A Lesson For All Men. And Boys.

 Blackberries.  Cobbler, sauce over ice cream, by the handful.

 Pullet eggs.  And big girl eggs.

A project.  The ending was rather unexpected.  But a happy surprise.

Something feels amiss.

Duh.

Obviously many things feel amiss around these parts but there is this niggling feeling I have that I've been unable to pinpoint.  A feeling of fear almost.  Unsettled and mildly phobic.  A feeling of vulnerability to the most extreme level.

Once again, duh.

I think I figured it out though.  It's because of Bill.  Or rather, the lack of Bill now.  Had he not been the always-present, always-supportive, always-encouraging guy that he was, I suppose I wouldn't feel so bereft right now.  For the majority of my life (see http://juliekp71.blogspot.com/) I've had Bill's support and confidence as my foundation.  He never discouraged my ideas (except about redecorating or furniture rearranging).  He always offered authentic praise and encouragement.  I never, ever doubted his complete acceptance of me.  I knew he loved me unconditionally and would do anything to protect me.  He never missed an opportunity to tell me I was beautiful or a great mom or the best wife.  He put me first.  Always.

So fellas, here's my advice:  Be like Bill.  Treat your wives or girlfriends just like Bill treated me.  Trust me on this.  Girls dig guys who are devoted and full of adoration for them.  If you can't invoke these feelings willingly and with ease, then maybe you've got yourself the wrong partner!

So anyway,  it's no wonder I'm feeling bereft.  The only place I can feel comfortable now is in my home.  With my kids.  It's a bit compelling that I feel this way.  I used to like entertaining and socializing and being around people.  Bill always said that I would talk to anyone.  Not so much anymore.  It's not that I'm lacking confidence in myself, though it was much easier to feel confident when Bill was around to boost me up.  I just feel vulnerable and pretty defenseless.  Always on edge and waiting for people to critique me.  Am I grieving correctly?  Am I parenting correctly?  Am I living correctly?  Am I widowing correctly?  I suppose with time I'll move past those feelings and maybe not even care what other people think.  But for now, I feel too exposed and raw when I'm out of my element.

My single priority (and it really is the only one) is raising these kids and doing it the way Bill and I intended to from the beginning.  I've said it before and I'll declare it many more times I'm sure, but my world is very small.  Very, very small these days.  But I am comfortable here in my little world.  I can supervise and manage, nurture and teach, and encourage and love in this small space, bolstered by Bill's example.  There's not much elbowroom or space for guests to spread out in this realm but it's quiet and allows me to just breathe.

But it is alone.  And that's a word I don't think I'll ever get used to.

3 years.

When I woke up this morning, it occurred to me that I have lived in this house for exactly three years.  That's 1095 days, give or take a few days when we've been out of town.  That's 36 months and 7 percent of my life.  That doesn't sound like very much, does it?  Well, here's another set of personal statistics:  I've been visiting this house for 63 percent of my life, spanning over 27 years.  Bill has been gone slightly over 8 months.  That's a wee bit more than 2 percent of my life.  But, that same 8 months also represents 22 percent of the total time we've lived here.  So to sum it up, I've been familiar with this house for 66 percent of my life, have lived here for 7 percent of my life, and lived without Bill for 2 percent of my life.  I've been alone here for nearly 25 percent of the total time we've called this our home.

Give me a calculator and a few spare minutes and I can figure out anything!

I'm glad Bill was able to spend a few years where he loved to be, doing what he loved to do.  Not everyone has the opportunity to accomplish that.  Certainly, his desire to live a quiet and simple life (rather than a life spent chasing after self-importance and hoarding of material goods) allowed him to accomplish this goal.

I only wish those numbers above could read differently.  I'd love for him to see the Maple trees change colors and drop their confounded leaves (on the roof and in the gutters) again.  I'd love for him to watch the corn tasseling in the garden.  The baby chicks grow into real egg-laying ladies.  Little black calves born.  Flowers grow and then wither in the late summer heat.  Spotted fawns turn into young bucks sporting velvet horns.  Girls grow up and begin their own amazing lives.  Boys grow taller than their own Dad.  New drivers.  New achievements.  New memories made over simple pleasures. I'd love to have him see my hair get a little grayer with each passing year.  Sitting on the front porch.  Together.  Just watching and laughing and living.

I guess I'll just have to be content with my 63 percent.  If I had to do it again with the knowledge that there would never be more than 63 percent......

you can be certain that I would indeed.  Because, after all, isn't 63 better than 62?

What Not To Do. At Least If You're Me.

Don't watch any videos from the past.  Was it actually real?  I can't tell anymore.

Don't attend funerals.  Especially when it's for an amazing person who leaves behind an equally amazing legacy.  The beauty of a life well-lived is inspiring but the grief that follows in death is heartbreaking.  Absolutely heartbreaking.

Don't revisit.  Places.  Songs.  Memories.  Dates on the calendar.

Don't stare into the eyes of a confused and mourning child.  You do not want to see the fear and sadness that crowds out curiosity and blissful ignorance.  Especially when you can do nothing to make it better.

Do not think about the future.  Or what the future "should" have been.

Do not close your eyes at night, waiting for the silence and dark to quiet your mind and give you rest.  Instead, that pause makes it all come rushing at you, smothering.