Tag Archives: grief

Musical Flashback: Parents Just Don’t Understand

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Driving to pick up Ethan tonight, DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince’s “Parents Just Don’t Understand” came on the radio.

Instantly transported back in time, before I knew about the drinking and when things were okay between us. We were on long drive back to St. Louis after a weekend trip to visit family. I was driving, Mike in the passenger seat. I remember it was quiet in the car so Ethan must have been sleeping. (We hadn’t even dreamed of Lauren yet.)

This song came on and we both started singing along. Seat-dancing. Laughing. Shrugging our shoulders while belting out the chorus, “Take it from me, parents just don’t understand…”

As the song was coming to an end, Mike turned to me, smile gone from his face. A look of seriousness. “Shit,” he said. “WE are the parents now. Do we really not understand? ‘Cause I’d be pissed if Ethan took my cool car. And he’s going to wear whatever we buy for him – cool clothes or not!”

“Yep,” I said. “You just don’t understand…”

And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Mom knows best

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After last night’s session with Ethan’s new therapist (D), I feel even more sure that Ethan’s problems in school are very heavily grief-based.

She started by asking really basic questions to get him more comfortable. (Where do you go to school? What grade are you in? What’s your favorite school subject? What do you like to do for fun?)

Then she moved to word association. Mom, she said.

“Pretty good,” Ethan said. “Nice, but I get mad when she won’t let me play my 3DS.”

D looked at me. I could see her smile through her eyes. Grandma, she said next.

“Good,” said Ethan.

Dad.

Ethan’s body tensed. He covered his face with his hands. He started to get very fidgety. His fists balled up. He arched his back.

“It’s okay,” D said. “How do you feel about your dad?”

“I don’t have a dad,” Ethan said.

“Yes you do,” D said. “He’s just not here with you. How do you feel about your dad?”

Ethan started punching the ball he was holding. “Mad,” he said. “I told him to stop drinking beer. I threw some of his beer away once. I got in really bad trouble.”

“What happened?” D asked softly.

Ethan continued hitting the ball. He turned his back to us and punched at the ball.

“Daddy yelled – LOUD. Then I got send to my room. He should have stopped drinking.”

“It’s okay to punch that ball,” D said. Ethan continued his physical outburst for another minute or so.

D looked at me and whispered,” Did you see those physical changes? There’s a lot going on there.”

I nodded.

The rest of the session went well. It was hard for Ethan to focus after talking about his dad. The three of us played a game involving placing stones on Ethan’s body to encourage him to lay still. Then we played a board game called Stop, Relax & Think, which got him opening up a bit about his feelings and start thinking through possible ways to relax and deal with stressful situations or things that make him angry.

At one point in the Stop, Relax & Think game, I had to sing a song until D told me to stop. Ethan apparently was not amused with my singing and told me to stop a few times. I kept going until D told me to quit, per the rules. D turned to Ethan and explained that it was never the job of the child to tell his parent to “stop.” Instead it is the job of the parent to correct the child. I liked D even more after that.

We go back to D in a week. She’s going to do good things with Ethan.

I’m relieved.

30 hours

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Not every family is created equal. And I’m pissed. Warning: ranting follows.

I received an email today from Ethan’s school. It was a mass email to all the parents about how families aren’t volunteering as they should. The email said that every family needed to commit to a minimum of 30 volunteer hours in a school year.

That’s fine. Doesn’t seem outrageous, given that this time is spread from September through June. I already volunteer in a variety of ways – I copy papers for the teacher twice a month; I’ve made (or purchased) treats for the class for various activities; I participated in making pies for the big fundraiser.

About making those pies…

For that fundraiser, every family was asked to commit to three three-hour shifts from Friday morning through Saturday night. I volunteered for one three-hour shift. As the pie fundraiser was drawing closer, I listened as the moms talked about splitting the volunteer time between themselves and their husbands. I overheard divorced parents talking about dividing their time to meet the obligation.

My thought was, “Fuck it. I don’t have someone to split my time with so one shift is all they get from me.”

And that was fine.

But now, being asked – required? – to commit to 30 volunteer hours in a school year makes me angry. I can’t split that time with anyone. It’s me. All me. Thirty hours from ME. There isn’t a significant other to offset that commitment.

That means 30 hours taken away from my kids, and that seems pretty contrary to how a parochial school should operate.

And if I don’t do my 30 hours of volunteer work – as tracked by some fancy new tracking website? Apparently, there’s a “buy out” option that I can use to PAY my way out of the obligation. (Because paying tuition and buying uniforms every three months because of Ethan’s growth spurts and all the other nickel-and-dime charges through the year isn’t enough…)

I understand volunteering. I get the need for involved parents – hell, I am a pretty involved parent. But to be told how much I have to do – and to have the obligation the same for ALL families, regardless of their structure or resources – is bullshit.

I don’t often play the widow card, but the school might be getting a smack down from me in the next few days as “volunteering details” and tracking software are unveiled.

Because I have time for this…

One Year Ago: My Sister

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My sister and my niece arrived at the hotel for Mike’s funeral on January 27. We all went to dinner, and my sister said that she was there to help in any way she could. She sounded sincere, but given her history of being unreliable, I had my doubts.

“Just help me with the kids,” I said at dinner when they arrived in town. “That’s what I really need right now. Mom has been such a huge help these last few days, and she needs a breather. I don’t ask for help often, but I’m asking you, I’m looking you in the eyes to say that I need help with the kids over the next few days while I handle all kinds of funeral-related things. Can you do that?”

“Anything,” she said. “I’ll keep the kids busy. We’ll have fun.”

My mom had been eager for a haircut, and she had been so helpful and strong over the previous days that I wanted to treat her. I called a local salon and made a cut-and-color appointment for her. I told my sister at dinner that night that I would need her to help me with the kids while I took mom to get her hair done the next day.

