Mommy Guilt: Widowed or Not

Guilt. Mommy guilt. Daddy died guilt. Always the guilt.

Each morning, at 6 AM, Julian, 2, calls out, "Ma Ma. Ma Ma? Ma Ma," and the race begins.

Ugh! I shouldn't have stayed up so late.

Four kids, like newly hatched spiders, crawl up my skin. They nip at my arms, my shoulders, my feet, and I want to flick them off. I want five minutes, just five freaking minutes, to make my coffee, before I get them ready for school.

"Clothes on, hair brushed, then come to the table for breakfast," I command, but they continue to swarm, completely ignoring my orders.

"Ewwwwwww!" Tatiana, 8, screams, as she holds her Hello Kitty toothbrush an inch from my swollen brown eyes.

"Tati, WHAT are you doing?"

"Mommy, Juju just put my toothbrush in the toilet!"

"OK, well, use a different one. Come on, Tat, we're already running late!"

"But he used it, Mommy. Right after he put it in the toilet. JuJu brushed his teeth with poo-poo water."

Fine. Great. Worse things have happened.

I'm trying to finish writing my book, DROP DEAD LIFE, the journey to love after my 29-year-old husband's death. Struggling to make some money in my children's photography business. AND be a good wife. A connected mother. A compassionate friend. But there is this guilt. This mommy guilt.

Back to the lunches, Hyla.

My dry, dehydrated hands move quickly from one lunchbox to the next, conscious of each child's preferences. One dinosaur pack, one "High School Musical", one purple "Girls Rule," one 12-year-old's eye-roll-inducing brown paper snack bag.

And, just as I zip up "Girls Rule," Keira, 6, kicks her foot against the wall. "But, Mommmmmy! I've already told yooouu!! I don't like turkey, or cheese, or peanut butter, or pasta, or vegetables!"

"Keira, really, what else is there?"

"Sweets. Only pack me things that are sweet."

As if I will ship her off with a pan of brownies. Seriously?

Why can't they just be grateful for what I give them? Don't they know that I was an actual person before I had kids?

Then, of course, when they hear my husband's footsteps on the stairs, the kids fall in line like obedient soldiers.

"You making it easy on Mommy?" Evan doesn't yell, he doesn't lose his patience, and he certainly NEVER raises a hand at any of them, but they listen. They do not suck the energy out of him because he feels no guilt over his requests.

So, what is the point of this guilt? This mommy guilt. Why do I let it drain me? Why can't I just accept the fact that I am only one person?

This need to overcompensate for my own unhappy childhood is certainly not a benefit to my kids.

Southern California Writer's Conference

The red taxi drove away, leaving me there, alone, for three days of writing, lectures, read-and-critique workshops, author panels, editor insights, networking, and the nerve-wracking one-on-ones with literary agents.

Already, I wanted to board the plane back to San Francisco.

Only days before, my memoir, DROP DEAD LIFE, a pregnant widow’s poignant, heartfelt, and often comic journey through death, birth, and rebirth, had been rejected, via email, by yet another literary agent. Like most rejections, there wasn’t much commentary on the actual writing, but I conjured up plenty of imaginary bashing on my own.

Not feeling very poignant or comic, I dragged my horse-sized brown suitcase up to the hotel lobby check-in and gave my name.

The front desk manager smiled. “Oh, yes, here you are. Hyla Molander. Part of the writing conference.”

Noticing the large vase of colorful flowers behind him, I thought they might provide good shelter under which to hide. “Yep.”

“Tell me, what do you write?”

“Oh, um, a memoir. I’m writing a memoir, uh, about my life.” Nice, Hyla. Better work on refining that thirty-second pitch.

The manager’s brown bangs nodded up and down, blue eyes widened. Clearly, he was unimpressed. Would he hault each arriving literary agent to tell them about my inability to form sentences?

Maybe I should just go home? Give up on the memoir for a while. Maybe I could actually learn to cook. Be more domestic.

