Pudding and Mail

It’s 11:30 at night and I’m mopping dried pudding off the floor. Thomas begged for it today at the store. “Oh, daddy’s pudding!” It was one of Gregg’s cheat foods that they would indulge in, chocolate Snack Packs. Thomas ate 3 when we got home. Well, 2 and 3/4. The last 1/4 was smeared on the floor with his hands and feet. Paper towels can only do so much and there’s been a thin, sticky layer there since noon. Honestly, I don’t blame him for smearing it, though. I would rather paint with the gelatinous paste of a Snack Pack than eat it. And it probably has the same nutritional value as paint, so there ya go.

I’m stalling. Clearly, there is something that I need to get off my chest that has nothing to do with pudding. I wish I knew what.

This happens sometimes, this uneasy feeling that something is boiling up inside me. All the distractions are losing their power and becoming meaningless and unimportant. They’ll soon be bulldozed by what’s really bothering me. Because the dried pudding could have waited until tomorrow, but it was a great excuse for some mind-numbing housework. Mopping and dishes should take the edge off. If the kids weren’t sleeping, I’d bust out the vacuum and really get this avoidance party started. 

I tend to try to tire myself out until I don’t have the energy to feel anything. Not that I have to try hard, really. Have you ever spent a day just trying to keep a child alive? That shit’s exhausting. But at the same time, easy. It’s easy to focus on diapers, and teething, and dinner, and choking hazards, and baths. And also easy, now I have school, and homework, and research, and schedules. I’ve got plenty, and I like it that way. I could probably go hours without thinking about Gregg. Not without thinking about him, just without thinking about the fact that he’s dead. Or all the other stuff that goes along with that. That’s the hard stuff.

I wonder if he thinks about those hard things. Like if him dying is as traumatic for him as it is for me. I know he’s got other things to do and that he probably sees things differently now, but wouldn’t that be scary? To die? To be separated from the people you love? Sure, you get to be with different people that you love, but still.

Anyway, for now I’ll just stick to cleaning. I’ll probably start ugly crying over something really dumb before the end of the night, like why there’s so much mail piled up in the designated mail basket thingy-ma-jig. There’s no room for any more mail in there, HOW CAN LIFE GO ON?! An epic tragedy. 

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