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The weekend was interesting. I'm happy, drained, grieving, exhausted, and overwhelmed. All of this is perfectly normal under the circumstances.
Friday evening was an exercise in frustration, as Mom tried to get me to stop a stir-fry in progress to figure out where best to hang a painting, not understanding why I couldn't just tell her or the spouse. Spouse didn't get it either. I had to explain that it would require stopping, turning around, figuring out where Mom was pointing to, and then looking to see which of three possible paintings she was referencing. By then it wouldn't have been a stir-fry; it would have been an boiled soggy mess. (Note: it wasn't a stir-fry anyway by the time I finished explaining it, but it was at least still salvageable.) Then she decided to microwave water for tea, totally confused when I screamed. I pointed out that the microwave door swung open in my face and that I'd had to drop my utensils and duck.
So I decided to go to an out of town housefilk on Saturday. Respite was definitely in order.
Saturday morning the phone rang. My near-sister's mother had died. She'd been ill, and my near-sister had been working on getting her a place in a decent care facility, but hadn't managed it yet. There'd been several bad falls, and broken bones, and strokes. It wasn't a surprise, but it's always a shock.
So okay. Same town, fortuitously enough. I went and spent the afternoon with E. and her husband and daughter, who is also my goddaughter. We're very close, going back to when E. and her daughter lived with us about 20 years back. Come evening I mentioned the possibility of housefilk. E said "let me get my purse" and off we went.
At which point I got shock number 2. I spoke, some time back, about a foster daugher who was getting out of an abusive marriage. She managed that. The divorce was final as of last fall. But she was still 1800 miles away, and, well, there are other worries.
So we walked into the house. The host greeted us, E. found a seat, and host and I went to get me a drink. And then I turned around, and there was my daughter. She'd kept it as a surprise, so no one had told me, but she'd come home 3 days before. I handed the bottle back with the comment "take this before I drop it", and then grabbed my girl and held on. I don't cry in public. I just don't. But there I was, in the middle of I don't know how many people, clinging to K, sobbing, repeating "my girl's home. My girl's home. My girl's home." I couldn't say anything else. There was no room to think of anything else but that enormous wave of gratitude and relief and overwhelming love. (And the next mundane jackass who says something stupid about how a foster child doesn't matter as much as your "real" children is going to get punched.)
So yeah. Emotional whiplash. E's mom's death, which does touch me personally as well (we were friends in our own right), and my daughter's safe return home.
I think I need a break from my break.
Friday evening was an exercise in frustration, as Mom tried to get me to stop a stir-fry in progress to figure out where best to hang a painting, not understanding why I couldn't just tell her or the spouse. Spouse didn't get it either. I had to explain that it would require stopping, turning around, figuring out where Mom was pointing to, and then looking to see which of three possible paintings she was referencing. By then it wouldn't have been a stir-fry; it would have been an boiled soggy mess. (Note: it wasn't a stir-fry anyway by the time I finished explaining it, but it was at least still salvageable.) Then she decided to microwave water for tea, totally confused when I screamed. I pointed out that the microwave door swung open in my face and that I'd had to drop my utensils and duck.
So I decided to go to an out of town housefilk on Saturday. Respite was definitely in order.
Saturday morning the phone rang. My near-sister's mother had died. She'd been ill, and my near-sister had been working on getting her a place in a decent care facility, but hadn't managed it yet. There'd been several bad falls, and broken bones, and strokes. It wasn't a surprise, but it's always a shock.
So okay. Same town, fortuitously enough. I went and spent the afternoon with E. and her husband and daughter, who is also my goddaughter. We're very close, going back to when E. and her daughter lived with us about 20 years back. Come evening I mentioned the possibility of housefilk. E said "let me get my purse" and off we went.
At which point I got shock number 2. I spoke, some time back, about a foster daugher who was getting out of an abusive marriage. She managed that. The divorce was final as of last fall. But she was still 1800 miles away, and, well, there are other worries.
So we walked into the house. The host greeted us, E. found a seat, and host and I went to get me a drink. And then I turned around, and there was my daughter. She'd kept it as a surprise, so no one had told me, but she'd come home 3 days before. I handed the bottle back with the comment "take this before I drop it", and then grabbed my girl and held on. I don't cry in public. I just don't. But there I was, in the middle of I don't know how many people, clinging to K, sobbing, repeating "my girl's home. My girl's home. My girl's home." I couldn't say anything else. There was no room to think of anything else but that enormous wave of gratitude and relief and overwhelming love. (And the next mundane jackass who says something stupid about how a foster child doesn't matter as much as your "real" children is going to get punched.)
So yeah. Emotional whiplash. E's mom's death, which does touch me personally as well (we were friends in our own right), and my daughter's safe return home.
I think I need a break from my break.