When I met my new hubby on Match.com, I was forthright about my lack of culinary expertise. A girlfriend of mine once said, “Darlin, if a man has to choose only one room in the house for his wife to be good in, he’d better choose wisely.”

Yeah, well, my husband decided NOT to focus on the kitchen. He understood the pressures involved with raising four kids, running a photography business, and trying to write a book.

As if writing wasn’t challenging enough. Writing with a herd of small bodies, ages 2, 6, 8, and 12, is like dodging hurricane debris. Just when you reach that place, that emotional state necessary to write about the sounds, smells, and tastes in the most pivitol chapter, one of your offspring will, undoubtedly, shriek, “Mommy! MOM!!!!! MA-MA!”

Then, of course, throw in the WIDOW aspect. Eeek.

Like many people who have experienced loss—be it through death, divorce, infidelity, or lost love—I struggled to find my way back to who I was before. Unfortunately, the belief I formerly had in my skills as a writer and photographer stopped beating, along with my 29-year-old husband’s heart, on that Easter Sunday, six years ago.

Sure, I could land a supportive Standford MBA husband who was eager to adopt my two daughters, but could I find a literary agent who knew, in all certainty, that my memoir HAD to get out into the world?

For Christmas, the kids had each colored hand-made gift certificates for the writing conference: one scribbled a red hotel, another took her time drawing an airplane, the next filled yellow construction paper with the diverse SCWC schedule. Something there for every writer. And, hopefully, an agent for me.

I couldn’t let my family down. I couldn’t let myself down. Helping people live and love more deeply was the reason for my existence, the reason Erik dropped dead on the kitchen floor. How else do you explain these things?

So, I clicked my uncomfortable three-inch black heels into one writing workshop after the next, gaining more confidence and industry knowledge through each person I met. Helpful editors. Talented writers. A conference staff who always made me feel like I belonged.

My hands still trembled when I held the pages of my memoir, but I prodded my tongue, and read the first sentence of DROP DEAD LIFE aloud.

"While waiting to have my womb sliced open, I stare at the black and white photograph of my beloved Erik."

There I stood, behind that burgundy podium, allowing my insides to be sliced open in front of everyone, but this time I wasn't birthing a child. There were no first-breath wails, no umbilical cord to cut.

This time, at the Southern California Writer's Conference, I heard my own breath setting free, as I digested their overwhelming belief in me.

DROP DEAD LIFE Gains Literary Interest

DROP DEAD LIFE, the blog, must make a shift.

Despite my own insecurities as an intellectually under-stimulated mommy of four wild children, ages 2 through 12, my memoir, DROP DEAD LIFE, a pregnant widow's poignant, heartfelt, and often comic journey through death, birth, and rebirth, has recently sparked enthusiastic literary agent interest.

So, what this means, I imagine, is that my book will eventually end up in your local stores. Still difficult for me to believe, but it is going to happen. In other words, I can no longer post chapters-in-progress on my blog, for fear that you will not want to stand in line to purchase the actual book.

A solution? Suggestions? The best I've come up with is to write about life, in the present. No longer will I be the pregnant widow journeying through death and grief-stricken birth, but, instead, will be the writer, mother, wife, photographer, and soul-searcher who must finish this memoir, despite the need to change diapers, cart kids to therapy, and drink vodka lemon drops.

If I can inspire others to manifest their own love and happiness, then I have found the meaning in my existence. This is, after all, a DROP DEAD LIFE.

Sexual Tension Grows Between Ex-lovers

Erik folded his hands beneath his black sweater, his thumbs fidgeting with the wool.

“I know we' re supposed to go to dinner,” he said, “But I don't know if I can even eat right now.”

I laughed. “What? Am I making you sick?”

“No, no, not at all, it's that . . . it's just a lot, being with you.”

Our break-up three years ago was the farthest thing from civil, and I knew, after not seeing eachother for all of that time, we were both uncertain of what we should do with the palpable sexual tension that now filled the two-foot gap between us on the couch.

