Step back, Mom. Let the superhero take charge.

I am a little sensitive regarding my intelligence, or other people’s opinions of my intelligence. I’m quickest to gripe at my husband if he does anything that requires me to say, “You know I’m not an idiot, right?” I hate it when someone either A) Tells me something that everyone would be capable of figuring out themselves or B) Tells me something I didn’t know but uses a tone implying I should have known it. The first one I hate because I’m not an idiot and don’t like being treated like one. The second I hate because I don’t want to feel like an idiot because someone is talking down to me. Being talked down to – even though it’s often warranted – is the thing that will get my blood boiling the fastest. Because it’s the thing I’m probably the most insecure about.

I’m not naturally smart, by any means. I always had to work hard for my good grades, and was still one of those students that could study for days for a test, ace it, and then forget it all the next day. MrZ could glance over his notes once, ace it, and remember it forever. This pissed me off our entire college career together. I have two degrees but am not well-read when it comes to literature or nonfictions. I prefer my Young Adult Wizards and Vampires…thank you very much. I often read blog posts about book clubs and feel a little insecure because the only time I ever went to a book club and felt okay about it was because the person who was holding it loaned me the Vampire book I was currently reading. I felt a little better about that. But most of the time? Eh. So, while I’m defensive about my intelligence, I don’t really every put forth efforts to make myself actually be more intelligent.

However, my Dad took grades and school very seriously. While I still stand by my Dad being the most amazing Dad I could have ever asked for – he did have a temper. And that temper showed it’s ugly face the most often when Dad was frustrated with either (A) My grades or (B) Me doing something REALLY dumb. Like locking my keys in my car. For the 15th time. The few (and sometimes many…as I was often doing stupid crap as a kid) times he’d lose his temper and scream at me – seemed to always involve me either doing poorly on something in school (WHICH WAS RARE) or me doing something airheaded (WHICH WAS OFTEN) so the screams from him would sometimes involve insults to my intelligence.

Needless to say? This is probably what has made me so defensive about my intelligence.

So – of course – the process of closing his estate has made me feel like a complete moron. First of all: I’ve made a bunch of mistakes. Some of the mistakes I’ve made were because I misinterpreted things. Others because I just didn’t know. And others because I assumed other people (like my lawyer) were responsible for those things. However, it seems like most of my mistakes were made because everyone outside the process: Lawyers, Auctioneers, CPAs, Title Companies – they all assume I know things I don’t. And that’s the part that PISSES ME OFF. I mean – why do I feel like all along this process that things are intuitive when THEY ARE NOT. Either I really am an idiot or other people have learned these things along the way when I haven’t. But how would I have learned them? Is it because most people are older when they go through this stuff so they have experience? My Dad has been dead almost a year now and he had the easiest estate on the planet…yet still! We can’t close things out because I was under the impression that this one waiver required an inventory that couldn’t be done until the house was sold. So, I worked on it all last week. Now? I find out they can’t give the estate the money for that house UNTIL THEY HAVE THAT WAIVER. And they asked for the form like I should have known all a long that they needed it. I didn’t even know what that form WAS until 2 weeks ago. BAH! They asked for a second form too which – THANK GOD – I actually have. But I didn’t know I needed that either – so it’s lucky I have it. I have no idea how I was supposed to know I needed this stuff. I feel like I’m not reading stacks of paperwork thoroughly enough – or that I missed some class in high school that everyone else had where you learn things about Probate. The thing is? It’s different in every state. So even if I had taken some sort of class like that – it wouldn’t do me any good because this is all crap from the state of TENNESSEE.

(Can you hear my frustration through the monitor? If not – maybe I should use more capital letters. That seems to make me feel better.)

I just find it a very Full Circle kind of thing that the estate belonging to the person who is probably responsible for making me defensive about my intelligence – is making me feel like a GIANT dumbass.

I think I need to find a therapist.

I’ve said that off and on for years as I suffer through anxiety attacks and insomnia. I’ll go through bad phases where I’ll seriously consider finding a therapist, and then I’ll start to feel better and the urgency fades. I’ve realized lately, however, that I owe the previous years of coping to you. Somehow, having you to call always helped. Even if I didn’t discuss with you the actual issues stressing me out, just talking to you about anything always helped. Just knowing you were there when I needed to talk, whether or not I actually did, this did more for me than I ever realized.

“My head’s not on straight right now.”

