Cemetery

I don't think one has to go to the cemetery and talk to a headstone in order for the dead to hear. I talk to my dead husband all the time. I send him messages from J's soccer games and on report card days and when the girls are fighting (I sent him a string of expletives the day M dumped a bowl on C's head).
Periodically, I check with all the children to see if they need to visit their Dad's grave. C is the only one who has had any desire to visit her Dad's grave site. She's asked me a couple of times starting this summer, only to back out at the last minute. She made me promise her Tuesday night that I would take her this Saturday, and this time she didn't back out. So we drove the 45 minutes to the Veteran's Cemetery, stopping to put air in the van's tires and to buy tea. We didn't get flowers and I forgot to look up the grave site number on the letter the Cemetery sent me.
My husband was adamant about being buried. He wanted a place that his relatives and descendants could go and visit him. I've always felt differently. I don't want a big a funeral nor do I care if I'm buried. I feel that whoever I leave behind should do whatever it is they need to do to get through it all. I tried to uphold my husband's wishes. I decided to forego a graveside service and a church service because I didn't think the kids could handle it. As it went, C lost it at the viewing and the military funeral was too much for J - partly my fault, I forgot to tell him about the Gun Salute.
Anyway, we get there, hoping the visitor's center is open so that we don't have to wander aimlessly searching for his name on identical tombstones (this is the military - order is very important). No such luck. It was cold, windy and we split up, methodically checking each row, narrowing things down by dates. Lucky me, I found him and called to C. This was her thing. I asked her where she wanted me, sitting near by or far away. Far away. So I left, went to visit my Mom on the colombarium side (really I just stood there, freaked out by Dad's name (no end date) under hers).
C followed me minutes later, stoic and dry eyed. She thanked me with a hug and we left, stopping for her comfort food - chicken strips and french fries.
Every day, I wonder if I'm doing this right. How is this supposed to go? Their friends assume that I'm divorced and my kids only correct them if there is a direct question involved. How broken are my babies going to be? How bad are the Daddy issues going to be? Are they going to grow up and have healthy relationships? We've done the counseling route, will it ever be enough?
I worry about J and his survival in this household of women. Thomas died right after J's six birthday, and it's taken me some to time to pull it together. Poor J is just learning to tie his shoes and he still hasn't mastered riding a bike. Will he, they be ok? Will they be a version of normal and will they know that I have tried, will continue to try to do everything I can, the best way I know how?

Even the dog

Estrogen. My household teems with it. I (35) live with my sister (25), my two daughters (12 and 14), Phoebe the bullmastiff, my son (8) and Winston (lab mix, neutered). There are about ten days every month that my house reeks of short-tempered bitchiness. Remotes fly about, doors slam, objects are just flung randomly and with no apparent reason - a poltergeist? No.....just a bunch of hormonal females.
My father (59), a widower, spends almost every weekend with us. I was widowed about two years ago and Dad likes to come over and try to inject some testerone into the mix so that my son has some kind of male role model on a somewhat regular basis. Plus, Dad cooks. Food, not stuff out of boxes, but real food with fresh ingredients and spices and no powdered cheese or dehydrated potatoes. E (my sister) picked Dad up Friday afternoon and by Saturday morning my Dad was ready to grab J (my son) and run. Just run. Anywhere.
Friday night, after Family Bingo Night at my son's school, Dad wanders in to the laundry room to find me throwing towels and crying into dirty sheets. The poor man just wanted to help, to see if there was anything he could do to help. I ran him out. "YOU didn't do anything...Just leave me alone...Go away." No wonder the man smokes two packs a day, it's a wonder he doesn't drink. He then made the mistake of trying to talk to M (youngest daughter) while she was on MySpace. "Auggh, Grandpaaaa, I don't know what's wrong with her. She's your daughter." C (oldest daughter) comes in, ranting about the dog being in heat and having to Swiffer mop the foyer AGAIN. And why won't J pick up his socks, (even though her backpackshoeshoodiephone are strewn all over the game (TV) room. J has hidden himself in his room with Indiana Jones and Iron Man. He won't come out until he smells food.
It may take some convincing to get Dad over here again.