“I was just teasing. I know exactly what you mean. I didn't think I would be so happy to be with you. Oh, wait, that came out wrong. It's not that I didn't want to see you, but something feels different. We really should plan to see eachother more often.”

Erik scooted towards me, speaking softly. “Hyla, I would really like that, but, you know, after being with you this past hour, well, I don't really know how to say this, but I don't think I can be your friend.”

“Oh.”

“This might come out sounding crazy, but, um, I am still in love with you.”

I grabbed a burgundy pillow and held it to my chest. “Oh, wow, that is amazing that you would just come out and say that.”

How could he still be in love with me?

“It is what it is. I guess I can't help it. For the past three years, my friends have been telling me to forget about you, and, even though we weren't in touch, well, I just couldn't let go. I tried dating. I really tried.”

“I am sure you did. You're a total catch.”

“But, everytime I went out with someone, all I could do was compare them to you. You have to understand that I really meant those words when I proposed to you in college. There is something about you, about us, that has always made sense to me.”

“I don't know what to say. I feel honored.”

Erik took off his glasses and exhaled. “Having essentially poured my heart out to you, what I am trying to say is that I need you to feel more than honored. I need to you to feel like there is a chance for us again. Otherwise, it would be too painful for me to see eachother as friends.”

Each word he spoke brought me closer to him, each truth he revealed seduced me deeper into his heart. He wasn't playing games like so many men I had been dating. Erik was real. Erik was unbelievably masculine and also willing to share his soul. That, to me, was the definition of sexy.

I got up from the couch, stood directly in front of him, and then climbed into his lap, wrapping one leg at a time around his waist, so I could align our bodies. “Does this feel like friends?”

“Yeah, uh, no, this definitely does not feel like friends.”

“Listen, I may have some catching up to do on the love front because I just got out of pretty bad relationship, but, no, I do not want to be your friend.”

My pelvis pressed against his and I let out a moan, grabbing his jaw with both of my hands, pulling his lips close to mine.

“Watcha doin?” he said impishly.

I knew I was already being devious enough by straddling his lap, but I smiled. “You don't mind if I kiss you, do you?”

“Hmm...I'm guessing you can probably feel how hard I am beneath you right now, so I think you can figure the answer to that question out on your own.”

We kissed, and then we kissed some more, our bodies merging into eachother. We were fully clothed, but my back arched again and again. His fingers tugged at my long brown hair.

Oh, it felt so good to be with him. A comforting distant memory given a new life. A chance. He had grown up. I had grown up. We were both established in our careers, in our selves. Was it possible that he was the one after all?

We could not contain our sounds of pleasure, nor did we want to.

I whispered, “You make me feel, oh, uh, mmmmm, incredible . . .”

“That's because you are . . . and I am going to show you.”

Erik forcefully grabbed my hips and slid our still-clothed pelvises up and down, harder and harder, rubbing his jeans on me in all the right ways, until both of submitted to the wet euphoria and orgasmed with sheer ecstacy, as one.

We collapsed into the scent of our sweat, our breath, the sex-tainted musk of my perfume.

For several minutes, we remained in eachother's arms, both of us quiet, gratefully consuming the moment.

“I certainly wasn't expecting that,” I said.

“Are you alright with what just happened?”

“Hmmm....let me think about that. Silly! I'm just thinking we need to do it again. Like, right now.”

And so, we did it another time, and another time after that, melting into the familiarity of what once was and what was yet to become.

God Inflicts Anger

I walk out of the closet, my arms full of Erik’s shirts, all still on hangers. My 8-month-pregnant belly acts as a shelf, enabling me to carry more.

“I hope you’re alright with this,” I say to my brother, Troy. “That you don’t think it’s weird I’m giving you Erik’s stuff.”

I pile the shirts on top of my bed, the white plastic hangers clinking together like falling dominoes.

“No, I don’t think it’s weird, as long as you’re fine, as long as you feel ready,” Troy holds up a navy blue button-down. “This one will definitely fit.”

“Erik would be really happy you had these, I’m sure of it.”