I’ve used that phrase a lot lately, talking to family and friends. I’m depressed. I’m anxious. I’m not sleeping. I’m eating non-stop and I’m struggling with any level of patience. And it’s your fault. I drove around this weekend thinking about the weekends in my life I’ve done just that while talking to you. I’m not sure why, but I always liked to call you when I was driving around town. Maybe the pointless drives reminded me of you. Maybe I just liked the privacy of my car. Either way, most of our phone calls were done with me driving around Huntsville. And this weekend? I needed you. I needed to call you to tell you what’s been on my mind lately. I needed you to sigh and tell me that you didn’t know what to tell me. You were always honest that way. I needed you to bitch about the mundane in your life to make me feel better about bitching about the mundane in mine. I needed you to praise me for something. Anything, really, because I’ve been a bit down on myself. I needed you to agree with me about how hard parenting is, and about how many times we’re simply flying blind. Hoping we don’t crash into the side of any mountains. I needed you to tell me it would be okay. Or at least tell me you understood.

Your house is being auctioned on Saturday. One year after you were hospitalized with kidney failure from Multiple Myeloma. Your house, the house you died hating, will officially belong to someone else. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to drive by it to see what happens to it. I’ll probably make someone else do it a few times a year, and then have them report back to me. The Map Store down the road closed. I’d like to tell myself it’s because you were no longer there to appreciate it. Even if you never bought anything from there. I know you enjoyed it’s existence on your street.

I just miss you so much. I find myself scrolling through archives in this blog (Dear Blog, I love you.) and touching the screen when I get to pictures of you. I actually reach out and touch your face on the computer monitor. How cheesy is that? I just can’t stop myself. I’m also sleeping with my old Ewok again. You gave it to me for my 10th birthday. I always meant to ask you, “Why?” We weren’t big Star Wars fans or anything, but it became my favorite toy of my childhood. I took it to sleepovers, to trips out of town, and even to college. I slept with it even well into adulthood. Several years ago it got put in with the kids things, I guess, and I no longer needed it to sleep. But a few months ago, I decided to see if it would help me sleep better. I believe it did, a little. Sometimes I just hold it in my arms and think about how you used to come in my room in the mornings before school, take Ewok and animate him to wake me up. “Time to get up, Kim!” You would say, using Ewok as the messenger. You did that with all the stuffed animals you ever came into contact with. I do it too.

Tomorrow marks one year from when it all began. When I got the call from your doctor that would lead to you going to the hospital, getting diagnosed with cancer, and then giving up treatment to end your life in a residential hospice. February 10th. It is a day that carries with it more pain than the day you died, because that was the end of Dad as I knew you. After that you were sick. And dying. I think that’s why I’ve been in such a funk. The painful anniversaries are rolling in left and right now. Putting me right back in the same mind I was this time last year. Saying goodbye to you.

I miss you, Dad. I don’t think there will ever be a day where I don’t think it. I need your counsel. I need your advice. I need your hugs. And since you’re not here to give them to me, maybe I’ll finally look for that therapist I’ve been talking about finding for years.

Or maybe I’ll just open a beer. And only drink half of it. In your honor.

While I’d love to tell you all about our wonderful Christmas, I feel like I need to back up a few days and fill you in on our Dad Trip to Knoxville last week. It was too eventful to just let pass without documenting. And by “eventful” I mean “seriously depressing and also maybe creepy.”

When my brother and I got to town, we dropped by Dad’s house and this is what we found. This is the only picture I have of it, however, as the company helping tend the yard at Dad’s removed it before we had time to take more pictures. (Christmas week and they had it down less than 24 hours after we called…if you’re in Knoxville? USE THEM. PLEASE.) This is/was the tree that my Dad knew was going to fall down on the house any minute. He was so sure of it that he had tied a rope around it anchoring it to another tree in a way so that when it fell, it may fall away from the house. He was so sure it would fall that he never re-wired my old bedroom after the last tree fell. He thought the tree would fall on my old room and didn’t want to have live wires there. Dad was actually hoping the tree would fall soon so that he would finally have the excuse he needed to either a) tear down and start over or b) move. It was very surreal to see it down. 9 months after he died. And you know what? He was off by one room. It fell on the kitchen. Not my old bedroom.

And as if that wasn’t enough…when my brother went in the house to investigate damage in the kitchen? He found evidence of a vagrant living there. It was late and dark and creepy, so we came back the next day with a police officer to make sure the person wasn’t still there somewhere hiding and waiting to attack us. I guess creepy may not be strong enough of a word. Realizing someone has been living in your old bedroom in the house you grew up in? It’s just hard to explain. Creepy? Yes. Definitely. But also so very sad. The more we investigated we realized the person hadn’t been there in a while. There was mold and dust on things he had used. We also realized that the person was probably a normal, good person. Aside from the whole squatter thing.

