I've never been much for New Year's Resolutions. That is, I've never been much for telling people about them - it doesn't mean I don't make them for myself. But as long as I don't tell people, then when they don't work out, it's not a big deal.
And, they're extremely likely not to work out. Most people give them up by halfway through January. I think I've heard that by January 19th, most people are done. I always feel like it would be more productive for me to make new resolutions every month or so, rather than a bunch at the beginning of the year - taking on too much seems to be the road to failure. But there's something so enticing about the beginning of a year - a clean slate, a chance to start fresh after a busy (completely unproductive) December. So I always do make them, thinking this year will be different. And the worse my last year was, the more unspoken resolutions I make. I don't tell people about most of them. They just sit in my head, or, sometimes I write them down. I'd guess I have about a 25% success rate with this system - not great, but not a total embarrassing failure.
This year, I feel like I have about a thousand of them. Throughout the past three months or so, I just kept collecting things I wanted to accomplish. But, with a job that peaks in November and December, it's next to impossible to set out to accomplish anything new in those months. Forget it- if I do it, I fail miserably, and feel terrible about myself later. So instead, every time I thought of something new, I said to myself, "Okay, that will be for January". After three months of treating my every whim this way, I have a "to do" list three miles long. Oh, and I can't remember it, because I didn't bother to write most of this stuff down. (Mental note: add to my list of resolutions that I should write more things down.)
Most of the items on the list are of the "self care" variety. I've started with the old New Years' standards - get back in shape, and eat better. I've vowed to meditate for a couple minutes every day (except for today. And yesterday). I'll take more time for myself. I'd like to find time to write more, and about different things. I've promised to read a certain number of books this year, as I've fallen out of the habit of reading. I'll watch a movie at least once a month - I think I only watched three this year, and that's pretty sad. I've resolved to connect with old friends, to be a better friend in general, return emails and calls faster. And to meet new people. I want to find time to take Sophie places, do Mommy and Me classes, oh yeah, and maybe take a class myself too - even just an online one. I've resolved to begin the ugly process of cleaning out my storage unit (really begin it, really find more permanent homes for things). Maybe find a new home for many of Ryan's things. Look for a new place to live, maybe. Start my life again.
And, I've just described about 200 hours a week worth of material, once you add in work, sleep, and my other responsibilities. How does one organize this type of to do list? Yet again I've created for myself a mountain that seems impossible to climb. All of these little things go into starting my life again. It's important for me to define again who I am, what makes me special and unique - be something other than a widow and single mom. So I need to do all of these things for myself. But, I'll never get all of this done, touch all of these items every week, and I'll feel like I'm letting myself down when I don't.
Which brings me to my number one resolution - the one I can do my very best to commit to and keep. I've been seeing a grief counselor for many months - I see her once a month at this point, and she has a piece of advice that she reiterates to me at just about every session. When I tell her that I'm overwhelmed, that I have no time to move myself forward because I'm bogged down, she always says that I need to change my perspective. Instead of saying "I can't believe I didn't get more done today", say "It's the end of a busy day, and I've done the best, under the circumstances, that I can." So this year, every day, that will be my mantra. It's the end of a busy day, and I've done the best that I can. But I will add one thing to it - I'll try to say I've done the best that I can, and MEAN it. I have to try hard enough during the day, that at the end of it, I can honestly say I've done the best I could.
In 2014, I didn't always do my best. I tried, but I know I didn't always rise to the occasion. Sometimes, I just wanted to give up. The day-to-day single mom/widow baggage is enough, but throw on all of the problems that came up with the sale of my house, and it was a trying year. And I struggled. And sometimes, if not often, my attitude was just bad. When I look back and try to tell myself I did the best I could under the circumstances, I know that some days that was true, and some days it wasn't. And I don't even think that's wrong - 2014 was tough. It was the first full year that Ryan was gone, and it was my first full year of motherhood. It was the first time I've ever sold a home - a home I never wanted to have to sell on my own. It was a lonely year - and a year where I realized that I will probably feel lonely for a very long time, just because I don't fit in with people very well anymore. I'm in a pretty small demographic. It was a year of coming to terms with my new reality. And a lot of trial and even more error. I think it's okay that I had a sour attitude for a lot of it. I struggled. I still do - a lot. The path forward is murky, it feels treacherous, and I have no idea what's on the other side of it. But, then again, neither do you. Even if you think you know where your path is leading - you really have no idea. It could take you anywhere, and you might not like it. Of that, I am living proof. I don't know what's ahead - but that is the great equalizer.
