mamajay's blog

So it was my husband's funeral yesterday, and there was an enormous turnout, despite the fact that he always claimed he didn't really have any friends. The service was beautiful, his surfboard lay on top of his coffin, and during the laying of rosemary my best friend instead laid red chillies, which he would really have appreciated. His brother and sisters wrote a funny and moving eulogy about his nine lives (I think he probably had more than that), his Dad spoke about his childhood, the celebrant spoke on my behalf about the husband and father that he was. I sat up front with our two beautiful boys, the youngest entertained himself by climbing up and down from his seat, and our very wise and comprehending five year old listened and held it together until he laid his rosemary, then every heart in the place broke as he had a total meltdown on my lap, crying and screaming that he wanted his daddy back. Afterwards there was a procession of people coming up and offering their condolences - I still don't know who some of them were. This morning I opened some more sympathy cards, and was blown away by an anonymous pretty large donation to me and the boys. My house is full of flowers, cards, food and love.
We held a wake back at "my" place, and his friends and eldest son drank the last of his homebrew. I got totally fucking smashed, and have that awful feeling you get after an emotional and drunken night that I probably said some really strange and over the top things to people, who could do no more than feel sorry for me and hope I wouldn't remember it in the morning. I finally lost it, the neighbors who heard me running naked and screaming in the street for help on the night he died once again had to listen to me screaming and crying out his name. Thank God the kids slept through it, again.
So where to from here? I really have no idea. One foot in front of the other, hang in there for the kids, a day at a time, don't give up hope. I can't imagine what the future holds for us, or how my beautiful boys are going to cope without their precious daddy, only that one way or another we'll get through this together.
We'll do it for him.

So my three and a half year old sprays spittle on the floor, makes sure I'm looking, then laughs. He knows we "don't spit", he wants to see what I'll do and I'm just so damned angry that I grab him by his arm and march him off to the "quiet room", on the way he fake falls, so I grab him by his shirt, help him into the room with my foot, then slam the door as hard as I can, screaming at him not to dare to come out. My nearly one year old is on my hip taking it all in.