Finding Joy When the Holidays Are Hard

Today marks fourteen years since my dad passed away unexpectedly. He was 48 and healthy. We buried him on Christmas Eve. That means I’ve had fourteen years of, let’s call it … complicated … Christmases. Am I supposed to act ok and happy? Does it make others feel awkward if I’m not shiny and sparkly right now? But if I act too sad, will people think it’s weird since it’s been 14 years now? (To those untouched by the untimely death of a parent, I get it- 14 years seems like a long time, enough time. But somehow it’s just not.)

About the time you think you’ve got a hold on yourself, the holidays come and start chipping away at the strength and defenses you’ve built up through the year. It’s always hard to lose someone close to you, but it seems especially difficult to face an anniversary smack dab in the middle of the holidays. Such a traumatic event at this time of year shadows all future Christmases, even fourteen years later. The loss isn’t as acute, but a deep ache remains.

So I’m not here to tell you that the untimely and sudden death of a parent gets easier or better; it doesn’t. But it does get different over the years. The gift of time has given me the ability to be less triggered by every father-daughter duo I see, to process my emotions and feelings more internally without turning into an absolute mess on the outside. And there are a few holiday-specific coping mechanisms I’ve learned to implement when I feel the ache start to creep in more than usual. If the holidays are hard for you for whatever reason, I’d love for you to practice some of these holiday coping mechanisms along with me.

HELP OTHERS
The best and fastest way to drag myself out of a funk is to be of service to others. Fortunately, the holiday season offers plenty of ways to serve our fellow man. If you need a pick-me-up, head to your local food bank, soup kitchen, nursing home, church, etc. The holidays are so hard for so many people- not just those who have lost loved ones. Helping others in even small ways ultimately helps me more.

DIVE IN
One way I can feel the ache and depression sneaking up on me is through a lack of motivation. I think things like, “I know my kids would really enjoy [seasonal activity], but I’d really rather just stay home.” But I’ve learned over the years to just dive in, even when I don’t want to. I almost always end up feeling uplifted, refreshed, and better about myself as a wife, mother, and human. It doesn’t have to be anything big or overwhelming- something as simple as driving around local neighborhoods to look at Christmas lights usually does the trick for me. Then once I’ve built up a little momentum, I feel like I’m better equipped to participate in other events.

GO TO CHURCH
You may be surprised to learn that this one is tricky for me. In the immediate aftermath of my dad’s passing, I started questioning everything I thought I knew about God. It took me years to work through things with Him, and I still struggle sometimes, especially at the holidays. But there really is no better feeling than singing “fall on your knees” in worship during the Christmas season. Many churches switch to Christmas music and carols the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and each worship service serves to lift my spirits. Even if you’re on the fence about God or religion, I believe there is power in gathering with others, even if your express purpose it to belt out of few carols with a full band as back-up.

TWINKLY LIGHTS
And finally… Don’t underestimate the power of twinkly lights. Is there anything more magical than laying under your Christmas tree and staring up at the lights? Not to me. Add my kids when they’re in calm and contemplative moods, and that’s a recipe for joy every time. It’s a great way to capture your audience and make them talk to you about things that are important to their young hearts. And you may even get the chance to tell them a few things about the grandfather they never got to meet but who would love them with his whole heart.

Merry Christmas, friends. Let’s try to remember that the holidays are really hard for some and extending grace to them may make all the difference.

Today Was a Crappy Day

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Today was a crappy day. A REALLY crappy day. Normally I would go down the list in excruciating detail, describing all the things- big and small- that made it crappy, like my 4-year-old’s sudden independence regression where he won’t even step foot into the bathroom by himself and has seemingly forgotten how to put on his own underwear; about my 6-year-old’s mood swings from heck, which are new to us these last few weeks and are super fun; or even the epic battle I had with my 4-year-old over him chewing on GRAVEL today. GRAVEL. And then my husband… well, let’s just say I thought back and counted on one hand the number of times he’s washed a load of laundry in our almost 10 year marriage. (He’s good at other things.) Those are just a few of the challenges we experienced today. So tonight? Tonight I’m exhausted. And emotionally spent. And ready for a nice, long break from all these humans whose lives depend on me.