It hasn’t even been three weeks since the blood trickled down the side of my husband’s mouth on Easter Sunday, but I have to give some of his things away.

His clothes keep calling to me. The soothing vanilla scent of Erik draws me into the closet again and again. I embrace his sweaters, his white t-shirts, inhaling the last remnants of his physical body. I imagine Erik following me into the walk-in to grab my ass, to tickle me, to tell me that none of this really happened, but I have to stop pretending he will reappear.

“I’ll be honored to wear them,” Troy says.

We have not spoken much about that night that my brother worked to resuscitate Erik, but I hope that Troy has let go of his guilt. There was nothing he could have done. Nothing any of us could have done to save him.

“I kept the things I know I will wear . . . or that his family may want.” It felt right to keep his underwear—all 23 pairs—for whatever reason, and I put Erik’s shoes in a box until I can figure out who will fit into them.

His mom, Jeanette, wants Erik's silver-framed eyeglasses because she said he got on her case all of the time about hers not being cool enough. How ironic that she also lost her first husband when she was 29. Then her second husband when Erik was 11. And now Erik, her youngest and most beloved child. The pain she has endured in one lifetime is unfathomable.

Jeanette is probably the only person I know who can understand what I am feeling—what it’s like to be a young widow with babies.

Later that day, after Troy has left with several bags of Erik’s clothes, Jeannette calls to say she will be flying out next month for Keira’s birth. “I’ll stay as long as you need me, or until you kick me out. I want to be there for you, to take care of Tatiana, to help you with Keira.”

Our phone call is filled with recollections of Erik and tears.

“I miss him so much,” I tell her.

“Me too, sweetheart. I know exactly what you mean. But, you know, every time I think about how much I miss him, it occurs to me that, maybe, I am being selfish. I know he’s in a much better place. I know he’s with his daddy and I know he’s with God. It was his time. God brought him to a better place.”

What did she just say?

Her words infuriate me. I grip the portable black phone tighter, doing my best not to chuck it against the wall.

I restrain myself from screaming, “What a crock of shit!”

What a major crock of shit!

My face burns as if it had been shoved into a lit fireplace.

I take a breath, slowly, intentionally, and say, “I know everyone has their different opinions on this, on God, on an afterlife, and, well, right now I am just too upset with what I once thought was a higher power—call it God, call it whatever you want—for taking him from me, from us. Why would a higher power do that? Why would God do that? Quite honestly, I know there was no better place for Erik. This was it. He was happiest here. So, forgive me for saying this, but I’m having a hard time believing that this God wouldn’t have known how happy Erik was, that this God would have ripped him away from everything he loved.”

Pregnant Widow Shutting Down

Tatiana clings to me, her legs wrapped beneath my 9-month pregnant belly, while the other Marin Day School toddlers push balls, rakes, miniature vacuums, and each other around in the outdoor play area of the preschool.

Primary colored toys are scattered everywhere—many of which Erik had cleaned only two months before, when he donated his time to Tatiana’s school to make some “minor repairs.”

Erik was supposed to fix a couple of loose locks over a weekend, but the teachers returned to a new garden of potted flowers, re-stained benches and sandbox, and a large rainbow play-structure that had been flipped and scrubbed from bottom to top.

When he walked through the metal gate to bring Tatiana there the next day, the entire staff gave him a standing ovation. "Look, Honey!" he said, as he showed me the thank you card made out of red construction paper and a dozen one-year-old hand-prints. "Can you believe they did this for me?"

And now, at Marin Day School, there is still story time, singing circle time, and “tick-tocking” clean-up time, but something has changed. Now there is a solemn understanding between all of us.

It could have been any one of those toddlers' daddies. Any one of those daddies could have dropped dead on the kitchen floor, but it was Tatiana's daddy, the man whose flowers continue to grow, who had his life cut short.

The teachers huddle around me and Tatiana, their tears bringing tears to my eyes.

“I don’t know how I’d survive any of this without you,” I say, as I pass a resistant Tatiana to her primary care-giver, Dani.