But I can't stand still. This is not a place that I want to settle down - I want so much more in my life. Most of what I used to want has gone away - or seems unlikely or impossible now. So I have to make a new way, and that is big and scary and tiring. And, I want it now. Every little setback is crushing. You would think that after the loss of the love of my life, I'd be better at not sweating the small stuff. But the small stuff often feels likes it's just piling on my broken heart and stopping it from healing. Any little bump in the road feels devastating, or like some sort of preordained bad luck that I'm cursed to for the rest of my life. It becomes very easy to be negative, very easy to expect the worst, very easy to just stand still.
So this year, I promise to do anything but stand still. I must try. I must take the list the I went through above, my 2015 "to do" list, and get through some of it. Do a little each week. This week I did particularly good with reading, dieting, and exercise, for example, but not as great with the other things on the list. It's okay - I did something, and I tried. I did the best I could, most days- and I mean it. Try again next week- and the week after that. And one day, I'll climb the mountain.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Reaction
It started with a small red mark on the side of her mouth. Just a little thing, so small I wasn't even sure I saw it. Then, as I got Sophie out of her highchair and threw out the remainder of the lightly peanut buttered cracker, she started rubbing her eye- just the eye at first, then the whole side of the face, and crying and complaining. I was hoping that she had just gotten a crumb in her eye. When we went into the bathroom to check it out, a welt appeared on the side of her nose. Then, when I tried to turn her towards me to see the welt, what seemed like a hundred more popped up all around it, and her eye began to swell shut.
My heart sank. My daughter seemed to have a peanut allergy. I was terribly angry with myself - why, why had I decided to try this to her today?! The rest of our day was ruined! I was going to be worried about it all night long! More than just worry - panic. I gave my daughter something that had caused red bumps to spread across her face at an intense speed; they appeared in the literal blink of Sophie's puffy eye. Because of something I chose to give her (a thing I probably should have given to her earlier it turns out, but they really don't give you a manual for this stuff). And then I thought, all at once, "oh my God, what if this doesn't get better? What do I do now?".
It was a Sunday, so I had to leave a message with the on call doctor at my pediatrician's office, and wait for a call back. Observing that Sophie seemed to be in no immediate distress, other than some serious itching, I decided not to call 911. Instead, I fought with her (unsuccessfully) to get some Benadryl down, until the doctor called. She told me that I was doing the right thing, and that I'd eventually need get Sophie to see an allergist to diagnose the allergy and discuss treatment and care. While I was on the phone with the doctor, Sophie quietly took the Benadryl dose from my hands and sucked it down. Then, she fell asleep, and was fine. Her welts went away that night, the swelling of the eye took a bit longer. And her little life went back to normal, no worse for wear. My panic subsided as well.
In the subsequent days, I talked myself into thinking that maybe it was a freak occurrence - that Sophie didn't have a peanut allergy. After all, we've made no special efforts to disinfect the house of the peanut butter that we all eat so regularly, and she'd never had an issue before that night. Yes, certainly this would be fine. I'd schedule the appointment with the allergist, as a precaution. While I wasn't thrilled about having Sophie undergo a scratch test, I held out hope that we'd find out that there was no allergy, or perhaps a very mild one that we could "condition" her out of.
Of course, if that were the end to the story I probably wouldn't be writing about it. No, it was not as I had hoped - yesterday was the visit to the allergist, and there will be no peanuts for Sophie. I had to hold Sophie down as they administered the scratch test to her arm, and then I saw it balloon up on the spot labelled "P" for peanut. I listened as the nurse went through all of the pamphlets I would need to read on peanut allergies, how to read food labels, how to handle social situations, and how and when to use an EpiPen (remove the blue cap, stab the orange end firmly into the middle of the thigh, hold for ten seconds. Call 911.)