But if you follow me on social media, you probably think we had a great day. Restaurant pancakes for breakfast with everyone wearing pants and smiles? Success. Calm crafting in the afternoon? Hitting it out of the park. But it’s not true, not really. The pancakes came with a side of hissed threats that if they didn’t stop crawling under the table, we were never going to eat at a restaurant again. Crafts ended when the whining over the Emler’s got to be more than I could handle and I sent everyone to their rooms, including myself. Sure, we did all the things, but almost every single minute was fraught with conflict and bickering, both between my kids, and between me and my kids. They served it up like Federer, and I took the bait too many times. We were just off the rails today.

I wish I could say that when bedtime came around, we snuggled and read books and reconnected and apologized. But we didn’t. They were tired. I was tired. And all I wanted was for them to be asleep. So I rushed bedtime- no books, no stories. Just two hugs, kisses, and ugga-muggas each, then lights out.

I think it’s ok to admit when we’ve had a crappy day and that sometimes our children do not behave like the angels we make them out to be on Instagram. And it’s certainly ok, even healthy, to admit that I am not nearly as perfect a woman, mother, and human as I make myself out to be on Instagram. So here’s my confession: I wasn’t a great mom today. My kids got under my skin and I fought back. I didn’t pick my battles, so I fought them all. I was impatient and short-fused, irritable and sensitive. And like the predators they are, my sweet angels picked up on it and began to circle. So yeah. It was a crappy day.

But maybe tomorrow I’ll have the perspective to see that this crappy day is just a drop in the bucket, that not every day will be like this. I’ll read all the mommy-powerment quotes and articles and essays about how we must extend grace to ourselves and our littles, and how each day is a new opportunity to be and do better. And maybe I’ll believe it. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll remember that these children of mine are actual, literal treasures, entrusted to me by a gracious God to raise into good, kind humans. But tonight? But tonight I’m tired, and I want to wallow in our (my) failures for a hot minute. We had a crappy day and I don’t want perspective right not. Right now all I want is a glass of wine, maybe a few Oreos, and some Netflix.

The Mommy Wars Gave Me Breastfeeding PTSD

This week, August 1-7, is World Breastfeeding Week. This is a week set aside, worldwide, to bring awareness to the importance of breastfeeding, education to those who don’t understand or support it, and celebration of the women who do or have done it. I fully support and encourage breastfeeding- it’s natural, it’s beautiful, it’s nutritious. But I want us to be careful of putting too much emphasis on the quality of a mother based on her ability or desire to breastfeed. Because of the pressure often placed on mothers to breastfeed exclusively, many mothers suffer at the hands of well-intentioned friends, co-workers, mothers-in-law, and even strangers who think they know what’s best for each individual mother and child. Because of this pressure and desire to be a “good mom,” I developed metric tons of guilt and shame surrounding my breastfeeding journey, leading me to term what I now have as Breastfeeding PTSD. This is my story.

My first child was born in August 2012, smack dab in the middle of the Mommy Wars. If you weren’t a new mom in an affluent suburb during this time period, let me explain. The Mommy Wars inundated every aspect of motherhood. You’re a working mom? That means you aren’t spending enough time nurturing and raising your kids. You’re a stay-at-home mom? That means you aren’t setting a good example for your children, especially your daughters, of what a self-sufficient, fully-empowered modern woman looks like. You don’t spend hours making, mashing, and packaging your own fully-organic, non-GMO, BPA-free, grass-fed, farm-to-market, ergonomically-correct, grown- and picked-with-your-own-two-hands baby food? That means you’re exposing your babies to cancer and setting them up for a lifetime of obesity, ADHD, and failure.

And the crowning jewel in the Mommy Wars crown- You don’t plan, or are unable, to breastfeed your baby well into toddlerhood? That means you must not be mom enough; you have failed at the most basic, natural, sacred element of not only motherhood, but womanhood itself. To this point, who remembers this polarizing 2012 TIME Magazine cover that fanned the flames of an already contentious situation? The struggle was real.

Thankfully, hallelujah, and amen, we are moving away from this ridiculous model of guilting and shaming moms for not fitting into a single mold. Moms come in all shapes and sizes, with different values, beliefs, and lines drawn in the sand. It’s been a breath a fresh air to hear more and more about women supporting each other as #mombosses, no matter their employment status or other parenting choices. I am especially excited to see traction in the #fedisbest movement, because shouldn’t a HEALTHY CHILD and a HEALTHY MOM be the ultimate goal and marker of success, no matter how that happens?

