Four

Most of you know the story well by now. Four years ago tonight, my parents, along with my brother and his family, boarded a flight to France. But, instead, the flight landed in Shannon, Ireland, because my Dad died of a massive heart attack in flight. It was in the wee hours of August 3, 2013. I will probably always struggle to sleep on this night of the year.

It seems at once unfathomable and yet completely reasonable that that was four years ago. A moment and a lifetime, simultaneously. The days without him sometimes seem to drag on endlessly, yet the years he's been gone have passed in a flash. That's how it goes with life, right?

It's been four years since the night my kids and I told my parents we loved them and to have a good flight. Four years since I've been known as "Dasnay." Four years since I've heard my Dad's hearty guffaws at my brothers' antics, since he referred to my sister and I as "my girls."

Soon after he passed away, I started work. I had a coworker turned friend who had lost her Dad four years previously at the time, and I remember thinking how four years seemed like such a long time, compared to my mere weeks at the time. But here I am, four years in, and it doesn't seem distant. Not at all.

I miss a million little things. I miss the way my Dad got me. I miss his faith in me. I miss the way he could bring smiles to people's faces with ease, and could offer the most spot on advice imaginable, even just minutes after meeting them.

I ache with missing you, Dad. And I'll ache until we meet again.

Love forever,
Dasnay xoxo

Passing Time

If you've been around here a long time, you already know some of this story, but bear with me.

From the time I was a teenager, my endocrinologists told me and my mother than pregnancy would be a difficult thing for me. That conceiving a child naturally would be difficult and maybe even unlikely. That I should be ready to face fertility challenges. So, I was.

Then, just over 10 years ago, just over two months into my marriage, I found out I was unexpectedly pregnant. It's funny, isn't it, how the challenges you actually face in life are so often NOT the ones you expect to face?

In October, 2007, my first born made his SCREAMING entrance into the world. How, exactly, my husband and I (both of whom tend toward extra weight and have dark brown hair) had produced a skinny, long limbed, BLONDE child was a mystery to us, but we were obviously immediately in love.

When I started this blog, he was only several weeks old. He was chunking up rapidly (he went from 6.9 lbs at birth to 12 lbs at six weeks), and was an avid snuggler. 

The nine plus years since his birth have been a rollercoaster ride that's been heavily documented here. 

Now, he is a third grader who is up to my chin and wears the same size shoes I wear. He is an athletic, energetic, sensitive and empathetic kid who still drives me nuts and then melts my heart in the span of seconds. 

It's been on my mind a lot lately how he's growing up. He is still an avid snuggler. One of his favorite things is to snuggle on mornings (like today, a snow day) when he doesn't have anywhere to rush to. And because he's 9, I think I am relishing his snuggles more than ever, if that's possible. Because, in my heart of hearts, I know we're getting toward the end of this part of our mother son relationship. 

At some point, snuggling with your son becomes 1) something he's no longer interested in and 2) something that isn't really societally appropriate or accepted. And that's fine. It is what it is. I'm not railing against societal norms at the moment. But it does make these snuggles bittersweet, knowing that at some point, sooner than later, they're going to taper off. 

I remember when B was 9 months old and in a Baby Bjorn on the LI Ferry. (I think I may have recounted this here before so again, forgive me), and a gentleman said to me, "Don't blink." He told me about his grown children and how it seemed like yesterday that they were babies. One of those things that conceptually, you get, but you don't maybe REALLY get until your child is suddenly an enormous human and you think, "When did that happen?" 

Stuff and Nonsense

Crap. I said I was gonna write more, didn't I? Ok. Here's me, writing more.

Yesterday was  E1's birthday. Thirteen years to the day since we met at Harpoonfest. I was overcome with mushiness at one point yesterday, thinking how grateful I am that I decided to go to Harpoonfest that day, and how grateful I am for the love of my life, who is the best partner I could've hoped for. I so love that guy, y'all.

One  of the interesting things about no longer working my office job is that I have had more time to re-focus on myself. I'm still crazily busy, but I have pockets of time by myself during the day. And in those pockets, I'm starting to remember to be aware of some of my patterns.

