What's here + What's gone = Confused

It was June 2012 this last happened. I can remember it hitting me then the same way it hits me this weekend: so much fullness and so much goneness that the only way for them both to exist is to be confused.

People always ask if her birthday brings me sadness. That's an easy one to answer: Nope, it's my mom's death anniversary that gets me. It's the same for my dad - his death anniversary is when I mourn - but usually Father's Day gives me a run for my money, too, especially when it falls the day after Mom's death anniversary.

And that's the way it feels now. Mom died eleven years ago today; tomorrow is the seventh Father's Dad I'll experience without one by my side.

Like six years ago when they were back-to-back, What. A. Weekend.

But it almost seems that there would be sad beauty to the synchronicity, IF I were able to lock myself in my room for the entirety of the weekend and cry or drink from a vodka bottle or take long baths or watch sad movies where loved ones die before their time or journal or all. of. these. things. at. once. Now THAT would be depressingly delectable.

But, no, I can't do that.

I don't want to do that.

Well, maybe I do a little bit, but mostly I can't.

Cuz I have this powerhouse husband who is also a fully kick ass dad to our children. And tomorrow, Father's Dad, is about him, too. There's so much fullness in observing our four darlings spill coffee all over the counter and up the steps in an effort to serve him in bed, in their handmade cards and juicy kisses, in his smiles and misty eyes at the lives he gets to mold and mush around as best he can. I observe all of this with such gratitude and I can hardly believe that I'm missing the other half of Father's Day. I smile. I cry. I smile. I cry.

And today: My mom's death anniversary, one I spent at the pool with my little brood - smearing sunscreen, propelling tooshes upwards that eventuate into cannonball splashes, wrapping a shivering body in a towel for a lap sit, Dairy Queen blizzards at outdoor tables on the way home. Living. Motherhood. Like. A. Boss. And experiencing all the love and irritability and sentiment and short-fusedness and moment-relishing and doubt and warmth that come with living like a mom who cares her ass off. I observe all of this with such gratitude and I can hardly believe that I'm missing my own mother. I smile. I cry. I smile. I cry.

Surely it makes sense that holing up this weekend with my loss, fully honoring that which is gone, would be easier on my mind... I could be singularly unconfused.

But by now I've learned life is rather not-singular. In fact, it almost always overlaps and vacillates and blends and doubles up. It's never This-then-That, rarely Arrival, Departure, Next Arrival. It's almost always, "Here ya go," pouncing you with lots of both fresh and spoiled groceries with no bag and little time to sort the two out so that you are doing a little crazed juggling dance to keep it all in your arms.

I've decided to experience the spoil and the bounty simultaneously.

Which is why today I played at the pool and tomorrow I will spoil my husband. And why today I tear up writing this piece. And why tomorrow I'll record in my Dad journal and eat a BLT, his favorite.

Confusing? Yes. Impossible? No.

I can dance with all of it.

(But a bag to hold it all would be nice.)