Tag Archives: questions

Faucet Tears at the Auction Fundraiser

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Saturday night was the annual auction/fundraiser for Ethan’s school. I thought it would be a good chance to meet other parents and to personally thank those who have sent prayers, notes, dinners, toys, and general good thoughts our way since Mike died.

I also knew there was a good chance that I would chicken out and not to go.

I’m not a fan of these kind of events. – unless, of course, I know I’ll be able to snark with someone. For all his shortcomings, Mike was my go-to snarker at this kind of things. We could stand in a corner (drinks in hand, natch) and comment on anything. We didn’t have to mingle or talk to anyone, just “be.”

But, Saturday night, I was flying solo. Knowing that I would invent a million and one reasons to stay home that night, I emailed the committee and volunteered a few days before. At least this way, I rationalized, I was less likely to wimp out. Besides, I didn’t RSVP for the dinner, so I could go, work my shift at the registration desk, and come home.

Saturday night, I put on a sequin top, nice pants, and heels, and I drove to the hotel. Or, the hotel I THOUGHT was hosting the event. As soon as I got close to it, I didn’t think there were enough cars in the lot. Maybe the lot extends behind the hotel, I thought. It didn’t.

I almost turned the car around, but “I volunteered!” so I was determined to try to find the venue. I took out my iPhone and typed in the URL for the school’s website. Surely the address for the hotel would be on there.

It wasn’t. The name of the chain was listed, but no address. A quick Internet search, and voila!, only five of the hotels in the city. I decided I’d try the one closest to where I was, and if that wasn’t it, then I’d be able to go home. I tried, right?

I made it. Right hotel. Just on time.

I found the registration desk and slipped behind it, introducing myself to the woman who appeared to be in charge. Quickly, I was on a roll. Meeting and greeting. Welcoming and registering. And I was really enjoying the company of the four women working alongside me.

There was a lull in the activity, and we all started talking. “So, is your husband at home with the kids tonight?” one of them asked me.

Tears. Great big tears. Out of no where and uncontrollable.

“No,” I said. “He died in January…”

I couldn’t stop crying. It wasn’t a full-blown sob, but more of a “running facet” kind of cry. Tears wouldn’t stop flowing, no matter how hard I tried to turn them off. Soon all four of the ladies were hugging me, slipping me their phone numbers, and trying to get me to stop crying. I was a mess.

Still, after that breakdown and working my registration shift, I wasn’t ready to go home. I hadn’t registered for the event/dinner so I decided I would just work the rest of the event. Schlepping silent auction items to the back tables to be picked up later. Directing drunken partygoers to the nearest bathrooms. Counting money. Alphabetizing kids’ photos. Organizing wine bottles. Helping drunken partygoers check out and collect their stuff (most of which they would probably regret buying in the morning, but hey! it’s a good cause, right?).

I met some great moms. Most of the mom volunteers were divorced or separated. (Apparently, if you have a snark partner, you attend the event. If you don’t, you work the event.) Some knew of my situation, but most didn’t. No one asked probing questions, but everyone offered their support and love. I even joked with one mom who is going through a very messy divorce. “No matter what you think of him, no matter how much you hate him right now,” I told her. “You do NOT want him to die. Trust me.” Then we all laughed. A comfortable, I-know-kind-of-what-you’re-going-through kind of laugh. It was nice.

I didn’t leave until after 1 a.m.

Oh, and the best part: I won the Golden Ticket Raffle, meaning I got to choose any live auction item before the bidding started. I selected tickets to a Brewers game with a tailgating party. Turns out the tickets are second row, behind home plate. Ethan will love it.

Side note: one of my favorite conversations with Ethan took place as I was trying to explain tailgating to him the next morning. “Why would we get IN someone’s trunk for a party? Sitting in a trunk doesn’t sound fun…” and “So if there’s food and drinks IN the trunk, why isn’t it called a ‘trunk buffet’?”

Breakdown on the Playground

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Ethan had a major breakdown yesterday.

He was playing outside at Kids Klub, the after care program at school (don’t even get me started about the use of the “K”s and the lack of punctuation), when he lost it. Tears flowed. Fists balled up. And piercing screams came out of his little boy body.

The college-aged counselor supervising the playground had no idea what to do.

Luckily, on Thursdays, the program supervisor is at the school. She was able to pull Ethan aside, hug him, and comfort him.

Apparently, the cemetery set him off. When I first visited the school, I thought it was a little unsettling that the church cemetery butts up against the playground. You can’t miss the gigantic tombstones just off the rock wall or the huge monuments near the swings. The living and the dead play near one another at St. B.

Interestingly, he was crying about his grandpa more than his dad. He told Mrs. B that he was sad about his grandpa. Why did he have to die? Mentioning his dad was almost an afterthought of his grief. Kind of an “oh, yeah, and I’m sad about my daddy, too.”

Last night, after his shower, I held Ethan for a long time. We read parts of a grief book that my mom bought last week. Some parts don’t apply to our situation, but others seemed to resonate with him. Ethan asked why he didn’t have anything of his dad’s to remember him by – unlike the photos and hanky and keepsake box and some other small things that he has that belonged to his grandfather and that Ethan keeps near his bed.

The truth: I don’t really have anything of Mike’s anymore. Mike either took his stuff to his parent’s house (and I haven’t gotten anything back except two broken laptops – even though I asked for a few things specifically) or it’s in storage in St. Louis (which I can’t access until I’m officially named trustee of his “estate”). I started explaining that daddy didn’t live with us when he died, so there really isn’t anything of his around. Then I remembered the shirts.

When Mike came to get his clothes in September, he left behind three button-down shirts. I don’t know if he purposely left them or if he just didn’t notice them in the corner of the closet. But I have these three random shirts – a white dress shirt, a striped Ralph Lauren shirt that he never wore, and a casual shirt from his law school days. “Ethan,” I said, “how would you like one of daddy’s shirts?”

Ethan ran down the hall to my room. He picked the casual shirt and immediately he put it on. “Look how BIG this is!” he said. “It’s down to my ankles.”

He giggled as he struggled with the sleeves which practically drug on the ground. He wore the shirt around last night, during Lauren’s bath time and during story time. Then he took it off and placed it on top of his stuffed animals, next to his pillow. “I want to sleep with it here,” he said. “This is the stuff I cuddle.”

Heart. Broken.

My Life Doppelganger

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I met with the Tax Guy today. I haven’t done taxes in 10 years – Mike did them. He said he liked them; although, when he was actually doing them, there was a lot of yelling and foul moods and complete procrastination until the April 15 deadline, so I think “like” was not really how he felt.

I started my session with Tax Guy by trying to break the ice a bit. “I just want to apologize up front for being this year’s problem child,” I said with a smile and a bit of a laugh.

“Oh,” he said. “You can’t have a worse story than this other client of mine. She separated from her alcoholic husband last year, and they were going through a divorce – then he DIED!”

My smile faded into nervous laughter. “Um, that’s my story,” I said. “That’s the same situation I have – well, except I also sold a house, moved to another state, and took a new job… So I might still win the title of Worst Client of 2012, right?”

Tax Guy said this woman works in financial services, and that she does not work at my employer. I’m curious who this lady is… what’s her story? I kind of want to find her and have coffee with her and give her a hug…

Questions People Ask

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Q: Was he sick for a long time?

A: No, he was an alcoholic for a long time.