Years ago, I read a lovely novel, The Magic of Ordinary Days , by Ann Howard Creel. Back then, I truly did appreciate the magic of ordinary days. I did. I greeted each day with purpose and a very long to-do list. I fixed breakfast for my family, packed school lunches, awakened grumpy children, went to the school bus stop, folded laundry, emptied the dishwasher, walked the dog, shopped for groceries, made PTA calls, scheduled doctor appointments, showed up for my volunteer shift in the library. Then, I greeted the school bus (or waited for the front door to open), and dealt with the chaos of after-school snacks, music lessons, sports practices, homework, family dinner, baths, and bedtime stories. I was so grateful to be a full-time mom. Even navigating the challenges, the bumps in the road, the injuries and illnesses, the disappointments with school….it all felt so purposeful, so significant. It was magical.
So, now that I have no choice but to take on the mantle of bereaved parent, is it worse because once life held such promise, such hope… I know that I can no longer bear to look often at Facebook; the accounts on the wall of ordinary days bring me to my knees. I loved ordinary. It makes me so sad that my ordinariness has vanished.
The challenge now is how to be on the planet when I don’t want to be here. I am on the planet; I get out of bed, I function on some level. But I don’t want to. It’s the wanting to be here piece that I have lost. So, I keep reading the books and seeing the counselor and going to TCF conferences and working to stay in relationships with people I care about and trying not to lose hope that maybe, one day, I’ll want to be here.
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