the goose

My only daughter is 8 and has some inner strength that I wish I had. We were spending the day at a local park with a pond and ducks and geese.  It had been raining earlier that morning and there was still a hint of moisture in the crisp air.  The grass and trees were bright green. The fresh spring flowers, that were everywhere, were in full bloom, making this the most picturesque of spring days.

My daughter was off the path and near the water with the geese and ducks.  She was throwing dandelions at them to eat and chasing the birds endlessly.  The geese, who seem to always be in a bad mood, did not like this behavior and did not want to be bothered.  One giant alpha-goose took things into his own hands...er..beak and moved aggressively towards my little daughter.  She was not going to be intimidated by a goose as big as she is and balled up her fist and hit that goose squarely on the jaw. The goose recoiled in shock.  He hung his head and walked away not making a sound.

I knew right then that my daughter could handle herself in any situation.  I knew she has the self-confidence to win any fight and instincts that were spot on.  At that moment, she was my hero.  I can see, in her, enough confidence and fight to stand up for herself and not be intimidated by whatever life could throw at her.

My mother used to tell a similar story about me when I was about her age, only it ended with me running away and falling and the goose strutting away victorious.

I am hopeful that my daughter will continue with this strength throughout her life.  I wish I had that inner voice telling me to be strong and fight.  After my husband died, I did nothing.  I read stories of women who had lost their husbands and how they gained a renewed Faith in Humanity, their God or whatever.  I read stories of how women, almost immediately, got over it, forgave and forgot and moved on with life.  These women are NOT me!  I am a realist and a wimp.

I have not, since my husbands untimely death, started a research fund into his rare form of fast moving brain cancer.  I haven't named my new Animal Shelter after him.  (I haven't started, nor plan to start, said animal shelter).  I have not married his best friend and now expecting a love child that will be named in his honor.  I have done nothing noteworthy since my husband died.

What I have done is get out of bed...every day and go to work, then come home and fall asleep on the couch.  I have settled into a menu of fast food and Ramen instead of healthy home-cooked meals. My cleaning routine, perfected over 7 years as a stay-at-home mom, has been thrown out the dirty window. My dreams of security and companionship are gone. I don't even have the energy to be cynical and opinionated anymore. What I have done is the equivalent of falling down and letting the goose win.

That was 6 months after my husband died.  Now it is a year and a half after he died and I can say I have gotten up off the ground and made some progress.  I went back to school to learn drafting that will reignite my career...if I can find the inner strength to apply for even one freelance job.  I have learned to cook again. Although it has been a struggle with much trial and error and many a meal spent crying as I chop vegetables. I still don't do it on a regular basis; I shoot for 2-3 times a week as a win. I have found a new cleaning routine.  One that I know my OCD neat-freak husband would cringe at.  But it works for me, even if it's not perfect any more.

It has taken me this long, but I have found a renewed sense of purpose in my life. My goals are not what they were before, but I have goals again.  I have aspirations and excitement about life. I have a renewed faith in humanity.  I have a great appreciation for everyone who loves me, everyone who helps me with my kid, everyone I come in contact with that doesn't mind if I cry.

 The hardest part for me is accepting that my new, different life is a good life. Accepting that I am now responsible for pushing past the hard things to make way for the things I want, alone. I am cautiously optimistic that I can make a good life for myself, taking a page from my daughters playbook, I hope to ball up my little fist and hit life squarely in the face.

the nights

I used to love my daughters night time routine.  Since before she was born I would read out loud to her before bedtime.  While she was still in my tummy I would read her from whatever novel I was reading.  About that time, the Harry Potter books were coming out and she read them right along with me! After she was born I decided to read books for her at nighttime.  I would read 'One Fish Two Fish' and 'Just me and my Dad'. We would snuggle up under the covers and read stories about the very interesting lives of the 'Bearenstein Bears'.  We learned all bout Unicorns and Feelings and Fairy Tales.  By the time my daughter was 3 we were back to 'One fish two fish', but this time she was reading them to me.  She said one time that the stories were better when I read them, so I never made her read her own bed time story again.  We moved onto chapter books before she was 5,  The 'BFG' and 'Matilda' soon became our favorites.  We loved being piled together on the bed listening to Roald Dahl ignite our imaginations with vision of Giants and little girls with Super Powers. Those were special times.  The best 20 minutes of my day.

Often times I would come downstairs and see my husband asleep on the couch.  He worked 12 hour shifts so I could cuddle with my daughter and read stories.  I would put him to bed too and go back downstairs and watch TV quietly or plan the next days activities. And so, the days passed like this for years.  Every night the same thing.  Bath time, snack and a drink, then stories in bed with mom and then off to dreamland for both of them. These times, it seems, were the best of times.

When my husband was diagnosed with brain cancer everything stopped.  The week he was in the hospital, she was put to bed by Granma and Granpa or the neighbor she was staying with.  After he died a week later, I went to her room to read her a story and I couldn't see the pages through my puffy eyes.  We turned on a Disney Princess movie instead and I got into bed with her and we held each other and fell asleep.  We kept doing this night after night, falling alseep together hugging or holding hands to the sound of a Princess singing. It seems neither one of us wanted to be alone in the winter darkness when our world was turned upside down.  There was suddenly so much insecurity and unknown and now we only had eachother, Roald Dahl became silent.

My daughter continues to love reading.  She loves books!  At eight years old, she has read all but the last Harry Potter (because the last one is too scarey), to herself snuggled into the corner of her bed where mom used to be.  She had read and re-read every book on her shelf including 'Matilda' and 'The BFG'.  She has expanded her interests with countless book about animals, nature and outer space. We make a weekly trip to the thrift store to keep her in reading material!  Even with all of this, I have yet to read her a bedtime story.  I feel incapable of feeling the warmth and love that reading once brought us both.  All I feel is loss and emptiness.  The loss of my husband has somehow tainted me.  We still sleep together almost every night, but we have upgraded to the big bed in my room.  We still fall asleep to the singing of Princesses while holding hands...It's been almost two years.