The things that are hard and how photos lie

There are so many things that are hard to do now - and not all of them I was expecting.

But the thing is, some of the hardest things don’t look like they are hard to do.

Especially if you take a photo of you doing the thing.

Most recently this has included going to things and doing things and trying to shave my legs.

Going home was always going to be hard. Driving out onto the Conargo plains I knew would be hard knowing how much Pete loved living and working in the Riverina.

But I figured once I was there the hardest bit was done - I was wrong. Because mustering sheep without him being involved in some way was way harder. I kept hearing his voice in my head giving instructions to the kids and I (and my Dad!).

It was a similar story going to the Deni Ute Muster. An event I haven’t been to without Pete - in the first few years merely as acquaintances and friends, then together as patrons with the kids and in later years in roles with the event.

I thought going was going to be hard - but it wasn’t nearly as hard as seeing all the other Dads there doing all the Dad things with their kids and families.

I actually cried when our youngest child persevered and got to the top of the rock climbing wall and I took a photo ... because who do I send that photo to now?

Next weekend we will return to Deniliquin for the annual race meeting we always went home and frocked up for, so to try and soften the blow of that, I figured going to the Hamilton races this weekend would help.

Like ripping off a bandaid and giving the wound some air to heal a bit.

Preparing for both race days has been challenging because I cannot make millinery without Pete’s considered opinion and I’ve totally blown my budget trying to get shoes and clothes and headwear for everyone here and matching and fitting.

Laughably one of the most challenging things was when I went to shave my legs and realised I needed a new razor blade - I just always used Pete’s old ones when they were no longer sharp enough for his face shaving.

But when I opened the bathroom drawer and rifled through his toiletry bag, there are no razor blades left. I’ve now used all of the razor blades he had. And there will not be anymore.

Dressing and getting to the races nearly sent me over the edge. The pressure I felt around getting ready for races without Pete was enormous. Packing chairs into the car like we had last year. The picnic blanket. The friends. All exactly as we had done at the same races last year - but this year it was without him. At one point I really wasn’t sure we would get there. The only thing that did was the fact I’d promised the kids, spent a lot of money, had someone else’s child to take and friends waiting for me to go with.

Today, the kids participated in a local obstacle course and we went along like we had last year and the kids had an utter ball. And I stood on the sidelines and saw all the Dads doing all the things - cheering on kids, running along with kids, celebrating finishing kids, supporting wives wrangling kids. And I honestly wanted the ground to just swallow me up.

Looking at photos of all of these things tell an absolute lie.

They show us all there doing things and smiling and frocking up and showing up.

They absolutely do not show that I cried putting on make up before the races.

That I lay awake for hours and cried on the mornings I woke up in the Riverina.

That I stood course-side today and smiled and cheered at our kids because that’s what they needed me to do ... and at the same time felt like I couldn’t wait to get as far away as could, as fast as I could.

That I’m already thinking about next weekend’s Deni races and whether my liver can cope consuming as much champagne two weeks in a row that it took to get me through the races this weekend.

I was made fully aware some months ago that by putting photos of us doing the things and smiling suggested that maybe we weren’t grieving like people expected us to. That maybe we weren’t sad enough. Maybe we had gotten over losing Pete because: smiling.

I cannot stop doing things because Pete has died. And, realistically, I’m not likely to be able to stop doing some of these things if I want the kids to enjoy their lives sans father.

Just know the photos lie. Smiling photos do not ever show just how hard some of these things are for me and us to do. But I’m also not ever going to not smile for a photo. Not get dressed for races. Not do the things.