More than a mug

December of 1998 he and I were in the Disney store. We were preparing to move in together and getting odds and ends done before our wedding coming up in April.  We both loved coffee and Disney--and Disney mugs are just huge!
I was admiring this burgundy one with Eeyore on it.  We paid for some ornaments and Christmas gifts and went on our way.

Christmas that year was was stressful-trying to get two completely separate traditions merged was a feat and that is putting it lightly.   My family is huge and gets together-loud and joyful and very very IRISH.  Aunts, uncles, cousins--it is a gaggle of joy and love. His family was literally just his mom and dad-his siblings lived far spread and even though my parents invited his parents to Christmas none of the three of them knew what to do amongst the chaos.

Late that night I opened my gift--inside were the two mugs--mine of Eeyore and his of Goofy. Those mugs have followed us and now follow me.  They have been filled with coffee and cocoa and tea-and his with cereal--he liked his cereal in a mug and declared it the perfect size.

Through the years we had two more sets of "normal size" Disney mugs-but one of each of those pairs has broken over time.  His Goofy mug is still in use.  It fits in my hand warm and familiar.  There are times in the wee hours of the morning that holding his mug I swear makes my body remember him.  I can hold it in two hands and look out the window and take a sip of coffee.  I can almost feel his arms around my waist and his warm lips kissing my neck.   When my eyes open, I remember that I will never feel that again--but I can still hold his mug.  It is a poor substitute for him-but for now, for now it will have to do.

These Days

The other night, we were playing outside.  Munchkin was running around the yard.  I was admiring the grass that I had cut a few days ago.  The air was cool and the sun was setting.   Two of our friends were walking by and stopped to chat.

I am feeling so blessed that we live in such an awesome neighborhood, where everyone knows each other and people play together in the evenings.  Where friends stop to talk and literally are just a phone call away.  Where kids play outside and ride bikes and chase lighting bugs and whine to stay up just a little later.

I am grateful that for the moment we are living an idyllic life.  One that I had hoped and wished and planned for.  Evenings in the yard, coffee on the patio in the morning.  Looking at the bunnies hop through the yard and hoping that the fox isn't hot on their tails.  I am in awe of all of the wonderful things that have happened in our life.  I never dreamed that we would ever have a house again.  Yet, here we are!

Six years ago I was hoping to share these days with Robert and our child someday. Five years ago, I couldn't see past the brokenness to imagine these days would ever happen or feel good without Robert here.   Today, even though Robert isn't here, I have a sense of contentment with the life that we have.  It doesn't make it ok that Robert is dead, but I can tell you on most days, I have found the fortitude to be grateful for what is in front of me today.  I am grateful because I know how quickly and permanently things change.  I give thanks constantly for our blessings and I pray every day to continue to be blessed. While I certainly think I have had my share of tragedy, this bliss is not guaranteed to continue and I know that.  I have worked very hard to stay in the present moment and to practice gratitude and it seems to be working.  It seems to be getting better for us. 

We are very, very blessed these days.  

Health Forms and a sucker punch

Sometimes out of nowhere, things can still just reach up and slap you.

I had to fill out health forms for both of us for Munchkin to attend day camp.  On his form, I had to fill in his father's name.   I did and then I put deceased.  It is how I fill it out.  I can't bring myself to leave that form blank.  It feels wrong and it hurts.  My hand hovers over the page and the tears filled my eyes.   I took a deep breath and a wrote the word.  "DECEASED" in my neat half printed/half cursive handwriting. 

My breath catches in my chest every time I have to do that.  Munchkin has three different camps which means I likely have to do this two more times.  It isn't the form that hurts so much, but it is the reminder that Robert is dead.  That Munchkin doesn't have a living dad and that I am doing this all on my own.   It is the knowledge that there will be a question from someone in charge, that is generally accompanied by the "pity face"

You know the one that looks at you like you are a wilting flower that needs to be saved. Or maybe it is just me that feels this way? I don't know.