My breastfeeding journey was a rough one, especially in the climate in which my children were born. My milk supply was never great- in fact, it was downright abysmal. I would spend up to an hour nursing my baby, then the next 30 minutes or so hooked up to a medical-grade breast pump to encourage an increase in supply, only to start the entire process over again almost immediately. I was spending more time with my breast pump than my newborn. I walked around smelling like IHOP for months because I was taking so much fenugreek, eating so many lactation cookies, and drinking so much Mother’s Milk tea, all of which make you smell like syrup. I became isolated in my own home (save for my weekly standing appointment with my lactation consultant), chained to a very strict nursing and pumping schedule, which lead to mild post-partum depression, maximum dissatisfaction with motherhood, and crushing guilt. But I didn’t dare stop. What would the other mothers think? I felt like I would die of shame if another mom caught me mixing a bottle full of evil, harmful formula.

But finally one night when my daughter was 7 months old and I was doing my nightly sob over my last pumping session of the evening, my husband demanded I stop. He had been so supportive up until that point, tried to encourage me the best he could with his useless nipples, but he knew it was a losing battle. And he loved me and our daughter enough to tell me. With the unspoken finally out in the open, I felt relief wash over me. I’d received the permission I didn’t even know I needed to throw in the towel. I had done the absolute best I could, but I was spiraling and it was time to stop. So I did. And you know what? My daughter survived. She adjusted to the formula and after some trial and error, we found a bottle she would happily take.

After the guilt began to subside, I reveled in our newfound freedom. Friends are getting together for a play date? Let’s go! Daughter wakes up for her night feeding? Here’s her bottle, daddy- go feed her! I slowly became more comfortable bottle-feeding my child in public, and even had the courage to mix a few formula bottles in front of other people. Because at the end of the day, fed is best. I was still caring for my daughter, whether her milk came from my body or not. And we were both happier and healthier for it.

Unfortunately, and for reasons I still don’t quite understand, I would repeat the breastfeeding failure shame cycle again when my son was born two years later. I’ll blame it on the hormones. But I would realize and adjust more quickly this time- only four months in the valley with him. Then straight to bottles and formula for him too in order to protect my own mental health, thereby protecting the rest of my family.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I love breastfeeding. I am so proud and envious of women who are able to devote so much of themselves- body, mind, and spirit- to the task. I celebrate them and all the women who came before them this World Breastfeeding Week. But for those of us who struggle- physically, emotionally, mentally, or all of the above- I just want us to be kind and gracious to ourselves and to other mothers in the trenches, no matter what those trenches are, because we all have them.

So happy World Breastfeeding Week, breastfeeding mommas! I am so proud of you! And happy Fed Is Best Week (yes, I made that up), formula-feeding mommas! I am so proud of you, too!

As seen on For Every Mom.

Dear New Momma, Don't Feel Guilty for Needing Time Away

Dear New Momma,

It’s hard right now, isn’t it? Whether this is your first baby, second, or even third. Adding a new human to the mix can really mess some stuff up. It’s joyful too, of course, we all know that. But holy smokes- it’s just really hard. My kids are now 6 and 4, but some days I still feel like we’re in the thick of it. We don’t have any more sleepless nights or diapers or panic attacks over runny noses, thank the Lord, but emotions and tempers and disrespectful attitudes are at an all-time high in my house, with no end in sight. But hang in there, New Momma. Soon you will exchange this exhausting, holding-yourself-together-by-a-thread phase and enter a new one; one with a little more breathing room, a little more peace, and a lot more sleep.

But while you’re in the thick of it with babies (and I don’t mean only newborns- I’m talking babies up to about 2 years), please don’t make the same mistake I did. When I was a new mom, I carried around tons of guilt for sometimes needing time away from my babies, even for necessary things like doctor or dentist appointments. I’d rush to the dentist and back home as quickly as possible, even though I knew my sitter could stay all afternoon. I prided myself on being back home in less than two hours. Why? What was that even about? I had it in my head that I should be - needed to be - present for every single moment of my babies’ infancies and toodlerhoods, otherwise I’d be labeled a terrible mother, a hack who couldn’t cut this motherhood gig. My inner monologue went something like this: What kind of mom wants time away from her children? Something must be wrong with me. Why don’t they fulfill me 24/7?

But now, with some hindsight and experience, I realize I was buying into a lie. I was making myself miserable by insisting on carting an infant and a 2-year-old to IKEA or the grocery store or a crammed fitting room when I didn’t really need to. Sure, most days are just like that- your kids go where you go. But what about the days when I easily could have found a sitter and gotten away for some much-needed alone time, where no one was drooling or blowing their nose on me? What was I proving - and who was I proving it to - by wearing some worn-out, over-touched, under-stimulated “#1 Mom” badge that no one asked me to wear in the first place? I was allowing this guilt to steal my joy by handcuffing myself to my babies in the name of being a good mom. 

