Am I preggers? And other stuff rumbling around in my brain

It’s been an interesting 7 days around here.

If you’ve been reading my blog for a little while, you may know I freak out every month, thinking I’m preggers. This month is no exception. I am currently wigging out. Which makes me super pleasant to be around. Just ask Hubs.

And there is NO REASON to freak out. I mean, I had an ultrasound last week (checking for fibroids, which I have none of, yay!) and there was no little fetus in there.

But of course my brain is all, but what if you were just pregnant and they couldn’t see the little bug?

And so – I’m freaking out. I’m waiting. And watching. And freaking out. I am resisting using a pregnancy test because even if – when – it’s negative, I won’t believe it. So why spend the cash? Right? Right?

The other thing that’s been on my mind is Father’s Day. My dad unexpectedly passed away two years ago, so Father’s Day is a bag of mixed emotions for me.

It’s a fun day because my husband is pretty much the best dad EVER, and we love telling him that all day long around here. We host a party for my husband’s side of the family, and this year’s was probably the best one ever. Perfect weather, great food, I was prepared and got to actually hang out, and everyone stayed all day long.

And yet, it’s a strange day because my dad is gone. But Father’s Day has always been a strange day for me.

I haven’t really talked about my relationship with my dad on my blog, just the emotions I have been dealing with since he died. I tend to avoid thinking about that part of my childhood.

But when I read Kim’s post about imperfect Father’s Days, I paused. In it, she says, “It’s okay if you can’t be found spending hours searching for the perfect Father’s Day card … because of an imperfect relationship with your dad.”

That’s exactly how I feel.

My family is a card-sending family. My mom keeps Hallmark in business. Even if the world stops selling paper cards, the woman will stockpile them so she can still send cards to every conceivable relative for every conceivable holiday for the rest of her life.

So it was a given that I had to send cards to her and my dad for every conceivable holiday. Including Father’s Day.

So every upcoming Father’s Day (and my parents’ anniversary, but that’s another story) during my adult life, I spent uncomfortable moments at Target staring at the cards, wondering what to send my father.

I usually ended up picking something funny because my dad liked funny cards. And there were no cards that said what I wanted to say:

I really thought I might have hated you for many years, but now I’m not so sure.

I am starting to forgive you for making my childhood so miserable so often.

I am happy you are mellowing as you grow older and I am finally getting to know you and understand why my mom married you in the first place.

Hallmark doesn’t make those cards. Because even if someone wanted to send them, no one wants to receive them.

So, yeah, I get what Kim was talking about. And yeah, I’ve been feeling anxious and down and generally yucky over the past week.

But I’m getting through it better than I have in the past.

Anyway. Today I have lots of random things to do – put together end-of-year teacher gifts, go to Target (and resist buying 10 pregnancy tests), cook dinner for a friend who just had a baby, do laundry, dishes, etc. etc. etc.

And through it all, I’ll be waiting. And wondering.

And I’ll joyfully update you all on Facebook when I have an update. Because I know you’re waiting with bated breath, right? God knows I am.

*****

New to Honest Mom? Get the backstory on why I write naked.

I blog about my high-maintenance kids, write about dealing with depressionI do the memoir thing, and sometimes, I can be kinda funny.

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Looking for help on what to do: Anniversary of my dad’s death

This is going to be a short post. Because I’m asking for your help and I don’t want to blather on and on.

This weekend is the second anniversary of my dad’s sudden death. And I don’t know what to do with myself.

I’m not sleeping. I’m starting to panic. I don’t know how to mark the day or what to do. Or what not to do. I can’t do nothing and act like it’s a normal day. But I’m at a loss.

I think last year was easier in some ways. My husband and kids and I went to my childhood home and hung out with my mom. We went to my dad’s favorite restaurant and had a nice dinner. My mom and I made a beautiful planter for his grave.

It was hard, of course. Really sad. But being at places that had my dad in them – his house, the restaurant, even the cemetery – gave me a tiny amount of peace.

This year I am not going to be there. I am hundreds of miles away.

My mom will be alone. I feel horrible about that.

I was hoping to spend the day at home, outside, gardening in the shade garden my dad created for me. But it is going to be cold and raining.

The only thing I can think of is going shopping for garden things for the shade garden (a bench, a fountain, something like that) but that doesn’t feel quite right.

I can’t go to church. I will spend the whole time bawling and everyone will stare at me and I don’t want that.

I don’t have siblings to connect with. Well, I have a half-sister, but that’s another story.

I feel lost. I am getting very anxious. I don’t know what to do.

I am dreading the day and afraid I am going to spend it sobbing, hiding from my children, aching for the 24 hours to pass.

Do you have any ideas on what I could do this Sunday? Have any of you lost a parent? What do you do on the tough days like the day of the parent’s passing or birthday?

Any ideas would be most appreciated, whether you’ve been in this situation or not. I’ll reply to your responses in the comments (something I normally do but I’ve been overwhelmed lately and falling behind).

Thanks so much – JD

Remembered: April 22

The morning began like every morning, with Hubs quietly bringing me my cup of coffee while I was still in bed.

But on this day, instead of putting my coffee on my nightstand and opening the curtains a bit, he gingerly sat on our bed. His presence felt heavy. Burdened.

And I knew. My sleepy, half-awake brain knew something was deeply, darkly wrong.

I bolted up in bed, startling him, causing him to almost spill the coffee he was about to offer me.

What is it? I spluttered, my words unclear, my mouth dry. Hubs was staring at me, eyes welling up. The unsettling sight caused my stomach to knot. I felt fear closing my throat. I heard labored breaths.

It’s your dad, he said. You have to call your mom.

He was going to say more, but I interrupted him, thinking I’d spare him the dreaded words: He’s dead. My dad’s dead.

His head shook no. He had a major stroke. But he’s alive. He held out the yellow mug. Here. Drink.

Shaking hands passed to shakier hands. Shakier hands held cup to lips.

I sipped, not tasting. My beloved morning coffee had no flavor.

But I drank. I drank that coffee, willing it to calm my nerves, restore some sanity, give me the strength to call my soon-to-be-widowed mother. And then I dialed.

Come home, she said. Get on a plane. We don’t know how long he has. Hurry.

Hanging up the phone, I viewed my room through murky eyes. Lead legs waded through thick air to the closet. Grab the suitcase. Pack dark clothes. Wear black. Find a sweater.

I opened a drawer and leaned on it for support, but gravity pulled my chest to the floor and my body shook with sobs.

My daddy’s dying. My daddy’s dying. I gasped, sobbed, heaved as I began to be swallowed up.

Hubs’ long, strong arms appeared and encircled me. His body tented over mine as he held off the dark fog so I could breathe.

The sobs began to subside. I felt air return to my lungs. I breathed deep and leaned on my love as he helped me to my feet. He pushed my hair out of my eyes and looked into them, infusing me with strength. We need to focus. We need to catch a plane, he said.

Yes, I said. We need to focus. We need to catch a plane. And I climbed in the shower, breathing deep, letting the hot water scald the remaining fog off my skin.

the day my dad died

photo credit: Dustin Diaz via photopin cc