I overthink things. Everything, really. I get in my own head and make myself anxious and angsty and it's annoying AF and I really need to get back to working on NOT doing that anymore.

I am definitely in a better, more self assured headspace than I was the last time I left a job (when my self confidence had been stripped awfully bare). But still, I question myself more than I probably need to. I don't trust myself and my own judgment sometimes when I should. I am by far my own worst critic. One would think that knowing that would be beneficial, right? Not that simple, though.

On the other hand, the new workout regimen I'm on has me feeling better physically than I have in ages. I'm enjoying challenging myself in new ways, and I'm beginning to see some positive results. I'm beginning to feel a bit more like the me I couldn't find in the mirror, and that's a great feeling.

Most importantly, I feel more present for my kids. My precious angel assholes* who are my whole world and the bane of my existence all wrapped up in cherubic packages. They drive my absolutely bananas more days than not, but I'm happier than I can adequately express to be able to focus more fully on them again. Some women can successfully and happily work full time and be rockstar moms, but I've made peace with the fact that I'm not one of them. At least not right now.

*If you somehow stumbled upon this blog and are someone who is offended by my using this word for my precious babes, then you're going to want to move along. Kids are assholes sometimes. Mine included. If we can't laugh about it, then what's it even all about?

Muscles: Literal and Metaphoric

I've been really blocked (writing-wise) for a long while. I think that the only way to combat that is to make more of a concerted effort to write regularly. I once heard writing described thusly: "It's like  a muscle. You have to exercise it or it atrophies." I find that to be true. We'll see how it goes, though, since we all know I've said this before.

I recently quit my job. It wasn't anything so dramatically miserable as the last time I left a long-term job. It was just time. It had gotten to the point that I felt like I'd completely lost myself to my commitments. Between work and parenthood, I was just on autopilot. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't know who I was looking at. I needed to find me again. And leaving the job felt like an important step.

I've started working out regularly, for the first time since moving back to MA. When I say that I didn't recognize myself in the mirror, I mean that literally, to some extent. I'd struggled to find any sort of work out routine when working full time, and it showed, both in my appearance and in my mental state. Luckily, I have a friend who is helping me stay accountable and get my butt to the gym on the regular.

There is still work to be done. I'm falling prey to a lot of the being overly hard on myself that I've struggled with most of my life. But that's another reason that writing here is so important. It's one of the most therapeutic things I can do, and it helps me not to beat myself up as much. I'm not sure that even makes much sense, but it's true. I process through writing, and it keeps my anxiety and negative self talk from getting the best of me.

2017 is my year for self care. I've been lost in day to day for too long. This year, I get myself back. The physical muscles, the writing muscles, they're all coming back in 2017.

Blahsville, Population: Me

I've been incredibly blocked, lately, where writing is concerned. It's weird. There is SO MUCH going on in my head, but somehow I've been struggling mightily to come up with the corresponding words. Which isn't great for my mental state. Never has been.

It's been a weird year. I dare say I'm not alone in that assessment. I've seen it described as a dumpster fire, a garbage year, the apocalypse...

I haven't had the words to discuss the current political climate. Anyone who has ever read anything in this space ever already knows my stance. Suffice to say that if you think you can pray away the gay, then you are just as anti-science as people who refuse to believe in evolution. I realize the Venn diagram on these two things is already basically a circle.

I've been in a pretty dark place lately, personally. I am supremely unhappy with my physical self. I'm struggling to find a way to change that. My days are so busy, and by the time my nights arrive, I'm generally too wiped to contemplate much of a workout. But I need it. Not just physically, but mentally.

I've been carrying around a pretty heavy melancholy, which I think is kind of a mental manifestation of my physical state. It grosses me out almost as much as my physical self, too. I don't have much tolerance for sad sack Lindsay.

But also. This time of year is kind of an emotional tinder box. The holidays are so wonderful and magical. But as I've said every year, they're also awfully fraught when your Dad is Santa and then he dies. This will be our fourth Christmas without him, which in and of itself is mind blowing. But it only ever gets very marginally easier to accept his absence. Very marginally.

I've got to get out of this funk. GOT. TO. I don't do well existing in Blahsville. I just don't.