So New Momma, listen to an Old Momma. If you need some time away- THAT IS NORMAL AND IT IS OKAY. Do you feel like you’re reaching a breaking point? Do you feel like crying when your partner leaves for work in the morning, knowing you’re home alone with the babies again? Do you just need to shower and wash your hair? If so, here’s what you do. You find a babysitter. You stop listening to that voice in your head that lies to you by whispering, I should be able to handle this. I’m strong. I can do it all myself. That may well be true- I don’t doubt your mothering abilities because even on days when we don’t feel like it, we somehow get it done. But also, you don’t have to do it all by yourself. 

So find a babysitter. Ask around at the childcare area at your church or your gym. Call in a favor or two with your mother-in-law. Ask your neighbor who she trusts to watch her babies and get those digits. They’re out there, you just have to start looking. And when you find those one or two special someones you trust to care for your babes, it’ll be incredible. Welcome to a whole new world. Go get your hair done! Go shopping, grocery or otherwise, by yourself. Go read more than three sentences of a book in silence. Go to your gym and take a gosh darn shower. (I have been known to take my kids to my gym’s childcare solely for the purpose of taking a hot shower, getting dressed in peace, and hanging out in the locker room. It’s the best. Do it!)

I’m sure not every mom feels this way, and that’s a-okay too. Does spending copious amounts of time with your children just give you life and wind beneath your wings? Fantastic! I’m happy for that mom, and I even envy her. But does it make that mom a better mom than me? Not a bit. We’re all individuals with different preferences, different triggers, and different limits. I’m certainly not a perfect mom- a lot of days I’m not even a very good mom- but a little time away from my babies every now and then makes me a better mom, a better wife, and a better human. So my babysitters, who are part of my tribe, are never more than a text away. So New Momma, I encourage you to increase your tribe by a babysitter or two and go get you some of that sweet, sweet alone time. I’ll meet you at the nail salon.

Alllll the babies

I Started My Kids' Preschool Journeys Early and I Don't Regret It

When my daughter was a baby, I was one of those moms who swore my precious snowflake would be my top priority, my one and only, the perfect child of a perfect mother. For some reason, that lead me to declare that I would hold her back from preschool for as long as possible so we could soak up every last minute together and do all the important developmental things, like taking an infant on excursions to art museums and galleries. [Ew. Eye roll.] But 18 months later, when I found out I was expecting my son, I could not drive fast enough to the nearest preschool to register my precious angel for the following school year. I even begged them to enroll her, that day, mid-year, as an 18-month-old. I knew I would need help. Let me explain my about-face.

In my first pregnancy, I suffered from hyperemesis gravidarum (HG). From 4 weeks after conception until the day I delivered 8 months later, I vomited multiple times a day, every day. I was nauseous literally every moment I was awake, was taking more medications than I care to admit now, and was in and out of the hospital for IV fluids and anti-emetic drugs. At 9 months pregnant, I weighed only 3 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight because I lost so much in the first and second trimesters. It was miserable. But I remember my superstar OB/GYN repeatedly reminding me that the sickest women end up having the healthiest babies. I don’t know if that’s actually true or if she was just trying to encourage me, but it worked. I clung to that hope for months, often from the bathroom floor.

This woman did not feel well. She asked her husband to take this photo to remind her why she would never again carry a child. Oops.

And then, at the end of the longest 9 months of my life, I gave birth to a perfectly healthy, beautiful, fully formed and nourished baby girl, as promised. But as a result of my previous HG experience, I panicked when I found out I was pregnant again. I, like, hard-core panicked. I knew that if I got that sick again, there was no way I could properly care for myself, much less an 18-month-old toddler. Thus my mad dash to the preschool; I just needed a safe and nurturing place I could take my daughter on the really bad days. But when it turned out that their 18-month program was already full, as was every other local preschool program I could find on Google, it began to sink in that it would just be me and her and the HG. As a stay-at-home mom and wife to a husband who worked full-time hours out of the home, it would largely be on my shoulders to keep us all in one piece.

