Commode To Joy

finding happy (even in the crappy)

Happy? Father’s Day.

I’m not in a great mood today. I’ve been irritable and short tempered, and my anxiety’s been a bit up.

What this translates to as life unfolds is my dear husband can’t do a damn thing right today…on Father’s Day of all days. He’s probably thankful he’s stashed away at work.😬

And Miller…well, when I played the one song in the whole world that calms me down (Michael Bublé’s All I Want For Christmas – I’m not even kidding), Miller turned up the volume on his iPad. (Hold your mommy shaming thumbs right now – you know full well I handed it to him so I could have a 15 minute car ride without answering 27492 versions of “Mommy…”.)

So anyway, I play the song and you know what Miller does? Turns the volume on the iPad up. In my zenned out (read – fried nerves) state of calm, you know what I did? CRANKED THE VOLUME ON MY SONG!!! Mom of the year right friggin here.

He turned the iPad off and glared at me through the rear view mirror. You wanna know how I know that? Cause I leaned up to glare at him through the mirror. Where’s my damn award?

So anyway, nap time comes (I am loved I am loved I am so loved), and I sit with my angst. I talk to it. “What’s going on with you? It’s not Mark. It’s not Miller. Something else has you flared up. What is it?”

It’s Father’s Day.

Since I’ve already been completely honest with you about my day thus far, why stop now?

My dad’s been gone eight years, and a small part of me still cringes when I see the Father’s Day card section go up at Target. Then I remind myself I have a husband who’s a father and I can focus on him instead. Grief looks at me and laughs.

Grief does what it wants when it wants. It shows up in my life (more like in me) very infrequently now. During its recesses I marvel at how little it jabs at me anymore. When it returns…I’m reminded that its sting is still incredibly potent.

I’ve gotten better at identifying it. (It only took me half a day today!) Once identified, it’s easier for me to sit with it. To see it as…I dare say…a companion rather than a foe. I’ve learned that fighting against it is futile and exhausting. I’ve learned that sitting with it is somehow curative.

After Dad’s passing, Mom gave my brother Dad’s every day wedding ring that he wore while on the job site or out in the fields. She gave me his wedding band. I sized it down so I can wear it. Some days when I’m feeling an all silver jewelry vibe, it’s what I wear on my right hand. Other days, like today, I put it on to keep Dad a little closer. To remind me that the veil between here and him is thin. To remind me that he is still here, just in a different way.

How do I know? As I pulled up my phone’s camera to take this picture, the time said 2:56. His birth month and year. The last three digits of his license plate for as long as I knew him in the physical world. It’s the number I continue to associate with him. It’s the number he continues to use to get my attention.

2:56. Confirmation of what’s nettled me. Affirmation that it’ll all be okay.

In fact, it’s already a little bit better.

Categories: Death & Grief

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

2 replies

  1. Hugs to you Jamie! I know the pain that is associated with Father’s Day. It’s been four years for me and I miss my dad every single day. Thank you for sharing your story!

Leave a Reply