The Dreaded Day
Staying in bed is what I long to do, but this is not possible with two children, two dogs, and a husband who travels for work. I slide my limbs from under the covers, resentful of the long list of tasks set before me today. I should have planned better, but I didn’t know it would hit me this way. I never know how it’s going to hit. It changes every year, but this year, year five, is harder than the others. I get the kids off to school, consciously making the effort not to be grumpy with them. My daughter gives my arm a squeeze as she exits the car, and the tears spring to my eyes. I sob the whole way home, then sit in the car in my driveway, ugly crying. The dogs stare up at the car window from the yard, their eyes begging me to come out. It is time for their walk. Oh, how I wish I could crawl back into bed, stay there all day, honor my mother by doing nothing but wailing and bemoaning and shutting down; but this is not to be.
I walk the dogs down the long dirt road to the cove, grateful, at least, that the sun is out and the birds are chirping. The gravel crunches under my shoes and I smell the sweet spring air. At the cove, I stare at the sparkling water, letting the sound of the breaking waves soothe me. She loved the ocean. We used to sit for hours in comfortable silence watching the breakers. I am crying again, wishing she was here with me. I trudge back to the house and attack my list.
First, I make two batches of chocolate chip cookies. It’s my mother’s recipe and her mother’s before that. This afternoon is my daughter’s last softball game of the season. Cookies for softball is tradition. I lick the extra dough from the spatula, savoring the gritty, sweet, buttery vanilla flavor. I prep dinner, since it will be a late night after the game. I snip giant pink peonies from the garden, three different shades, and throw in a few tendrils of bleeding heart as an accent. Pink was her favorite color. I put them in an antique blue pitcher and the kitchen smells lovely. I do laundry and tidy the house, run errands then rush to pick up the kids from school. I take my girl to her guitar lesson. The softball game gets cancelled due to rain. What will I do with all of the cookies? We go home and snuggle in- homework, snacks, throw ball for the dogs. I put on jazz and read a little while I wait for dinner to heat up. We eat as a family, the kids telling me about their days. They give me extra love as they clear their plates then head off to do their own things, after eating a cookie or two. I do the dishes, prep everything for the next day, and sigh.
I pour a small measure of single malt Scotch and break off a piece of dark chocolate from a large bar. I take a picture of the Scotch, chocolate, and pink flowers and send it to my sisters. They respond with similar photos. I am pissed. My mother should be here; and if she can’t be here, I should be allowed a day to wallow in self-pity, or at least spend it honoring her. I tell myself I am a wimp. My mother would never have wanted to stay in bed and grieve or wallow in self-pity. Were she still alive, she would have come for a visit. She would have insisted on taking a walk to the cove. We would have listened to the birds as the gravel crunched under our feet, then stood in silence and listened to the waves breaking. She would have made her famous cookies and licked the bowl clean. She would have cooked a delicious healthy meal for my family and helped me run errands and catch up on housework. She would have relished hearing about the kids’ days and having some extra snuggles. Then she would have poured a small measure of Scotch and broken off a piece of chocolate and we would have read our books and chatted about life until we rolled into bed.
Huh. Maybe getting out of bed was the way to go after all.