Spoiler alert: We made it! Thankfully I was slightly less sick in my second pregnancy, though HG was still very much in the picture, along with some afternoons spent on the bathroom floor and a couple ER visits for fluids. But we started early, before I got too far behind on my fluids and nutrition, with a pump that delivered an antiemetic drug directly into my body through a needle in my belly. It meant I had to wear a medical fanny pack day and night (before fanny packs got cool again), but man, I loved that fanny pack. The Zofran inside helped so much and, along with a few additional oral meds, got me over the hump and through my second pregnancy.

Two months before my son’s due date, I dropped my daughter off for her first day of Preschool 2s. She was exactly 24 months old and had never even spent time with a babysitter who was not an immediate family member. I won’t sugarcoat it- those first two weeks were rough. She cried and clung to me at drop off every morning, while I cried with her from the parking lot. But the teachers and staff at her preschool performed miracles- by the end of the second week, my tiny daughter started looking forward to seeing her teachers and little friends. Within a month, she was coming out of her shy shell and singing her ABCs at top volume. I could see her blossoming before my eyes, and I was so grateful. Grateful for the love and guidance she was receiving from her preschool teachers and pals, and grateful that I was able to relax and rest, knowing that she was in good hands and having a far better time than if she were hanging out on the couch with a nauseous mother.

First day of Preschool 2s!

I started living for those two mornings a week. I was able to rest and concentrate on self-care, as well as prepare for the imminent arrival of my son. Those two mornings gave me life and a much-needed break. Soon I stopped feeling shame for “dumping” my young child off at preschool. I met other moms who also started their babes in preschool at barely two and, like me, they were always on the defensive and ready to defend their decision with a long list of explanations. But then I realized their reasons- and mine- didn’t matter. All I knew was that we were better mothers with that little bit of time away. So when my son was about to turn two, guess what I did? I registered him for preschool! His transition was smooth and flawless because he knew the preschool drill, having watched his big sister rock it since he was a newborn.

It turns out that in addition to being prone to HG, I’m also a closet introvert. Being a mother and experiencing an overload of togetherness winds me up tight, makes me cranky, and spreads me thin. Preschool days give me the time I need to decompress and recharge, even if that means spending my “alone time” at the grocery store. But it is enough, and I am able to more fully enjoy my children after their mornings at school.

I firmly believe that starting my kids’ preschool journey early has made me a better mom. I will never again judge another mom who makes time for herself to rest, recharge, and then return ready to face another day of wrangling their precious, darling, exhausting babies. This mothering gig is hard, sacred work, and we owe it to our children, our partners, and ourselves to be at our very best as often as we can. So you do you, momma, whatever that may be. I’ll be there right with you in the carpool line.

First day of Transitional Kindergarten and Preschool 2s!

I'm Stripping Down This Summer

Hey mommas. It’s summer, but you know that. There’s more time to sip coffee in the mornings, more time to clean out closets and playrooms, more time with our sweet (and sometimes infuriating) kiddos. More time to get in our heads, obsess over our weight, and dread going to the pool.

I said I was going to do it this year. Maybe you did, too. I was going to start early, in January, and work hard to shed those pesky 10, 15, 20 pounds that have somehow taken over my hips, thighs, waist, consciousness. But life happened. I got comfortable in my sweaters. I got busy with too many room mom responsibilities. I convinced myself, again, that one more cupcake and cocktail at the holiday party wouldn’t be a big deal. So here I am, again, with no summer bod in sight.

But instead of hiding in the shade this summer, rocking my knee-length cover-up, swim shorts, and rash guard, I’m determined to blaze a new path, one I’ve never blazed as a mother, jiggly thighs and all. I’m going to shed the layers along with the humiliation. I’m going to raise my head high enough to notice that most mom’s bodies aren’t as perfect as I thought when I only caught glimpses of them through lowered eyes. And I’m going to finally realize that those moms are probably feeling just as uncomfortable and awkward as I am. Together, we can find common ground that doesn’t revolve around the scale, our workout schedule, our WeightWatchers points, our excuses for why we still haven’t lost the baby weight. 

Instead, let’s focus on sharing best practices for guiding our bed wetters, our picky eaters, our “overzealous” ones. After that, maybe we can focus on ourselves as women, not only mothers- Where do you get your hair done? It’s so pretty on you! Did you hear about that big sale at Nordstrom/Target/Old Navy? I saw several things that would look so good on you. What are your plans this summer? Do you want to come over for coffee sometime soon so we can chat without the distraction of potential drownings? 