There wasn’t a lot left in the house. The person had gathered whatever blankets they could find and made a pallet. They tried to make use of the radio/stereo that we left behind. (Why did we leave that behind?) They cleaned up after themselves, for the most part. There was a bag of garbage. They didn’t take anything with them when they left the last time, not even things they could have sold. They didn’t vandalize. They just lived there. Ate peanut butter. And weirdest of all? Did puzzles.

We are 99% sure there were not puzzles in the house the last time we cleaned it out. So the person brought them with him? Maybe? I’m not sure why he never came back to finish them…I hope it’s because his life turned for the better and he didn’t need Dad’s house anymore. Because in terms of squatters? We had the best one you could ask for. No liquor bottles. Or mouthwash bottles, as the police officer explained was common to find in those situations. No evidence of drug use. No crack den. No signs of a group of homeless people. No vandalism. No theft. Just a person down on his luck maybe? Needed a safe place to stay – and do puzzles. In some weird way, we both agreed that Dad may have liked this guy.

We were doing a quick scan before we left and stopped to look at the board on the wall where we had measured our heights over the years. There was a name that looked like “Rick” on there. We are certain it was someone from our family scribed in Dad’s chicken scratch, but it looked like “Rick.” One of us laughed and said, “Who is Rick?” LilZ said, “The vagrant.” We cracked up imagining our squatter taking the time to add his name to the hatchmarks on the wall. From that moment on we referred to the homeless person as “Rick” – as in, “I feel bad about throwing away Rick’s puzzles.”

All in all? Between the tree crushing the house and the squatter…it was a truly surreal experience. And the best thing to come out of it? My brother and I seemed to finally be able to let go of the house. We no longer had weird pangs associated with getting rid of it. That one day and suddenly it hit us: This was not our house anymore. It’s empty of Dad and his stuff. It’s crumbling to pieces. It’s just an old building that happened to once be our home…but not anymore. The sentimental attachment to the place seemed to escape when Rick came in with his puzzles. We are now more than ready to get rid of it. I’ll be calling today to find someone to take it off our hands. It’s just a house my dad owned…it is no longer our home.

We also visited Dad’s grave at the cemetery. We took him tulips. When we got there we saw a beautiful image of hundreds of wreaths laid across the graves. They didn’t cover the entire cemetery, but most of the plots by the entrance. (Which happens to be where my uncle is buried, so there was one on his grave.) We inquired about them and found out about Wreaths Across American which covers all of Arlington every year. They also deliver batches to other Memorial cemeteries around the country and we got 400. Not enough for even 10% of the graves there, but still a wonderful thought. We’ll definitely be donating next year.

Not quite the trip to Knoxville my brother and I had planned, but an eventful one nonetheless! We did take some time to enjoy downtown Knoxville and rode what was possibly the stinkiest horse/carriage EVER. I mean, I know they don’t smell like roses with those poopbags strapped to their butts, but OH MY GOD. I found myself thinking, “Would it be rude to ask to get off the carriage now because THE SMELL IS KILLING ME!” I guess I’m a city girl, or something. Either way…glad we did it once…NEVER DO IT AGAIN. A novel experience for the small children one time so that we can tell them about it when they get older and want to do it again, but nothing any part of me will ever opt to relive. Not without some sort of potpourri face mask, anyway. I get enough of the stinky poop smell from my youngest child, and I don’t have to pay $20 for that experience.

My Dad wasn’t much of a cook growing up. Our dinners almost always consisted of one of the following options:

1. Dinty Moore Beef Stew
2. Frozen Fish Sticks
3. Frozen Egg Rolls
4. Sandwiches
5. Canned soups

About once a year he would buy a pot roast and throw it in the crock pot with some potatoes. That was always awesome. And then there was Thanksgiving. Dad would buy a turkey, stuff it with boxed stuffing, and cook it with no extra or fancy treatment. He would usually put it in early and by lunch we’d be chowing on turkey and stuffing, sometimes with a canned vegetable or two. It was awesome in every way you can imagine. And I could not stop thinking about it over our own Thanksgiving week. I started cooking several days in advanced. I brined my turkey for 24 hours. I made mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes from scratch. I baked dessert. I made three casseroles. All of that effort for one meal that was no better than the basic turkey and stuffing my Dad used to make. It definitely came no where near to good enough to even keep me from missing his turkey and stuffing. God, I missed him so much. I knew it would be hard, but I don’t think I realized how hard or how many different things would trigger memories of him.

