I so obviously suck at it but I stay because I enjoy the pain

I completely understand and accept that my children will need some major therapy to mend the woes of their childhoods. By the time he was just three, Loren had lived in over seven different condos, houses and apartments. He had seen his parents split, sometimes found his estranged father in his mother’s bed and experienced the rejoining of a split family. And then there is Cassidy. To meet her and experience the tsunami that is her, can leave the most stable of persons yearning for a hard drink and perhaps a weekend in the psyche ward. I try so hard with her, but somedays it just doesn’t wash. Some days I just suck and flail about like a diseased, dying fly.
This morning Cass and I got into such an altercation that she ended up by screaming that she hated me while she stomped up the stairs as hard as her 54 pound body would allow. Devon witnessed the entire exchange and promptly began stomping upwards while trying to carry his softy blankets and yelling, “You so mean! You a meeeeeeeaaaaanie!” Nice. Good stuff, Craven.
Instead of stomping after her, I sat downsatirs and breathed in and out. In and out. In. And. Out. What I really wanted to do was go up and start packing her bags for the boarding school I would obviously be sending her off to after the Thanksgiving break. But I don’t know if they have boarding schools for nine year-olds in the States. If I packed the bags and it ended up to be an empty threat, my authority would be even less with her. So I sat on my fury, let it out and then called her down for a reconciliation. We hugged and made nice, but deep down we were both still stewing.
One of the reasons that I am so edgy, other than trying this all while not being medicated, is that today marks five months since my father’s death. On the 20th of each month, I find myself holding my breath for most of the day. Perhaps on some level I think that if I don’t breathe then it won’t be true and I won’t have to live through the memories of that night all over again. But I can’t and those anniversary days will continue to come. Today I decided that instead of hiding for the entirety of it all, I would do something useful and happy. So I went to my dad’s athletic club and took a spinning class. He loved spinning classes, real bike riding in particular, and took several classes per week. I sat on the bike and recalled some of the many rides we had taken together. I wanted to get off the bike and just cry for most of the class but afterwards I felt glorious.
Tonight we had an early Thanksgiving dinner because Matt and the kids are leaving for Utah tomorrow to visit his family for the holiday. We ate at 5:30 so that we could be busy during what I have come to call The Awful Time; that time between my dad’s last phone call and his collapse. Instead of looking at the clock to determine when the time would pass, we were passing turkey and gravy and listening to Devon sing his ABC’s for the millionth time. Loren was surly for most fo the dinner. He is pissed because by going to Utah he will miss the opening day of the ski season, the holiest of all days during his year. Cass was chatty and puffed with pride because she had helped my mother make the gravy.
It has been a hard day. I have cried over my obvious inability to parent the She Child. I have cried over Loren’s sullen attitude. I have cried over the fact that Devon is 2 years-old and will remain so for another 9 months. And I have cried over my father. I am tired of him being gone. I want him to come home and spend the holidays with us. I want him to have his bed and his drawers and his closet back. I want him to dominate the conversation at Christmas dinner while he sits at the head of the table. I want to hear the warmth in my mother’s voice when she talks to him. I just don’t want him to be gone. I would give anything if he could just come back and be with us again.