I know, I know that there are many, many parents who have to go through this stuff all of the time, and that in the grand scheme of things that can go wrong with your kid, this is probably not that big of a deal. Perhaps there is even a mother of a child with a peanut allergy reading this, muttering to herself "What is the big deal?!", or "God, this woman is such a drama queen!". Well, that's probably fair. But here's the big deal: I'm not sure that I can handle another emergency life or death type situation. The last time I was in one of those, it didn't pan out so well.
When Ryan was seizing in bed, I knew that everything was going to be okay. I knew it. It didn't seem as though there were another viable choice. He couldn't die. That was impossible. And even as I was in a sheer panic, I still thought everything would be fine. Looking back, no matter how my mind was racing, my actions were remarkably calm and collected - I reacted quickly and did what I thought I knew how to do to help him. Then, when that didn't work, I called 911, and spoke impossibly calmly to the dispatcher. I thought that as long as I didn't freak out, he'd be fine. The moment I knew that it didn't seem like he was going to be okay, I immediately started mentally thrashing myself. WHY didn't I called 911 faster? Why on earth would I believe that I knew how to handle this? Oh my God, what if this is my fault for doing something wrong?
A hundred thousand doctors could tell me that this wasn't my fault, and I would still have that little gnawing part of me that thinks perhaps I could have done something differently and Ryan would still be here today. So, with that on my heart, I get myself into a panic thinking about something bad happening to Sophie. I think, presented with another serious emergency, I'd be a basket case, second guessing every little action and decision. Yes, I'm going to be one of those Moms. A worrier, to the nth degree,
And then, there's the sheer insult of the whole situation. I think one of the first things I thought when she had the reaction was, "Seriously? I have to deal with this too? Shouldn't I be done with the bad news by now?" I guess I thought I had some unspoken contract with the universe that I have been through my hard luck, and it should be easy from here on out. I lost my husband, Universe. I'm done with bad luck. Pick on someone else. So whenever something bad happens, it feels like an affront.
So what, was I expecting a bump-free ride through my daughter's childhood? No major injuries, no sickness, no runs to the hospital? If I was, it was beyond foolish. Of COURSE we're going to have those things- every family does. Kids get hurt, they get sick, bad things happen all of the time. I have no right to believe that because I've been through some rough stuff that I should have earned some sort of free pass for the rest of my life. And I don't believe that, not really - I just sometimes think that someone owes me one. And even if I've probably already redeemed the one that I was owed several times over (the easy pregnancy with a lack of morning sickness, the baby who sleeps through the night, the fact that her first reaction to peanuts was serious but not life-threatening), I still continue to think it every time something bad happens. Come on. Don't you owe me one? (Said in the whiniest possible voice, to no one).
After yesterday, I just have this sad image in my head. The nurse at the allergist told me that her daughter has a milk allergy, and when she goes to parties, she wears a label that says "Don't Feed Me". I'm imagining my little Sophie, walking around her first social outings without me, wearing a sad little label that says "Please, No Peanuts". Perhaps just the word "Peanuts" with the international "no" symbol around it. And everyone else having their Reese's Peanut Butter Cups or Snickers Bars (which just happen to be my personal favorite candy), and Sophie wants one too but can't have one. Or maybe one day she decides that it wouldn't be so terrible if she just tried a little bit. And then I'm getting a call that they had to use the EpiPen on her, or rush her to the emergency room, or that no one knew what to do and they're sorry.
That's obviously the very worst case scenario. I know that nut allergies are prevalent today, that Sophie will probably have friends who have them too, that most schools know what to do, and that I'll learn how to handle it as well. But I just don't want to (again, said in the whiniest possible voice). I don't want to, as a single Mom, have to be worrying about what I buy at the grocery store, or what my daughter brings home on Valentine's Day, or anything like that. Most weeks I'm lucky if I even get to the grocery store at all, how can I deal with having to add on all that time reading labels? Ugh. Doesn't someone owe me one? And Ryan, aren't you supposed to be helping with this stuff? I guess the real big deal about Sophie having a peanut allergy is that it's just one more parenting thing that I'm having to do on my own. And while there is a world full of single moms who know exactly what that feels like, and while I have plenty of help from my parents and other family members, it still seems to me to be an awfully lonely burden.