Dani’s long, straight blond hair reaches to the bottom of her back. “Whatever I can do. Whatever any of us can do,” she says. “You know how much we love Tatiana. Let me take her after school, over-night if you want.”

Still trying to sort out the details of Erik's death, I could use the break, but the thought of being away from Tatiana too long is unfathomable to me.

“I think she’d freak. But I am so grateful to you. This is the one place she seems happy, unless she’s with me. The routine is good for her.”

When I leave, Tatiana reaches through the gate, smashes her face against the black bars, and screams, “Mama, Mama, Mama.” Her screams are like pin-pricks, sharply threading their way down through my swollen ankles. I hear her wails, again and again, as I pull away in my dark grey VW station wagon.

Sometimes when she cries, it’s like watching Erik fall in a graphic flashback—like I am right there, feeling everything. The blood on the side of his mouth. The pain of his un-medicated amputation from our lives.

Just one month after he died, Tatiana lay on her back, on the kitchen floor, in her purple butterfly dress, and started to shake. She looked all around the room. Then she let out a choking sound. She flipped her head from side to side, the back of her curly blond hair sliding against the white tile.

It took me a minute to realize what she was doing—that she was reenacting what she had watched happen. My 18-month-old daughter was sorting out her daddy’s death.

And now, anytime I lie down, Tatiana says, “Up,up, up,” in a panicky tone, as if she thinks I am going to die, too.

I am not getting sleep because the doctor won’t give me anymore sleeping pills and, at night, my feet itch like I’ve stepped into a huge mound of fire ants—an itching like none I’ve ever felt before. Nothing can stop this itching. Not scratching with my nails, not the pumice stone. I even tried one of those special callous shavers, so I could remove the top layer of the skin. I scrapped and scrapped at my feet until I bled and, still, the itching remains.

So, after I drop Tatiana off at her school, I drive to Diane’s house. Diane is my friend and incredibly gifted massage therapist, who I have been seeing once a week since Erik's death. The grief counselor helps, but Diane gives me something different, something that I can’t get from talking. She gives me her calming touch.

Touch is what I yearn for. I yearn for Erik’s touch. I yearn for him to hold me, for him to curl up behind me in our bed and spoon me one more time. That is what I miss the most. I miss his touch.

Diane knows things about me, about what is going on inside of me, even before I do. She is trained in intuitive therapy and, as long as I stay open to her insight, she has a way of revealing things of which I am not yet aware.

I curl up on my left side, on her massage table, and look up at her wavy brown hair, her green eyes. She has such a presence about her, a universal connection, and I aspire to be as aware as Diane throughout my grief process. I hope to manifest the strength to be a good mother to this unborn child of mine and to continue helping Tatiana through her loss.

I tell Diane about the itching in my feet, about how I can’t sleep.

She stands at the end of the table, holds onto my feet with her soft, powerful hands, and says, “I’m getting that the itching is from your nervous system. Your nervous system is on overload, understandably, and it wants to shut down. Your organs are fighting too hard to stay functional.”

“And that’s making my feet itch?”

“Yes, this is a really hard time. You need to be very gentle with yourself. Your body wants to give up . . . but I know . . . I know you won’t let it.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Do you mind if I take a minute to re-balance your energy?”

“I’m open to anything, if you think it will help.”

“Just close your eyes, now, and feel only love and healing.”

Her hands grow warmer as they make their way, without hurry, from my calves, to my ripe stomach, to my temples, and then, finally, to my chest.

I can feel my heart beneath her touch. The blood pulsating. An echo bouncing within her palms, as if there are things being said, things being resolved.

My breathing slows. My muscles relax.

Tears come. A release.

I am safe right now.

The itching. It isn’t there.

How did she do that?

I stay in that healing state, not a word spoken, for at least five minutes. I feel like I am swimming under clear blue water, tropical fish caressing my naked skin. We circle one another—angel, rainbow, and clown fish—as they effortlessly guide me to the surface.

