Today marks 18 months since we lost Pete.
It’s a weird day to think about.
Every Sunday afternoon at about 4.26 I take a moment to realise another week has passed.
As time has gone on, that has moved to acknowledging the 20th of every month.
And so today, it’s a whole year and a half since the day we lost him.
At 4.26 this afternoon I was sitting in my car in the driveway having collected the kids from school, taken our eldest to have her ears pierced as a present for her 14th birthday yesterday, and was actually listening to ABC radio to a vaguely ironic song considering the circumstances.
It was Time To Say Goodbye by Sarah Brightman and Andrea Boccelli.
I have spent a lot of today pondering today.
The time that has elapsed between 4.26pm on January 20 last year.
It doesn’t seem like yesterday or last week anymore. But it does feel like maybe a few months ago.
That maybe it’s a bit better? easier? not as devastating?
But then I think back over the last couple of days.
As I have come to learn, the lead up to things is often worse than the day.
But yesterday I couldn’t be beside myself - it was a child’s birthday... our eldest turned 14.
It was her day, so we did things that she wanted to do.
Turns out that meant she wanted to spend the day honing her sewing skills making fabric masks because: coronavirus.
Which was actually totally fine.
I was emotionally exhausted from the day before.
So much so I resorted to a Coles cake ...
But seriously, who would cook? $25 cake (a 1.2kg 3-tier mid cake), $4 worth of candles and ta dah!
It did result in possibly the funniest series of photos I’ve ever taken of the kids when the only boy in the house basically climbed on his sister to ensure he was the closest boy to kiss when she touched the plate while cutting her birthday cake.
Because the day before was all sorts of ridiculousness.
The youngest had a sleepover. And on collection had been in the car for approximately 2 minutes before the bickering and yelling and crying between the eldest and youngest.
I don’t know why I was so short tempered (I can’t blame hormones all the time...)
But I lost it.
Totally.
I am so sick of the crying and the whingeing and the whining and the bickering and the yelling and the no one to help intervene and the Covid uncertainty and the news and the juggle and all of the things.
So when challenged by an 8yo who said ‘yeah? Make me!’ when I ordered her to her room for her behaviour, that was it.
Read: appalling parenting that included physically placing child in room, yelling at the rest, grabbing reusable shopping bags and leaving the house yelling something about getting lunch for themselves or waiting until I came back ... and I wasn’t sure when that was.
I sobbed into the steering wheel, cried so hard when I was driving down the road I actually couldn’t see, so stopped at a Give Way sign (so long the person behind me tooted) and cried even harder when I realised once I had parked somewhere that no one can help me.
I looked like this:
I could have so easily called on so many of my villagers. I know that.
But the reality really was, that no one could help.
The reality really remains, that I am the only parent. I have to do this. On my own. And people can provide band aid solutions (and band aids are awesome!) but that this is on me... I need to sort my shit out and be the parent(s).
So two days ago, I exhausted myself with tears.
Yesterday, I exhausted myself with emotion.
Today, I sat.
I tried work. I tried coffee. I tried cleaning things (things got so out of control I even considered the oven!)
But the thing that really helped was the messages and phone calls.
The village (or the universe) somehow knew things were not ok
I randomly got some messages from people who steeled me with amazing resolve.
I got messages of love and care.
I got phone calls that made me smile and laugh.
I delivered on a birthday present of ear piercing which included tears - not from the pain but from not having Pete here to see them.
So I fixed today the only way I know how - I ploughed on and thew money at it ...
In the form of rib eye on the bone and good red wine.
It was, as the kids pointed out, a ‘Dad meal’... a meal they know he would have enjoyed and he had often shared with them.
And so, 2 glasses into that good bottle of red, with fed and happy children, this is 18 months later.
It’s still shit. And the last 3 days have been evidence of the swings and roundabouts of this roller coaster of grief we ride.
But the wine is good.
The kids are loving.
And we are still moving forward.
So, 18 months later ... we are here.
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