Sophie, by the way, despite having been inconsolable during the scratch test at the allergist, is doing just fine. She's spent the day toddling around happily with a big silly smile on her face, like nothing ever happened. I wish I knew how to do that.
My heart sank. My daughter seemed to have a peanut allergy. I was terribly angry with myself - why, why had I decided to try this to her today?! The rest of our day was ruined! I was going to be worried about it all night long! More than just worry - panic. I gave my daughter something that had caused red bumps to spread across her face at an intense speed; they appeared in the literal blink of Sophie's puffy eye. Because of something I chose to give her (a thing I probably should have given to her earlier it turns out, but they really don't give you a manual for this stuff). And then I thought, all at once, "oh my God, what if this doesn't get better? What do I do now?".
It was a Sunday, so I had to leave a message with the on call doctor at my pediatrician's office, and wait for a call back. Observing that Sophie seemed to be in no immediate distress, other than some serious itching, I decided not to call 911. Instead, I fought with her (unsuccessfully) to get some Benadryl down, until the doctor called. She told me that I was doing the right thing, and that I'd eventually need get Sophie to see an allergist to diagnose the allergy and discuss treatment and care. While I was on the phone with the doctor, Sophie quietly took the Benadryl dose from my hands and sucked it down. Then, she fell asleep, and was fine. Her welts went away that night, the swelling of the eye took a bit longer. And her little life went back to normal, no worse for wear. My panic subsided as well.
In the subsequent days, I talked myself into thinking that maybe it was a freak occurrence - that Sophie didn't have a peanut allergy. After all, we've made no special efforts to disinfect the house of the peanut butter that we all eat so regularly, and she'd never had an issue before that night. Yes, certainly this would be fine. I'd schedule the appointment with the allergist, as a precaution. While I wasn't thrilled about having Sophie undergo a scratch test, I held out hope that we'd find out that there was no allergy, or perhaps a very mild one that we could "condition" her out of.
Of course, if that were the end to the story I probably wouldn't be writing about it. No, it was not as I had hoped - yesterday was the visit to the allergist, and there will be no peanuts for Sophie. I had to hold Sophie down as they administered the scratch test to her arm, and then I saw it balloon up on the spot labelled "P" for peanut. I listened as the nurse went through all of the pamphlets I would need to read on peanut allergies, how to read food labels, how to handle social situations, and how and when to use an EpiPen (remove the blue cap, stab the orange end firmly into the middle of the thigh, hold for ten seconds. Call 911.)
I know, I know that there are many, many parents who have to go through this stuff all of the time, and that in the grand scheme of things that can go wrong with your kid, this is probably not that big of a deal. Perhaps there is even a mother of a child with a peanut allergy reading this, muttering to herself "What is the big deal?!", or "God, this woman is such a drama queen!". Well, that's probably fair. But here's the big deal: I'm not sure that I can handle another emergency life or death type situation. The last time I was in one of those, it didn't pan out so well.
When Ryan was seizing in bed, I knew that everything was going to be okay. I knew it. It didn't seem as though there were another viable choice. He couldn't die. That was impossible. And even as I was in a sheer panic, I still thought everything would be fine. Looking back, no matter how my mind was racing, my actions were remarkably calm and collected - I reacted quickly and did what I thought I knew how to do to help him. Then, when that didn't work, I called 911, and spoke impossibly calmly to the dispatcher. I thought that as long as I didn't freak out, he'd be fine. The moment I knew that it didn't seem like he was going to be okay, I immediately started mentally thrashing myself. WHY didn't I called 911 faster? Why on earth would I believe that I knew how to handle this? Oh my God, what if this is my fault for doing something wrong?
