Both my girls started new schools this school year, and it has been a good change for us all.
Good, even with all the new adjustments we have all had to make, including a major shift in school culture. (We moved from a private Christian school to the public school system.)
Good, even with me trying to sort out different schedules for drop-off and pick-up, along with all the different parental commitments.
This transition has been a welcome change for all of us, even with the inherent challenges we face.
While we have many reasons for switching schools, a major one is that my girls desired anonymity. At their old school, everyone there has known them since they were in Kindergarten. Everyone knows our family history, and yes, about Mike’s passing.
This is not to say that our old school did not show us love and care. They did. In abundance.
And truly, we are grateful.
That said, when you are in elementary and junior high, it is hard to walk into that very small campus each day feeling like you now wear a label you didn't choose for yourself: fatherless girl.
Because kids don't know how to handle another child's grief. (And come to think of it, neither do most adults.)
Attitudes run the gamut: insensitive, confused, patronizing. And yes, some are genuinely empathetic.
That said, the very nature of extra kindnesses extended towards them made it so that they became somewhat suspicious of any special favors.
“Are they only being nice to me because they feel sorry for me?”
Again, this is not to say that we haven’t been grateful. But the feeling of being treated differently could not be avoided. Even if kindness were the overarching sentiment.
I myself felt a shift. More people asking me “How are you doing?” with a tad more earnestness than before as I walked through the campus.
Again, not unkind. Just different.
Changing schools has changed all this. Except for eliciting parent/ guardian information on the enrollment form, no one really knows the kids’ history. No one stops us in our tracks, waiting to hear a “real” answer to “How are you?”
But then again, there will be no one who will understand if my kid tears up spontaneously in the middle of class.
No one who will carefully choose their words when asking about their family.
And they will have to decide if they want to say, "My Dad died."
Which, to be honest, I don’t know that they have said a lot.
Because when Mike died, our village knew. And that village included our school. Except for telling my girls and our parents, I did not have to say it out loud. Nor did they. I texted a few loved ones and wrote about it on CaringBridge, and the news spread from there.
I am realizing now that this will likely be the first time my children will have to tell others. Out loud. On their own.
(The only exception would be in therapy, where they have been expected to share their loss. But then again, they probably have only really had to say it once.)
I know what it is like to tell a perfect stranger, or even an acquaintance, that my husband died. The reaction is never passive. There is always a bit of a shock, quickly followed by a sincere, uncomfortable, “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry for your loss!”
It is always awkward.
And the awful thing is, in the back of my head is a niggling thought: Does this change whatever impression they had of me?
There is no getting around the awkwardness and the thoughts ping-ponging in my head whenever this happens.
So I choose not to tell, more often than not.
But sometimes, people leave me no choice. Like the time I brought my husband’s car to the shop for an oil change and the mechanic asked me when the oil was last changed. I hesitated then said, “Ummm, I don’t know.”
Then he gave me a withering look (which, to me, read like “Typical woman!”), and I snapped.
“If my husband were alive, I’d ask him. But you see, he died.”
The words came out in a rush. Because he made me feel small and defensive.
And I got the reaction I was looking for: remorse.
Most interactions do not go this badly, I promise. I share this because sometimes, as much as I don’t want to share this information with a total stranger, my temper sometimes gets the better of me.
Other interactions have been more benign, often of the transactional kind, like when I explain to a therapist why my kid needs therapy. Or when I close my husband’s account at an establishment.
Frankly, this information is just not pertinent to most situations.
I am now reflecting on this, knowing that outside their familiar bubble, my kids will face situations where they will have to make a choice of whether they should share this thing about their Dad.
Just this week, I was reviewing my 7th grader’s “About Me” assignment for her English class. As I ticked off the requirements, I noticed that she opted out of the optional section called “My Family”. The omission is a choice she stands by, and I am glad she had a choice in this matter.
But the time will come when she will want to tell. Like when she makes a new friend that she decides she’d like to be closer to.
My older daughter wants to normalize loss and observes that there are many kids who come from single parent homes at her new school. (This isn't really a thing at her old school.) And yet, she says, death is just a wholly different category that is awkward to talk about. People look at you a bit differently if your parent died. She knows this from observation.
So yes, although she is quick to acknowledge that she has only one parent in her life, she has not exactly been forthcoming about her father's death.
I know this: Telling someone will be hard, if not all kinds of awkward. They will feel sad and horrible and sometimes, a bit vindicated when someone has the wrong idea about them. (Because like it or not, both my kids have a bit of my temper… and yes, pride.)
That said, I have also decided that this is part of their growth. Part of their individual grief journeys.
I will not be able to shelter my kids from the pain that comes with living. I never have, even when I have tried.
All I can really do is be here for them. To help them up when they stumble. To offer guidance when they ask. And to pray for them that perhaps they might handle life’s challenges with grace. Even more than I exemplify for them.
Because truly, I am just scraping by as I journey beside them. Trying to figure out how to deal with these new labels we now wear resulting from Mike’s death.
Making sense of the awkwardness of being the ones left behind.
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