My jacked-up life

The kids mentioned that their tub felt wobbly. It’s a really cool claw foot tub, probably original from when the house was built in 1926. So I chose to believe that a little wobbling was part of its charm… until I was cleaning and noticed that three of the four claw feet were lying on the floor under the tub, no longer attached. That explained the wobbling in a way that suddenly didn’t seem charming at all.

I saw the slots on the tub that were meant to hold the tops of the feet. I needed to raise the tub enough to get the feet back into their slots. It seemed like a simple enough operation. And it would have been, for two people.

First I thought of calling someone to help. Then I quickly progressed to needing to do it by myself. I was buoyed by my success in filling the peppermill earlier that day, the peppermill that had been mocking me with its emptiness for months. All it took was a flathead screwdriver, a Phillips head screwdriver, a small funnel, a medium funnel, a spoon, flexible spatula and an escargot fork, and voila - fresh-ground pepper! So I wasn’t going to let a little thing like a cast-iron tub intimidate me.

I tried various ridiculous positions in an attempt to lift the tub with my feet while leaving my hands free to deal with the feet. Nothing worked. I swore and glared and banged my head, and none of that worked either.

I was just about to give up when I had an idea. I ran out to my trusty station wagon and a minute later I was jacking up the jacked-up tub. I easily replaced the errant feet, gently lowered the jack, then stood back and admired the work for a good long while.

There are things to be done around here, lots and lots of things. Most of them were not in my job description seven months ago, but they’re all mine now.

I’m done with leaving them undone so I can be angry with S for not being here to do them.

I feel the earth move under my feet

One day about six weeks ago, I woke up feeling totally like myself. It was so good, that old familiar feeling of knowing who I am. I thought I was through the worst of it, never mind the mountains of literature that told me grief comes in waves throughout the first year and beyond. I was somehow better than that, faster.

So this second wave of grief took me by surprise, an intense aftershock just when I began to trust the earth beneath my feet. I’m back to crying in my car and spending the workday choking back the tears that hover at the top of my throat. I’m back to lying awake for long stretches at night, then going through the day in a fog. I’m back to losing things and forgetting to pay bills.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about mourning dresses. For most of history, widows in many cultures wore them for a year or more. We have gotten away from the tradition in the last hundred years or so, and I’m coming to think that might not have been such great progress.

This isn’t to say that I’m wishing for a black wool dress and crepe veil, just some small outward sign to show the world how raw my heart is. To remind people that it has only been seven months, which sometimes feels like the blink of an eye. To ask for just a little more patience and kindness when people have already been impossibly patient and kind.

But today is Friday, casual Friday. So I’ll put on my jeans, go to work and hope for the best.

Never turn your back on the sea

S and I took Critter to the beach for the first time when she was about six months old. From my position on the beach chair holding a sleeping baby, I saw him diving into the water over and over. I thought he was looking for sand dollars. It went on for a really long time, calling my sand dollar theory into question. I motioned for him to come to us, and he motioned back to wait a minute, then kept diving. Finally, he came to the beach and told me he had lost his wedding band. He was so upset that he didn’t want to leave the beach that day. The ring had always been too big, and he was kicking himself for not having it sized. I told him it was just a thing, and we could get a new one.

A couple of weeks ago, I took care of my friends’ three kids while they took a fabulous trip to Seattle. Laboring under the delusion that I had superpowers, I decided to take all four children to the beach. When we had been there for a few hours and I was starting to feel like it was too hot and too sunny and everyone was too hungry, Critter came out of the surf sobbing.  She had lost her ring, the ring S gave her. I didn’t even dive down to look for it – she didn’t know where she was when it fell off, and I didn’t want to give her false hope. So we sat at the edge of the water and I held her while we both cried. I told her the story of S’s wedding band and how we were in the same spot when it was lost, so it was kind of nice to think that the two rings were together in the sea.  The other kids didn’t know what to do – one went away, the other hovered (the third is only two years old, so he continued to fill his bucket with water and dump it out over and over).

We packed up, rinsed off and headed for home. Critter perked up in the car. When she got into bed that evening, though, the tears came again. She was holding a charm that she said allowed her one wish. I asked what her wish would be and she said, “You think I’d want the ring back, but I don’t. I want Dad back.” 

And that is how my baby started grieving.