A hundred thousand doctors could tell me that this wasn't my fault, and I would still have that little gnawing part of me that thinks perhaps I could have done something differently and Ryan would still be here today. So, with that on my heart, I get myself into a panic thinking about something bad happening to Sophie. I think, presented with another serious emergency, I'd be a basket case, second guessing every little action and decision. Yes, I'm going to be one of those Moms. A worrier, to the nth degree,
And then, there's the sheer insult of the whole situation. I think one of the first things I thought when she had the reaction was, "Seriously? I have to deal with this too? Shouldn't I be done with the bad news by now?" I guess I thought I had some unspoken contract with the universe that I have been through my hard luck, and it should be easy from here on out. I lost my husband, Universe. I'm done with bad luck. Pick on someone else. So whenever something bad happens, it feels like an affront.
So what, was I expecting a bump-free ride through my daughter's childhood? No major injuries, no sickness, no runs to the hospital? If I was, it was beyond foolish. Of COURSE we're going to have those things- every family does. Kids get hurt, they get sick, bad things happen all of the time. I have no right to believe that because I've been through some rough stuff that I should have earned some sort of free pass for the rest of my life. And I don't believe that, not really - I just sometimes think that someone owes me one. And even if I've probably already redeemed the one that I was owed several times over (the easy pregnancy with a lack of morning sickness, the baby who sleeps through the night, the fact that her first reaction to peanuts was serious but not life-threatening), I still continue to think it every time something bad happens. Come on. Don't you owe me one? (Said in the whiniest possible voice, to no one).
After yesterday, I just have this sad image in my head. The nurse at the allergist told me that her daughter has a milk allergy, and when she goes to parties, she wears a label that says "Don't Feed Me". I'm imagining my little Sophie, walking around her first social outings without me, wearing a sad little label that says "Please, No Peanuts". Perhaps just the word "Peanuts" with the international "no" symbol around it. And everyone else having their Reese's Peanut Butter Cups or Snickers Bars (which just happen to be my personal favorite candy), and Sophie wants one too but can't have one. Or maybe one day she decides that it wouldn't be so terrible if she just tried a little bit. And then I'm getting a call that they had to use the EpiPen on her, or rush her to the emergency room, or that no one knew what to do and they're sorry.
That's obviously the very worst case scenario. I know that nut allergies are prevalent today, that Sophie will probably have friends who have them too, that most schools know what to do, and that I'll learn how to handle it as well. But I just don't want to (again, said in the whiniest possible voice). I don't want to, as a single Mom, have to be worrying about what I buy at the grocery store, or what my daughter brings home on Valentine's Day, or anything like that. Most weeks I'm lucky if I even get to the grocery store at all, how can I deal with having to add on all that time reading labels? Ugh. Doesn't someone owe me one? And Ryan, aren't you supposed to be helping with this stuff? I guess the real big deal about Sophie having a peanut allergy is that it's just one more parenting thing that I'm having to do on my own. And while there is a world full of single moms who know exactly what that feels like, and while I have plenty of help from my parents and other family members, it still seems to me to be an awfully lonely burden.
Sophie, by the way, despite having been inconsolable during the scratch test at the allergist, is doing just fine. She's spent the day toddling around happily with a big silly smile on her face, like nothing ever happened. I wish I knew how to do that.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Things for Which to Be Thankful
Yesterday at work, I found myself walking behind an elderly couple. They were both short, bent over slightly with age, and walking very, very slowly. I was in a hurry, and looked for a path around them, but as many older people do, they swayed a bit from side to side as they shuffled along, making it difficult to cut around. Stuck behind them for a hundred feet or so, I looked down and saw that they were holding hands.
Old people holding hands. That has to be just about the sweetest, most romantic thing I can think of. I smiled and thought how adorable it was, and then my heart sank, like it often does when I see something that should be a happy thing. I so wanted for Ryan and myself to one day be like that old couple. And we never will. We'll never grow old together like these two, never have the chance to stay in love for decades.
They must have much for which to be thankful.
