Put a lid on me

4 Feb

So, um, it’s February.  I woke up with a backache two weeks ago and promptly used it as an excuse to do basically nothing.  It’s still sore, but improved.  What started out feeling like labor pains is now just a dull ache.  Sometimes I don’t even notice, other times not so much.  Nothing like a few aches and pains to make me feel every day of my 39 years.

But I’ve decided I  can’t carry on this way.  My back is dead to me–time to move on.  (It’s really not that bad.)

I still have to put some finishing touches  on The Rules (like, write them).  Hopefully that will be up tomorrow and this week I will begin this little experiment.  Thank you for the contributions and suggestions.  (That is a sincere statement to those who actually contributed and a little bit of sarcasm to the rest of you slackers.)  I will need to double check everyone’s address. I’ll be sending out an e-mail to the account you use to make comments, so keep an eye out for that in the next couple days.  And it’s not too late to join in if anyone else is interested.

I had a mental list of things to talk about, but I’m currently unable to locate it.

I could tell you about my mini-breakdown over my dad’s announcement that he’s moving.  I guess I didn’t really expect them to live in our old house forever, but it was still upsetting. I’m pretending to be over it, though, since a) it’s not like I can do anything about it anyway and 2) it’s not like I can do anything about it anyway.  Have I ever told you how sentimentally (and irrationally) I get attached to things?  No?

It didn’t help that the day before my dad’s big announcement an acquaintance (the mother of one of my daughter’s friends) lost her mother.  There were things already stirred and stewing, and my dad’s call kind of made it all bubble over.  I guess some things you just never get over.

On a related note, I’ve discovered that even the deepest empathy does not give you the words to comfort someone in the midst of sorrow.  While there are definitely wrong things to say, I’m not convinced that there is any right thing to say.

Man, I hadn’t intended to be such a bummer.

On a lighter note…

Me, to whichever child was eating the Pringles: Put the lid back on so they don’t get old.

Mr T:  If only you could do that with people.

If only.

About these ads

7 Responses to “Put a lid on me”

  1. tawnya February 4, 2013 at 11:59 am #

    If only…

  2. thewoobdog February 4, 2013 at 12:50 pm #

    I feel the same way about people and grief – I never know what to say. I turn things over and over in my head and have yet to find anything suitable. When I was in grad school, I took a class in Wealth & Tax Planning and one of the main focuses of the class was estate tax planning and filing. The professor, who had lost her husband suddenly and unexpectedly a couple of years before, set aside part of a class period to discuss how to handle grieving clients (given that we were covering estate tax, it was definitely something we would likely be faced with at some point in our careers if we did any tax work in that area). I’ll never forget how she opened up to us about her own grieving process and let us ask her questions about her experience with loss – one of the things she said that most stuck with me was that even though she could tell that sometimes someone was at a loss for what to say or fumbling their words (or even putting their foot in their mouth), she so appreciated every kind word, card, hug, or sentiment, no matter how poorly or eloquently stated. It made her feel loved and less alone and like she had a network of people, even if many were just acquaintances, that were supporting her and thinking of her. I’ve always held onto that and hoped that however poorly I express my sympathies or empathy, the person grieving will find some comfort in them.

    Oh, and I don’t know how you’re raising these kids, but they are GEMS. Just GEMS. Keep it up. HAHAHA. “If only…”

  3. Boquinha February 4, 2013 at 2:47 pm #

    Hi. Slacker here. I think that’s because my mood matches your tone. :( Sorry you’re feeling low. I am so overwhelmed that I can’t even let myself add another thing — even though it sounds fun. Sucky, eh? Also, an irrational, sentimental attachment to things? You and I share that. That and the lengths to which you’ll go to find lost items . . . both are ways I knew I’d found a blogger soul mate.

    As for the knowing-what-to-say stuff, I once read some good advice in a book about that very thing. A grieving woman said she could sense when people were avoiding her because they didn’t know what to say. She said it made her feel like a leper and she would’ve preferred they just say, “I don’t know what to say” rather than say nothing at all.

    Hugs from across the country . . .

  4. Cheryl February 4, 2013 at 4:19 pm #

    Ugh. I’m sorry stuff is hard. :(

    If it helps, I think it’s okay to never get over losing your mother. I’m not sure it is right to get over death– at least in the sense that we don’t care or miss them, etc.

    Btw, I only slacked because I had nothing witty to add. And without wit, what is the point??

  5. Flip flop mama February 7, 2013 at 7:38 am #

    One thing i try to say is I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t convey everything I want to say but at least then I’m saying something. Sorry about your dad. Moving after so long is hard on everyone!

  6. madhousewife February 7, 2013 at 9:32 am #

    Wait–Dad’s moving?

    • foo4luv February 11, 2013 at 10:18 am #

      He tried to call you, but didn’t want to tell you in a message. I’ll remind him to try again.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

%d bloggers like this: