Xmas and Y of It All

You know, I am the first one to sing along to Wham's Last Christmas (ever listen to the awesomely horrid and sad words of that song?), and I love me some quality, scrumptious turkey stuffing and pumpkin-everything. The season de holiday surely brings warm fuzzies to the soul; nonetheless, the last quarter of the year has chunks of quiet and gray for me and (I assume) lots of folks. When time is federally given off from the work day to supposedly spend time with loved ones (and to be constantly filled with merriment and the smell of fabricated pine) it makes the not-so-obvious crap, more apparent. Walls are lowered, personal-guards take a hiatus and sensitivities are high. For me, my mind wanders more frequently to a mama who is no longer with me, my heart tightens not-so-slightly and I get a chill (to the bone) that I cannot shake.  Trust me, I have tried everything -- Motown, masks, heating pads, goldschlager.  Nothing and still so cold. 

I am slowly approaching Year 9.  That’s like a fourth grader. That’s how long (+ 365 days) Love Actually has been out.  Here’s an algebraic equation for you:

(Bennet + 5 Years) and (Ruby + 7 Years) = 9 Freakin’ Years

 

 and

The following is for those of you who are better at geometry.  I am not one of you; however, I strive to be sensitive to all mathematical needs.

I guess what I am trying to say is that my numbers, slopes, angles and midpoints don’t lie.  When it comes to losing someone, the time part of it (that part that ticks and tocks constantly in my head and heart) really does not make sense.  Whether it is year one or year 57 (I am sure of this), it feels the same each year.  I miss her.  I turned 35.  I still miss her.  It’s a pretty simple formula, really. 

As the twelfth month of the year approaches us in a jarring wave of commercials and bells and peppermint smells, I cannot help but think of my fellow brothers and sisters who may be hanging onto the coattails of loss.  I cannot assume your heart-thoughts.  Just know that someone has walked a (different) path alongside you and, in essence, cares.  I care a lot, and I think of you often.

Much too hard to find my heart

Far beyond raw to mend this hole

She closed her eyes.  She made a choice.

Lost my footing, dimmed my soul

 

Pages turned and steps were made

Skies, slow and cautious, changed to bright

Held out my hand.  Find it, friend.

You traipsed my path, unyielding fight.

 

Brand new day and lessons owned

Fort of friendship against alone

My eyes see clearly.  I see it well. 

Solace found in hearts I've known.

Tick Tock, Around the Clock

This week was tough.  Both girls had double ear infections.  Benny one-upped her sister by also having bronchitis.  Jeremy made it through the past five days by hacking, fevering and sounding like a manish Joan Rivers. This was Monday-Wednesday.

Pre-Thursday:  Jeremy summoned me to come into our back room.  My initial thought was that he was feeling better (and a tad randy) and wanted to sneak a kiss.  Upon stepping through the folding doors, I see that the room is steadily filling with water.  The add-on room was flooding.  Shit, shit, shit.  Come game time, fortunately, he and I make a pretty decent team. 

We kid that we would make a great pairing for The Amazing Race.  Due to both of our non-competitive natures, we would likely not, what’s that word (?), win.  We would have a blast losing-big-time and likely make some life-long friends in random, non-descript huts around the world.  I digress.

We put all damageable items up high, rolled up the rug and pulled out towels.  I was grateful for our towel-hoarding-tendencies.  Water levies were quickly created.  Overall, we lucked out.  Luckily, we have tile.  Luckily, Mama and Daddy Palafox gave us a wet-vac last winter.  Luckily, we no longer honor the sanctity of nightly slumber.  So, I opened up the vacuum box, assembled the thing MacGyver-style in, like, 13 minutes, and started sucking up the water.  I took the early shift.  Jeremy took the crappy shift (it involved earthworms and slugs), and I was grateful to sleep (although there were four-year-old feet in my neck) until Thursday morn.

Thursday:  Even with everything that happened the early part of this week, the 5^th day threw the biggest punch.  You see, Dad moved in with us in August.  The only house my parents owned was finally sold, and a courier from the title company was coming to complete paperwork.  I was not excited about the closing.  Number crunching, to me, is on the same level as having food envy at a restaurant (e.g., regretting your order and drooling on your husband’s New York Strip).  To me, this is death.  Dad, on the other hand, had pages and pages of calculations completed to ensure the buyers would not swindle him out of funds.  These kinds of (paranoid) tasks are his modus operandi.  I felt anxious, and I was tired.  All went okay until I found the wrong date of Mom’s death.  Ugh.  Of all the things that needed to be changed, this had to be the thing.  Ironic, eh?  So, the woman told dad that he needed to cross out the wrong date (12.26.2006), write the correct date (12-23-2004) and initial. 

I interpreted for him. He crossed out the incorrect date, started to write “December” and stopped. “It’s the 23rd, Dad.” I said. He looked at me. “Dad, it’s the 23rd!” “No,” he replied and started to reach for the death certificate. At this point, I was impatiently confused. Did he really not remember? Was it too much for him to write the damn (I mean, really, damn that day) date? I interrupted his reach for the document. “Ma mất ngày 23 tháng 12. She died on the 23rd of December, Dad. Write it.” I sounded like a demanding child, and I was. He did what I said, and we got everything wrapped-up in 20 minutes.

On the way to work, I cried.  When I got to work, I was still crying.  I hid in a conference room to get my stuff done without having to engage and to let my eyes de-puff.  Part of me cannot pinpoint why this is so hard. I should be getting better at this stuff.  Another part of me is all-too-aware of everything.  At times, it’s just too much.  Mom’s not here.  Dad is here.  The girls are here.  And now, Dad is really here. 

That evening, I picked up the girls from school, and we headed home. “What is Popeye making us for dinner?” Bennet asked. “What Popeye making, Mama?” Ruby said, always repeating. As I lugged all of the stuff into the house, Ruby was already running ahead and yelling, “Hi, Popeye! Hi, Popeye!”. He is always in the kitchen. I must say my days have changed drastically since Dad moved in. Each day, Monday through Friday, dinner is waiting for us on the table. This is the ultimate gift. He is here with us. With me. The girls are beyond-excited to see him each evening, and he is able to enjoy their continual antics. I see joy in his eyes. This is something he missed out on with my brother, sister and I. Working two full-time jobs can surely dampen your daily engagement with your children. 

As we sat there around the dinner table eating, music started playing from Dad’s room. “Dad, the clock is going off,” I informed him. For the second time that day, he looked at me with a blank stare. “Dad, mom’s clock is playing.” 
 
Years ago, during the last trip Mom and I took to California to visit her family, she got a clock. Two things about Mom: She was always prepared and always on time (usually half an hour early).  This clock, on every hour, would play a tune, and she loved it.  After mom passed away, it stopped working. It still hung on the wall by the kitchen in Mom and Dad’s house. Coincidentally, when I would go home to visit Dad with Jeremy (and eventually the girls) in Wylie, it would randomly play. We always felt it was not coicidence.  When Dad moved in with us, it was the first box we opened, and the clock was hung in his new room. Jeremy replaced the batteries for kicks, and the clock stood still as it usually does -- Until this early evening, almost six weeks after being placed on the wall, it decided to make its presence known. It was an emotional day for me. It was a big day for Dad. He let go of the home he last shared with his wife. For the first time since he moved in, Dad and I had the same thought. Mom, in typical fashion, was perfect on timing and wanted to be a part of our big Thursday. We were surely grateful for the moment.  And, I am glad he is with us.