While I am completely aware that grief affects each and everyone differently, I’m pretty much wishing I were a little more over it by now. I mean, I felt pretty hideous for the first couple of days and now I’m not hugely better BUT I WANT TO BE.
I want the nightmares to stop (I’m fairly prone to nightmares during times of intense stress), I wish I could feel like I had a handle on my life and responsibilities and start fucking functioning again. I HAD MY HUSBAND TAKE THE REST OF THE WEEK OFF WORK (like he’s actually not working or something. Ha-ha-ha) TO HELP ME OUT, HOW PATHETIC IS THAT?
And I really want to be certain that I’m not one of those hysterical people who troll the planet looking for things to be sad about and making it.all.about.them! I’ve never been that person before, and as self-centered as I can be (dude, I have a blog that I write about such meaningful topics as “toilet paper and how it changed my life” and “my kid is weird looking but that’s okay”. How more self-centered can one POSSIBLY be?), I’m not even close to pretending that I am grieving any more or any less than anyone else shocked by this loss.
I guess that I’m just hoping that the funeral will bring some closure and maybe, just maybe, stop the damn nightmares. I hate nightmares (I’ll spare you a boring recount of them, which would be interesting to absolutely no one.).
I pretty much suck at emotions in general, and feel only a couple specific ones: Give Me A Fucking Cheeseburger, Angry, and I Need a Goddamned Nap, and emotional situations always make me afraid that I’ll say the wrong thing and make everyone feel worse. This is why I am funny. It’s hard to make someone cry when you’re trying to make them laugh (although you can be certain that I have probably done this), and laughter is something I can handle. Crying, not so much.
I wanted to thank everyone who has supported me since this whole damned ordeal started. Your comments honestly meant the world to me, and it’s great to know that her memory will be perpetuated (however small it may be) by people who she didn’t even know. Thank you also to my lurkers, who pulled the cloak from their face and showed me that even if they think I’m an idiot (they have every right to think this), they care too.
Steph was a neat person, and I just know that you all would have liked her tremendously. She was just that kind of person, you know, the kind you like immediately and unapologetically.
In an effort to distract his mother from her grieving process, Alex has mastered something I hadn’t even thought possible.
Now, after having an overarchingly non-verbal child as my first, this whole babbling and talking this has thrown me through a loop. Ben grunted, Alex succinctly demands.
After blowing his brother’s verbal prowess out of the water, he has picked up a brand new habit, one which terrifies me and sends shivers down my spine:
He mimics our voices and statements.
No sooner have I let the dog out to make some yellow snow, when Alex begins to bellow “Caaasssshhhh”over and over again until the dog has come back in. (Yes, my dog’s name is Cash. No, I don’t mean as in Cash Money. Yes, he was named this to prevent me from loudly petitioning to name our youngest “Cash.” Can we all agree that I have terrible taste? Okay, good.)
Later, I will go to the top of the basement stairs and sweetly call “Dave” should I need my husband for something. As soon as I do this, my parrot for a son begins yelling (not so sweetly) “Daaavvvveee” Daaaavvvvveee” over and over until his father comes into his line of sight.
While this is completely adorable, it means precisely one thing, one harsh thing: I am going to have to stop referring to my husband as “Motherfucker” in Alex’s presence.