So it’s April 3rd. The third of every month is a not-so-gentle reminder that my Dad isn’t here. Even 17 months later. Yep, 17 months.
I am someone who has a lot of pet peeves. Yes, there are wonderful wonderful things in this world but there are tiny things that are just somewhat wrong in my mind that really irk me to no end (yes, this will be related). Now it probably doesn’t shock you to learn that I am not a mother (I’m 23! Give me another decade or so!). So I do not know the pure joy that is holding your child...or counting their age in months well past a year. Sometimes I see a baby and I’m all “Awwe how old is she?” And the mother says to me “Oh, little Marie is 21 months old”. Excuse me? Your baby is one year. I’ll even take almost two. But 21 months, really?! That said, I still count the months since my Dad walked through the front door of our old house only to never walk back in. 17 months. It’s a lot of months. And each month brings something different. Some progress toward healing, a lot of crying, maybe some joy. So not to say that losing my Dad has in anyway given me a glimpse into motherhood or prepared me to have a child (again, give me another decade or so!). But I get significantly less riled up by aging your baby in months when year markers are relevant. All this is to say, it is the third again and the usual gnawing feeling in my gut that indicates my Dad’s absence is more of a sharp knife today.
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May 2018
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