“Great,” she said. “I’m here for you. No problem.”

On the 28th, the kids, my mom, my sister, my niece and I went to lunch then headed back to the hotel. I told my sister that I would pull up to the front of the hotel and she and my niece could get the kids out of the car because my mom and I needed to get to the salon.

“What?!” my sister yelled. “It’s my birthday! I’ve invited friends to celebrate with me! I can’t watch your kids on MY BIRTHDAY! That’s not fair!”

(Side note: She was turning 37 years old – not a milestone, and she wasn’t a child. Even with all the other stuff going on in my life, I didn’t forget about her or her birthday. I ordered a birthday cake for her, and the kids bought her a small present and flowers. She wasn’t forgotten, but this wasn’t her day either. Also, we were raised that birthdays, after you reached 16 years old, weren’t really big deals.)

I got out of the car, walked over to her side and whispered in her ear. “We talked about this yesterday. I need help with the kids over the next few days. I want to treat our mom to a few hours in the salon. Please…” I begged.

“Whatever,” she said and walked into the hotel. “I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this ON MY BIRTHDAY!”

Fast forward a few hours and my mom and I returned from the salon – and the bakery with her birthday cake. My sister was nowhere to be found. My 16-year old niece was alone in the hotel room with Ethan and Lauren. “Where’s your mom?” I asked.

“With her friend,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She just keeps saying it’s her birthday and she’s going to do what she wants.”

Right after we left, my sister’s friend arrived and she dumped the kids with my niece. She hadn’t so much as checked on her daughter or my kids in the last several hours.

I was furious. Trying to take my mind off things, I started looking at my Facebook feed. There were several posts from my sister about how she was “partying” on her birthday, and how any friends in the area should stop by, and how excited she was to be with friends her birthday. There was also a check in from her “friend” at the hotel – “Partying with J on her birthday, so glad she’s in town to celebrate with me!”

I was pissed. She was in town because MIKE DIED. This wasn’t Party Town. This was the Grief Train. She was there because she was supposed to be helping after the loss of her brother in law. She was staying in a hotel room – paid for by my mom – to attend the funeral for my husband. It took everything in my being to NOT reply to the friend’s check-in: “Glad you’re having fun. I’m preparing the funeral of MY KIDS’ DAD, which is why she’s in town….”

I knew that I would lose it if my sister and I were together much that day. A group of college friends were coming into town and had texted to ask if I was interested in going to dinner with them. I needed the escape.

Dinner with friends was nice. We laughed. We cried. We told stories about Mike and caught up on each other’s lives. I was touched that they all came in for the funeral from faraway places, and it was nice to spend time with them before things got crazy with the viewing the next day.

When I got back to the hotel, my sister was on a rampage in the hotel lobby, waiting for me. “I can’t believe you didn’t have dinner with me ON MY BIRTHDAY!” she said. “I can’t believe you WENT OUT ON MY BIRTHDAY! I would never do that to you on your birthday!”

“No,” I said. “You would just make my husband’s funeral miserable. Today wasn’t about you – we’re here because Mike died. We’re going to see my children’s father tomorrow. He’s dead in a box.”

“But it’s my BIRTHDAY…” she screamed after me as I walked to the elevator.

I left her in the hotel lobby. She would never change. Selfish when she was a kid, selfish now. I just couldn’t take her ridiculousness. Tomorrow will be one of the toughest days of my life, I thought.

One year

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Today is one year. As I write this, it’s one year to the exact minute that I received the call from Mike’s mom.

I didn’t think it was going to be a big deal, just another day. I thought I was okay.

It’s hard.

I woke up with a throbbing headache at 4:30. Lauren was crying out for me at 5 a.m., and she and I cuddled for a half hour. I showered, got dressed, packed my lunch. If I didn’t have to interview a job candidate this afternoon, I would have stayed in bed.

It snowed last night. Not much, but a slick snowy coat covered the roads as I took Ethan to school.

I thought about cancelling my oil change appointment, but I was already WAY overdue. Of course, I was ridiculously early for the appointment, so I went through a drive thru – maybe caffeine would help my headache, I thought. (It didn’t.)

Then I drove around. I wanted to find an empty parking lot and just sit, maybe sneak in a 10-minute nap. But the snow… nearly every lot was being plowed, and those that weren’t plowed REALLY needed it.

After driving around for 20 minutes, I found an acceptable lot, parked and sat. I couldn’t move. I just stared at a discount dry cleaners, a hair cut place and sandwich restaurant. I watched the reflection of the cars from the road behind me. As the reflections moved along the plate-glass windows, their shape changed – short to long, thin to fat, tall to short. It was like watching a fun house mirror.

I was very conscious of my breathing. In, out. Deep breaths.

I felt like I couldn’t move anything other than my eyes, watching those cars in the reflection. Several times, I thought, “It’s time. I need to get to the car dealer.” But I couldn’t seem to lift my head, let alone my arms or legs to physically drive the car.

My email dinged. New message. It was about tomorrow’s alumni board meeting at my alma mater. There’s no way, I thought. It took everything in me to pull my head off the back of the car seat. I emailed back: “I thought I was fine. I’m not. Won’t be there tomorrow.”

I glanced at the time. Just enough time to get to the dealer.

Pulled into the garage, checked in, walked to the waiting room.

I emailed a few people at work (someone from IT was coming to check my laptop and a student wanted to talk about internships) – I’m going to be late, I wrote, blaming it on the weather and road conditions.

Of course, as soon as I walked into my building, the IT guy and the student were waiting for me in the hall outside my office. I rushed through both meetings, sent them on their ways, and shut my door.

I walked over to my window and looked out at the snow-covered quad. Without warning, the tears just came.