Or, maybe they don't. Maybe they've lived a very sad life, or maybe they only found each other two years ago (which would explain why they still want to hold hands). But, in my imagination, they met when they were young, fell in love, got married, had kids, lived a normal married life with its ups and downs, and in their old age are still completely in love with one another. That's the dream I had for Ryan and myself. And when I think about not having these things, in the face of people who do, I find myself growing jealous and bitter. And I must, quite often, remind myself: as many people as I see who have things that I wish I had, who have it better than me, there are countless more who have it worse. Far worse. Tonight, there are people out there who live on street corners. Who can't feed their children. People who have seen unspeakable tragedy - people who have lost their entire families in wars, or in a senseless car accidents. A single viewing of the local news proves what I have often said: no matter what your damage, it can absolutely ALWAYS be worse.
And so, it pays the soul to recognize that there is, indeed, much for which to be thankful. So, despite the cliche, I thought it an apt time of year to remind myself.
I am thankful first and foremost for my gorgeous daughter. Her often cherubic face, her bright eyes, the sound of her laugh and the way she smiles when I come home from work. I'm thankful that she is healthy, and that she is growing. I'm thankful for her fist steps, her first words, her sweet voice. I am thankful when something potentially bad happens to her, and then it turns out to be okay and she is fine. I am thankful for the parts of her that resemble Ryan, and for the fact that not every part of her does. I am thankful that she is punctual, that she showed up in my life when she did, just in time.
I am thankful for family, who took care of me when I needed them to most. Above all, for my parents, without whom I might be a great big ball of crazy by now. I'm thankful that they took me into their home, and have helped me to get through a pregnancy and start to raise my daughter. I'm thankful that they're here, and when I get stuck late at work, or otherwise need a hand, that I am not subject to finding a babysitter or day care late fines, or anything like that. I have many other family members to be thankful for - my sister and her husband, my in-laws, my brother and his wife, my nephews, friends who feel like family, and others who I am forgetting to mention, but without my parents I can't imagine having made it through.
I am thankful for a warm house to live in, particularly on these cold nights. I'm thankful that I can feed my daughter, and myself, and that I don't have to worry about where I'm going stay at night. I'm thankful that I have a job, a decent paying job with benefits and a certain measure of job security. Even if it's not the perfect job, even if it makes me crazy sometimes, I am so thankful to not have to worry about where my next paycheck is coming from. I'm thankful for good bosses, who would give me a good reference if I needed it, and who have shown an immense amount of understanding when I was a less than stellar employee. I'm thankful for my morning coffee. And my afternoon coffee. Pretty much anything with caffeine or chocolate in it - I am thankful. I'm thankful for pajamas. Thankful for quiet moments in bed on a Saturday morning. Thankful when Sophie sleeps all night in her own bed.
I'm thankful for pain, because it is one of the things that makes us human. If I had gone through everything I have in the past year and felt nothing, that would be a sin. While I want so badly not to hurt anymore, and I often shut my emotions down because I just don't have the time for them every day, I'm thankful that I still have the ability to feel the way I do, fully and without filter. I'm thankful for this outlet to express myself and the way I'm feeling, and I'm thankful that sometimes people listen and hold me up, even from many miles away.
And finally, I'm thankful for the time I had with Ryan, even if it was way too short. This one sticks in my throat. I truly am grateful to have known him, loved him, and started to make a life with him, but I still am just so angry that it had to end too soon. It's hard for me to have the grace to just be thankful. But, I try to remind myself to be happy that at least I had him for a time. I'm thankful for the things we did together, even if the thought of much of it nauseates me now, knowing that it's gone. I'm thankful for the memory of his face, his voice, they way his hand felt when I held it. I'm thankful for the voicemail he left me the last morning of his life, even if I can't bear to listen to it. And, perhaps most of all, I'm thankful that I know in my heart that he loved me, even if sometimes it's hard to remember.
That's my short list. Counting blessings doesn't make the sadness I feel go away, but it does lend some perspective. It could always be worse. And there is, almost always, much for which to be thankful.
Old people holding hands. That has to be just about the sweetest, most romantic thing I can think of. I smiled and thought how adorable it was, and then my heart sank, like it often does when I see something that should be a happy thing. I so wanted for Ryan and myself to one day be like that old couple. And we never will. We'll never grow old together like these two, never have the chance to stay in love for decades.
