Ick ..Blog is not a pretty word.
Well anyway here is a post I have been meaning to write for months now. I look at the blog nearly everyday. Even when weeks go by without a post. I feel guilty for not posting. I still check in hoping to get a lift from another loved one's memory or idea about Dad. If it is anywhere between 6am and 7pm you can be sure that a child (or 3) will be at my knee or in my lap poking at the keyboard giving me ample excuse for not writing my own post. Even as I type they have trooped in one, two, three, abandoning the unexpected privilege of cartoons on a Friday morning.
SO why don't I write at 2am like Robert or after the kids are tucked in like Adem? In part I am lazy and also self concious about what I might manage to write (yes that is silly), but more profoundly I found an article a few weeks ago that explains a little how I feel when I try to write or think about writing. It said that they have discovered that for the brain remembering is like reliving. In light of this all the cells that triggered the happy feelings in my brain when say, Dad threw me over his shoulder ala Sack of Potatoes and carried me laughing to bed, should trigger those same happy feelings when I remember them. Instead I have been avoiding dwelling on thoughts of Dad because I unfortunately end up remembering those last months, weeks, days, hours. That said, there were some beautiful things about Dad's last days. Cherished memories tinged with sadness.
I am challenged to get my head in a better place because remembering is unavoidable and I don't really want to forget. I will take the time to think about and answer Adem's question about whether Dad had a tick that bothered me (wait a tick! is there a pun here somewhere?), or what my very first memory of him is, and Robert's question about what we had intended or would love to have done with Dad had he stayed with us a while longer.... you see, ouch , that hurts.
And here is a question of my own. What mundane thing makes you think about Dad everyday? Here are just two of mine, nearly every time I turn on the dishwasher I think about telling dad on his last trip here that I feel environmental guilt when I don't wash the dishes well and instead select the 2 hour wash option... weird, boring, yes yes but there is dad in my head daily. Also when I pump gas I remember as a little girl standing next to the pump breathing deeply and telling dad I liked the smell of gas. He scolded me away from the fumes and told me they were not good for me. So 3o odd years later I still think of this many many most times I pump gas. I guess Sherry Rae's Grape Fanta story might fall in this catagory.
yikes! I have half an hour to dress and feed my brood (and myself!) and get out of here.
love,
Reachel
