What everyday is

We are home now. Services for Susan were yesterday. It was a mass. The service in itself was hugely comforting. I loved being in a mass and experiencing what Susan has come to love in a worship service. I loved sitting right in front of the nuns who Susan adored. I loved the music that the music director chose for the service. And the fact that it was his very first day on the job? Amazing. He really did a wonderful job.

I did get to sing for her. Not a performance, mind you, but an offering.

Not many people know that Susan had a really pretty voice. That both her left brain and right brain were equally remarkable. Science and math? Not a problem. Poetry and music? Also right up her alley. She was all about the balance.

On Saturday nights, our youth group hung out. Almost every Saturday night. There was a house on the church property that was just for the youth. We would watch a movie, play pool, have a game of capture the flag, or just talk. Many evenings though, Susan and I would go to the piano, and she would sing harmony with me on the incredibly cheesy pop songs I wrote. Think Indigo Girls, but on piano, we definitely liked boys, and we probably giggled way more than they did.

Singing is something we did together. There weren't a lot of things that we both did. She managed the soccer team at school; I was in band. She was genuinely smart; I was just good at standardized tests. I cook; she does not. But singing and writing? We did that together.

In fact, I still have a journal that she gave me in high school filled with really terrible poetry that I wrote about being misunderstood and boys breaking my heart. In the front, she wrote, "From one closet writer to another."

Ironic that her words would become read by hundreds of thousands of people all over the world.

I'm totally rambling.

Here's the thing. I'm supposed to be coming out of this six month fog of worry and sadness. I'm supposed to be on track to getting things done around the house now. I know this. It's time to get better and get moving.

But today? The first day back? I get an email from Christopher's teacher at preschool. He's being defiant and wrestling at school. He won't keep his hands to himself and has no concept of personal space. It's not the first email I've gotten, and I have tried my best to work with them and help Christopher learn what is expected of him as he is growing up.

Of course, the first thing I would do after receiving an email like that is obvious. I would call Susan. She would talk me through what I should do. Not by telling me what to do, but by asking questions that led us to a reasonable conclusion.

Instead, today I just got pissed. I feel like I'm doing everything I know how to do for Christopher, and for freaking holy biscuits' sake, I'm not at preschool with him. I cannot control his behavior. I cannot be with him 24 hours a day. What is the teacher doing? Why is he acting out there? That's what I want to know, and I'm ready to go in on Monday for a conference with both barrels aimed and make an ass out of myself.

Susan would talk me down from that. Now I have to talk my own damn self down. I don't want to. I want to hear her say that it's going to be alright. That I'm a good mama. That Christopher is a good boy. That having a hard time at school is normal sometimes and that we will find a way to help him.

Why is it that the first day home has to be a day when I really really need her? Oh. Right. Because that is what everyday is. Damn.

For real. Tell me this gets easier. Even if you're lying, just go ahead and tell me that today.