They must have much for which to be thankful.
Or, maybe they don't. Maybe they've lived a very sad life, or maybe they only found each other two years ago (which would explain why they still want to hold hands). But, in my imagination, they met when they were young, fell in love, got married, had kids, lived a normal married life with its ups and downs, and in their old age are still completely in love with one another. That's the dream I had for Ryan and myself. And when I think about not having these things, in the face of people who do, I find myself growing jealous and bitter. And I must, quite often, remind myself: as many people as I see who have things that I wish I had, who have it better than me, there are countless more who have it worse. Far worse. Tonight, there are people out there who live on street corners. Who can't feed their children. People who have seen unspeakable tragedy - people who have lost their entire families in wars, or in a senseless car accidents. A single viewing of the local news proves what I have often said: no matter what your damage, it can absolutely ALWAYS be worse.
And so, it pays the soul to recognize that there is, indeed, much for which to be thankful. So, despite the cliche, I thought it an apt time of year to remind myself.
I am thankful first and foremost for my gorgeous daughter. Her often cherubic face, her bright eyes, the sound of her laugh and the way she smiles when I come home from work. I'm thankful that she is healthy, and that she is growing. I'm thankful for her fist steps, her first words, her sweet voice. I am thankful when something potentially bad happens to her, and then it turns out to be okay and she is fine. I am thankful for the parts of her that resemble Ryan, and for the fact that not every part of her does. I am thankful that she is punctual, that she showed up in my life when she did, just in time.
I am thankful for family, who took care of me when I needed them to most. Above all, for my parents, without whom I might be a great big ball of crazy by now. I'm thankful that they took me into their home, and have helped me to get through a pregnancy and start to raise my daughter. I'm thankful that they're here, and when I get stuck late at work, or otherwise need a hand, that I am not subject to finding a babysitter or day care late fines, or anything like that. I have many other family members to be thankful for - my sister and her husband, my in-laws, my brother and his wife, my nephews, friends who feel like family, and others who I am forgetting to mention, but without my parents I can't imagine having made it through.
I am thankful for a warm house to live in, particularly on these cold nights. I'm thankful that I can feed my daughter, and myself, and that I don't have to worry about where I'm going stay at night. I'm thankful that I have a job, a decent paying job with benefits and a certain measure of job security. Even if it's not the perfect job, even if it makes me crazy sometimes, I am so thankful to not have to worry about where my next paycheck is coming from. I'm thankful for good bosses, who would give me a good reference if I needed it, and who have shown an immense amount of understanding when I was a less than stellar employee. I'm thankful for my morning coffee. And my afternoon coffee. Pretty much anything with caffeine or chocolate in it - I am thankful. I'm thankful for pajamas. Thankful for quiet moments in bed on a Saturday morning. Thankful when Sophie sleeps all night in her own bed.
I'm thankful for pain, because it is one of the things that makes us human. If I had gone through everything I have in the past year and felt nothing, that would be a sin. While I want so badly not to hurt anymore, and I often shut my emotions down because I just don't have the time for them every day, I'm thankful that I still have the ability to feel the way I do, fully and without filter. I'm thankful for this outlet to express myself and the way I'm feeling, and I'm thankful that sometimes people listen and hold me up, even from many miles away.
And finally, I'm thankful for the time I had with Ryan, even if it was way too short. This one sticks in my throat. I truly am grateful to have known him, loved him, and started to make a life with him, but I still am just so angry that it had to end too soon. It's hard for me to have the grace to just be thankful. But, I try to remind myself to be happy that at least I had him for a time. I'm thankful for the things we did together, even if the thought of much of it nauseates me now, knowing that it's gone. I'm thankful for the memory of his face, his voice, they way his hand felt when I held it. I'm thankful for the voicemail he left me the last morning of his life, even if I can't bear to listen to it. And, perhaps most of all, I'm thankful that I know in my heart that he loved me, even if sometimes it's hard to remember.
That's my short list. Counting blessings doesn't make the sadness I feel go away, but it does lend some perspective. It could always be worse. And there is, almost always, much for which to be thankful.
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