Someone hell-bent on covering up their drinking habit from their wife has filled my recycle bin with empties. Yeah! I found them yesterday when I couldn’t fit my own shameful stash into the little green box.
They’re definitely not mine; they’re San Miguel bottles and l wouldn’t touch that piss with yours.
That said, it’s been half-term this week, and shorter days coupled with protracted child’s DVD viewing seem to legitimise earlier drinking. I’ll confess I’ve lost track of how much I’ve consumed, what I’ve consumed and where I’ve consumed it. But San Miguel? Hmm.
October half-term always brings out the worst in widowed me.
Kids seem to be running round everywhere shouting for their daddies; and daddies seem to be running round everywhere after their kids. It’s like living out scenes from the Boden catalogue.
I probably wouldn’t have noticed the ubiquity of dad-child interaction before Mark’s death. But these days my eyes appear to be set to Instagram mode, where every scene featuring dad and offspring has a soft-hued, nostalgic edge.
And dads seem to be so much more interactive since Mark died. They’re feeding rabbits at farm parks, whizzing down slides, singing loudest at music groups. They’re taking time to hone their Hallowe’en costumes in order to engage in door-to-door widow-baiting with their apple-cheeked families.
What happened to the good old days of mother as the primary carer? Prior to Mark’s death I rarely saw a dad. Farm parks were the domain of women and cake. Mother’s was the only voice you heard at Joe Jingles. Between Mark and me, I was the one with the repetitive slide-burn.
I swear, it’s enough to turn me to San Miguel. God, perhaps they were my empties after all.
Wife After Death 
I must admit mine was so full I enlisted my dads help to carry it onto the front. In my defence I did have some family round at the weekend as there was a memorial service for Ian at the butterwick and all my kids came home which was lovely but then they have to leave again to get on with their lives. So an even more lonely Sunday loomed ahead so I opened the wine earlier. That helped slightly. Anyway may actually meet you on Saturday. Lookin forward to the face painting 🙂 xx
I didn’t know you were having the memorial for Ian last weekend Lynne – I hope it went as you would have hoped. Must have been a difficult one, especially when your family went off back to their ‘own lives’. I do hope we meet on Saturday! XX
Well Honey, I will be fighting with my neigbour – who shares the wheelie bin put out – to get there first so the weight and the clanking of my bin is not a dead give away, i was actually glad to come to work today to stop drinking……. 2nd worse holiday i have ever had – Steve died on my all time worse holiday….. xxxx
Well get me, I HAD A NIGHT OFF last night and as a consequence am feeling very smug – but also am feeling as if I can legitimately have another bottle tonight…eek! I know what you mean about reality of work, I am pleased to be back in that routine too. Hugs.xxx
This time of year always makes me feel like death. The grim reaper seems to beckon in the shortening days’ shadows….maybe the cling-cling of the empties can help us fend off the ghosts.
You put that so beautifully, and you are absolutely right, it is a rotten time of year I think, made worse by bereavement. I’m all for warding off the ghosts with clanking bottles! Chin chin! X
How funny, just replied to your comment on mine with the same sign off…les grands esprits se croisent!
I have a purple wheelie bin for glass and I always feel like such a lush when I drag it to the kerb. I try to pretend it’s the number of pasta sauce jars that make all the noise- but I’m kidding no one!
I did like your comment about the Boden catalogue. I don’t have kids, but I imagine it must seem like everyone you see has the perfect life when they’re displaying their family life in public. The thing is, they won’t be treasuring what they have, because they can’t comprehend that it could be taken away in an instant. Sending hugs as I go to pour some Shiraz xx
I like that: “they can’t comprehend that it could be taken away in an instant”. It’s just one of those unthinkable things isn’t it? If you could just say to them – hold on to it, treasure every bloody minute – they wouldn’t understand. And why would they? I certainly wouldn’t want them to. Perhaps I need a lid on my recycle box to disguise the truth…although they’ve been this morning to collect the empties, so I’ve got a fresh start from tonight! *laughs maniacally* XX
I have not a single word to offer – my children are grown, and having little grandchildren who’ve lost their papa hardly rings with the magnitude of your precious little girl never getting to have her daddy and the romps that seem to be everywhere to torture you. I don’t drink, but only because it makes me feel horrid with the treatments I am getting – but if I could, I would, and I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about what would turn up at the curb, nor what position the yard arm is in to give me the “go” sign.
on the other hand, for the hellaciousness you are going through, I did think of at least 3 words for it – maybe 4 – a goddamned bucket of fuckedness – o, gee, that makes 5 words. something, anyway. sending you many gentle hugs…
with love and light, xoxo
karen
You say you have not a single word to offer, but in fact, I love the five words you have chosen Karen. They sum it up beautifully! Much love to you. X