My kids are getting older, but for now they still want me to play with them, splash with them, go down the waterslide with them. How many more summers do I have where they will want me? Not enough. So this summer, I’m stripping down- shedding my cover-ups and insecurities to splash with them. I’m raising my eyes and lowering my defenses to really listen to the new mom who is struggling, to feel the freedom to laugh with the old friend about something ridiculous on The Bachelor. I’m putting myself out there, flaws and all, to make new friends and cultivate existing relationships.

This is the time, mommas, whether you think your body is summer ready or not. It doesn’t matter. Let’s choose to enjoy ourselves, our children, and our friends, instead of hiding in the shadows. Then we can start the cycle over again in January with renewed spirit and resolve.   

As seen on The TODAY Show, TODAY Parents, and For Every Mom.

To the Recently Fatherless on Father's Day

Fourteen years ago, suddenly and traumatically, I lost my father. I was 22 and just out of college. I still had a 14-year-old brother at home, and a 20-year-old brother in transition. That first year after my dad’s passing is mostly a blur, a haze, but I do remember having three main goals that year- make it through dad’s birthday, make it through Father’s Day, and finally make it through that one-year anniversary. Those are the only guideposts I remember having that year. Countdowns. A new countdown would begin as soon as the previous one passed. And that’s how I made it through, just barely.

Even though it’s been fourteen years, my father’s death sometimes still seems recent to me. I’m shocked when I occasionally do the math and realize it’s been FOURTEEN YEARS. That seems so long. But also not long at all. Through this, I’ve come to realize that “recent” is a relative term. To some, the “recent” passing of a parent may mean they lost their loved one in the last year. To others, the loss is still so present and pervasive that “recent” may mean five years. Seven. Or more.

But no matter whether you’re at the beginning of your loss timeline, or well down it like I am constantly surprised to be, there are days that are just harder than others- certain holidays, milestone days, personally significant days. Today, Father’s Day, is definitely one of those days. I’m not here to tell you that it gets easier. It doesn’t really. But it does get different; it evolves. While I still feel the loss acutely on special days, on other, regular days it’s a dull ache that can easily be toned down and put aside. I’ve had a lot of practice at this and have developed a few exercises that I’ve found helpful.

The first is to remember that my dad would want me to be at my best for my family, even though he never got to meet his grandchildren. I know that sounds corny and trite, and that sentiment made me angrily defensive and bristly when I heard it for the first several years. But over time, I’ve come to accept that it is true, and it’s lovely if you really think about it. My dad WOULD want me to be enjoying my life, even on Father’s Day and his birthday, whether he is here or not, because he loved me and wanted only the best for me. Accepting this has also relieved the guilt I feel when I realize I haven’t been thinking about my dad as much as I used to, or certain memories are lost or the sound of his voice begins to fade. I know now that he would want me to be present with my children, the way he would be if he were here.

Another exercise I try on particularly hard days is to compartmentalize. If I start feeling overwhelmed and know it’s going to be a rough day, I make a deal with myself to put those feelings in a little box for later. Then, at a quiet and socially appropriate time that day, I’ll take a few moments to myself to unpack those feelings and memories, and treat them and myself gently. Maybe that means having a good cry. Or looking through a family photo album. Or telling my kids a story about their grandpa. Then I’m able to get back to the demands and routine of the day without a nagging sense of irritability or sadness. (Please note, I am not a therapist. Compartmentalizing may not be good, psychologically speaking- I don’t really know. But it works for me in these situations.)

And of course there’s talking about it. Find your person, let them know how you’re feeling, and get a big hug from them. Sometimes that’s all I need- a verbal recognition and reminiscence about my father in a safe place, with a safe person who gives good hugs. Expressing my feelings to my person (my husband) almost always keeps me from crossing the line from feeling a little down to feeling downright depressed.

So to someone who has recently lost their father- no matter how “recent” that that really is- I know this day sucks. Self-pity and envy is real. I mean, how dare other people post tributes to their perfectly alive fathers- don’t they know mine is dead? To you I say, don’t worry, sister- it’s natural and normal to feel that way. I had those same bitter thoughts for years. But I have hope that it will change and become different for you over time, the way it has for me. This day and others like it will still sting, oh yes. But eventually, if you were blessed to have a father like mine, the good memories will eventually prevail over the abyss and desperate shock of loss, and working through these days will become old hat, possibly even enjoyable as you treat your sacred memories with your father with joy and care and kindness. Happy Father’s Day, friends. I know we can do it.