I was starting on Christmas cards this morning and going through my mailing list. I came to Dad’s name and stopped and stared at it. No need to send a card to that address, it would just get forwarded to my house. Because he’s gone. I stared at that entry for a bit just thinking about that. I didn’t need to send him one. He always loved my annual family letters updating everyone, and this year it mentions losing him. Yet still, until I saw his name and address in my spreadsheet, it didn’t hit me that I wouldn’t be sending him one. I deleted his name from the list. And cried my eyes out, texted my brother, and cried some more.

He’s a part of everything I do over the Holidays because we spent so many of them together. If we were in Huntsville, he did his best to be here as well. He was here last year for Christmas, he watched us put reindeer food on our front yard and he helped put toys together Christmas morning. He loved leftovers and never minded eating them every meal for days. He always thought we way overdid Christmas for the kids. But he never criticized us for that. He just wondered if we were ever disappointed with our own Christmas as kids. I lied and said, “No.” I felt selfish for immediately thinking of the Christmas that I wanted the sweatshirt with Opus on it that I had seen at the mall. Dad evidently waited too long and they were sold out. I’m very glad he went to his grave not knowing I still think about that damn sweatshirt. It would break his heart.

It’s amazing how fresh the pain feels these last few weeks. It hits me so hard, brings me to tears so fast, that I sometimes feel as though I just walked out of the hospice after saying goodbye to his lifeless body. It feels that raw, that painful. And I hate it because I don’t want this sorrow to ruin the holidays for me, there are too many other people in my family counting on a happy Christmas. Dad would want me to give them a happy Christmas.

So, I cry a lot…but I also hug my kids a lot. I’ve been trying to keep myself busy with things that make me happy — like Christmas activities with the kids. And beer. Sometimes there are tears hiding behind the smiles, but other times there are smiles hiding behind the tears. It’s the best I can do right now. I can not escape the holidays without any sad moments missing my Dad, no matter how much he would want me to. So, I just carry on. Cry when I need to cry, but not let those tears blind me to the joys of the season as well. Joy and Sadness are not always mutually exclusive, I’m learning. Sometimes the richest joy is wrapped in the thickest sadness because sometimes it takes a loss of one love to remind you to cherish the others.

Dad on the Green Mountain Nature Trail

Typically, I take a lot of pictures. (I know! Shocking!) Last Christmas, my Dad and brother gave me a new lens for my camera giving me an excuse to be really obnoxious during their visit. They couldn’t complain, could they? I mean…they got me the lens…I had to try it out! And I did. Every waking moment of every day they were here.

My Dad hates having his picture taken, and we know now that he was really sick over the holidays, but I have 14 billion pictures of him hanging out with the kids.

More than just posed pictures. Pictures of them playing together.

And maybe sometimes napping together…

But mostly playing.

My only regret is that – since last year was LilZ’s Christmas with his Dad – I don’t have as many pictures of him and my Dad together. And as you all know…he was gone three months later. While I look at these photos and can tell he was sick now, I didn’t think about it then. Other than getting up a little slower than usual, everything seemed fine. We had no idea that would be our last Christmas together. I didn’t know that the next time I’d see him he’d be in the hospital being diagnosed with cancer. I definitely didn’t know that a few weeks after that we’d be visiting him in hospice as he waited to die. All I knew was that he was there with me and my kids, and I was going to take as many pictures as I could with my new lens.

And while I know my youngest two kids probably won’t remember our last Christmas when they get older, they’ll have plenty of proof that it happened. And that they had a grandfather who loved to play with them and a mother who can be quite annoying with the camera.

I challenge you to do the same this holiday season. Do a few group posed shots, you’ll want those for frames and Christmas cards. But just take pictures. And keep every photo somewhere on your computer. You may go back through them later when you’re missing some of that family and find one that you forgot about. One that maybe was too dark, or too far away. And if you’re camera is decent and you have a knack for photo editing, you may be able to turn it into one worthy to frame. (Although you’ll definitely regret not wearing at least mascara when you went to Christmas dinner that year.)

Take as many pictures as you can. You just don’t know when they’ll be the last ones you have with those family members you only see on the holidays. Be obnoxious. Get all combinations of people and make sure you hand the camera to someone else periodically to get shots of yourself with your family. And if someone gripes about it? Blame me. Tell them some chick on the internet made you do it. Tell them I’m holding your puppy hostage and you only get him back if you show me 14 billion photos of your family over the holidays.