’t see his face as he was right behind me and if I turned, my head would pop and I’d puke in his lap. I'm cursed with carsickness. Sometimes it even happens when I drive.

I’ve been listening for school conversations that might hint at his emotional and mental state regarding school. He had a hard time last year and I want to know if I need to home-school him until his name rides up the waiting list for the Montessori school we want to try him in, or if he can swing it with this one a bit longer. Is it detrimental for him to be at that school? Or merely a struggle?

“I hate that school. It gave it to me.” Back to the pus, I see.

“Your school didn’t give it to you. Pus is just your body’s natural reaction to infection. It’s a good thing. Without it, infection would spread throughout your body.”

I sounded like a science lesson, or a commercial. So I stopped.

I wish I could’ve gone to the cemetery alone. Talking about imaginary pus isn’t what I’d had in mind. I wanted to meditate and miss Rob properly. The internal and external conversations weren’t jelling.

I don’t know though. Pus and Pain do have much in common. Maybe Joey was just probing his own psyche, as I was trying to do.