Panicky Pete

I used to write. Constantly. I used to write in notebooks, on printer paper, in journals, everywhere. I wrote poems, I wrote stories, I wrote essays that looked a lot like my blog posts. I wrote all the time. It was such an integral part of me.

And then…it slowed down. More and  more, over the years, it came to be less a part of my routine. So, in 2008, I started this blog. And for a time, it got me back into the routine of writing. But over the past eight and a half years, my life has changed so completely that it barely resembles the life I was living in 2008.

And so, over the years, this has become more a space that I come to when I'm working something out. I don't know how I'd have gotten through the miscarriage or my Dad's death without processing it here.

So, I guess the fact that I haven't written much lately, overall, means I haven't had as much to process? I guess that's true. Although the panic attack that has been on and off since the middle of Sunday night says otherwise. Ugh. It's the worst and longest I've had in some time, and it's so frustrating.

So, let's unpack this, shall we?

We just got back from a family vacation to Montana. No one was hospitalized this trip! YAY! It was a ton of fun, but as always, coming back form a trip like that, especially given the time change, requires a re-entry period for everyone involved.

Before I left, the issue I wrote about a couple of years ago that led to my first mammogram re-surfaced, worse than before, and I had to go in for another mammogram and ultra-sound, both scheduled the same day I saw my doctor, which is just always disconcerting. Both are clean, but it'll require some sort of procedure sometime soon.

Not entirely related nor entirely unrelated, my thyroid is for sure acting up. Which a) impacts my general health and b) predisposes me to anxiety and panic. Good times for everyone!

My Mom left Monday for a European vacation. While I'm super excited for her, I can't help but wonder if there is some part of my subconscious that was freaking out over her traveling to Europe at 70 in the summer (on an overnight flight to France, no less - See August 2013 archives for reference). Obviously, I knew it was going to be fine and it was, and she's going to have an amazing time, and it's far beyond well earned. But when you lose one parent, you tend to get paranoid about the other one, in situations that remind you of the first parent. If that even makes sense. She's not him. She's his opposite in so many ways. But I still have to imagine that was part of it. That PTSD…and that shit takes a while to fully settle down.

And then of course, there's work. I was thoroughly exhausted before MT, so it was good to have a break. But I always find returning to work after a vacation daunting. I don't deal well with being absent from work. I don't feel AS guilty this time as I have times in the past, but it's still not the BEST feeling. I can rationalize all I want, but feelings don't always listen.

I had an email conversation with my much mentioned in this space bff, and that always helps. She knows the full extent of my neuroses and loves me anyway.  I wouldn't have made it out of elementary school, let alone life's real trials, without her. Sometimes, it helps just to say to her, "Hey, I'm feeling like a nut bag," and have her respond, "Hey, I'm feeling like a nut bag, too!" Sympatico.

Another odd note - I have had conversations with several different people from different parts of my life this week, who have mentioned having a spike in anxiety too. Weird. Not a full moon. Is there some other astronomical/astrological event of which I'm unaware? Hmm.

Anyway, anxiety…beat feet. I got shit to do.

My Lens

I've written here often about B's emotionality and empathy. He is a challenging guy, to be sure, but he is also one of the most genuinely kind people I know. He cares so deeply for those around him. He feels everything intensely, and his emotions are always close to the surface, and often visible on his face and in his eyes.

E1's grandfather passed away last week. We traveled to VT for the services. He had been varying types  and degrees of unwell for a very long time, so it was not a huge surprise to lose him, but he was a unique and unforgettable presence and is mourned greatly.

As I've also said here before, one of the hardest parts of grief, as a parent, is seeing your children grieve. When my Dad died, the most gutting part, and there were so many, was telling B, and then seeing him struggle with his grief subsequently. He still struggles with it.

And so, at the funeral, when B saw his aunt crying, his inner empath emerged. I watched on his face his concern and sadness for her. And I watched it dawn on him that she was grieving her grandfather, and that he knows all about grieving your grandfather. And I watched on his extraordinarily expressive face the combination of grief for Grampa V, his concern for his aunt, and his residual grief for his  Papa. And it gutted me all over again.

This boy's joy is my joy. His heartache is my heartache. I guess that's pretty typical as a Mom - that so much of my life is now filtered through him.