My eyes open. I notice Diane’s dangling, multi-colored earrings. “I can’t believe how much better I feel,” I say.

We share a respect for the healing, in silence, while a nurturing energy floats between us.

Then Diane says, “Good. Good.” Her hands hover near my belly button. “And, well, the baby . . . Keira . . . she . . .” Diane hesitates.

“What about Keira?”

Is she alright?

“I’m getting the sense that she wants me to check in with her.”

I look into Diane’s eyes. “You can do that?”

“Yes, well, I can connect with her energy, and see how she’s doing, if you don’t mind.”

I feel more peaceful than I’ve felt since Erik died, amazed at my friend’s ethereal powers. “No, I don’t mind. I really want you to. Anything you can sense into would be very helpful to me.”

Diane stretches her arms to her sides, palms up, fingers spread, as if asking for wisdom.

Then she places her hands carefully on my womb.

She speaks in a whisper. “It’s alright, you know. It’s alright that you don't feel connected to the baby right now.”

How does she know?

Tears push themselves down the sides of my face, seeping into the lavender-scented towel.

I want to feel connected to her. I do.

I listen intently, knowing that, somehow, Diane can feel what is going on between this grieving mother and fatherless child.

She continues. “Keira is an understanding, compassionate soul, who will be just fine.”

Guilt overcomes me. During my pregnancy with Tatiana, I always felt close to her, but, now, with Keira, I just feel like an emotional collision.

Diane lets out a slight laugh. A laugh of realization. “Erik is here. Erik is giving her enough love for both of you. I can feel him here, right now, loving her. It’s amazing. Truly exquisite. He is loving her all the time. And loving you . . . and Tatiana.”

11-Year-Old Boy Tries to Save his Father

Erik told me about his dad, Hayden, when we first started dating. We were both 20, both students at Florida State University. Erik majored in computer science while I studied creative writing. Within days of knowing one another, it was obvious that Erik's rational, organized side would compliment the artist in me.

Erik spoke slowly, with quiet intensity. “We were on vacation.”

I sat cross-legged, on Erik's bedroom floor, soaking in the masculine whisper of his words. My attention was focused entirely on him.

He stretched out on his back and put his head in my lap, his eyes directed at the circulating ceiling fan. “We were on vacation, at the beach . . . I was eleven. It was just me, my mom, and my dad. My dad had brought me out windsurfing for the first time. I kept falling off the board.”

He laughed, more to himself than me. “It was a really great day.”

“Sounds like it.” I kissed Erik’s forehead where the peach-colored candelight reflected off of his skin.

“They had just come back from a walk . . . my mom and dad . . . and I was digging a big hole in the sand.”

Erik closed his eyes, pausing for a few seconds, like he was there, like he was re-living that day. “My dad sat down in his chair and then he . . . he just . . . he just fell over in his chair. He just fell over in his chair. Out of nowhere. He just fell over . . . right near the hole I was digging. He wasn’t breathing.”

“I can’t even imagine.” I ran my fingers through Erik’s thick black hair. “I can’t even imagine.”

“My mom lost it . . . she told me to run for help . . . so I did. I ran as fast as I could. My legs were burning."

I saw Erik in my mind—this innocent, dark-haired little boy running as fast as he can, fine grains of white spitting up all over everyone’s beach blankets. He’s running and screaming, looking for help, not knowing what else to do.

"My mom was hysterical. She already had one husband die of a heart attack, but I . . . I did the best I could. I couldn't have run any faster."

"Of course not."

"It was Miami, you know, so I was able to find a doctor right away, but it didn't matter."

"You did everything you could do."

"My dad was turning blue. Nothing worked. They were pounding on his chest."

I wanted to help that little, out-of-breath, 11-year-old Erik. I wanted him to know he had run fast enough. That it wasn't his fault.

Erik started to cry. "It was supposed to be our vacation. I just wanted him to sit back up in his chair."

But his dad never did sit back up in that chair, and Erik spent the rest of his life wondering if his father would still be alive if he had just run a little faster.