No, I can't write it, not yet. "Back to normal?" Not going to happen. I can't call up Mom. She was there forever, as far as I knew, and now she isn't.
Both of my parents were hypercompetent people. At least it seemed that way to me as a child, as a young adult. Even with maturity (such of it as I have found) and time to provide scale and perceptive, they were outstanding. Baffled by their children sometimes, but what parent isn't?
I started this blog about six months after my father passed away. Now Mom is gone. Sometimes I still want to ask a grownup what to do -- and then I remember that's my job now.
BUILDING A 1:1 BALUN
4 years ago
6 comments:
Sometimes I still want to ask a grownup what to do -- and then I remember that's my job now.
Yes, but you're still allowed to talk to other grownups about stuff. It doesn't have to be all on you alone. That's what good friends are for.
It's been over a year for me. Her number is still in my phone. Her emails are still in my inbox. I still want to call her for advice.
You are not alone.
"Sometimes I still want to ask a grownup what to do -- and then I remember that's my job now."
This. My expectation for when I got old was that I'd at least not feel like the stupid kid I was. Didn't turn out that way.
Maybe I should have had kids. Then I'd be able to compare my self. "I'm pretty dang stupid and don't know what I am doing, but this child of mine has his sweatshirt on as pants and is eating elmer's glue as though it were foie gras. I'm more put together than him, at least."
One of the most frustrating realizations about adulthood is that (a) I have to make it up as I go along (I really, genuinely, believed as a kid that there was some kind of manual you got handed on your 18th birthday or so that explained everything) and (b) other people look to me for wisdom.
I'm not wise.
I'm a big idiot. I'm an overgrown kid myself.
But yeah. Realizing you're "the adult in the room" can be scary as heck.
I miss my dad every day, and he's been gone over 16 years now. It's taken that long to finally say I have to go through his stuff and separate the wheat from the chaff and clean this place up.
Like you, I started blogging about six months later. I suspect it was born of a need to have a place to vent about things I used to talk with him about.
My mom died at 50 (1986). Dad fortunately lasted to 79 (2010), though his last two years weren’t exactly a picnic. They both still show up in my dreams, although dad does so more frequently because he lived long enough for us to have developed an adult relationship rather than a strictly parent-child one.
I’ll be sure to let you know when I stop missing them.
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