We are coming up on the last week in this home. The home you last lived in. The home in which you took your last breath. At first the idea of leaving brought me nothing but happiness... but as the days pass I feel a bit conflicted.
I have this thought in the back of my head that when we die, our souls get traped at that location. Ridiculously silly, I know. And I could see you laughing at me for thinking such a thing. As silly as it is, I think a part of me is going to wonder if you're still at the house on North Pitt. Waiting for us all to come home.
After all, I am the person who stopped burning sage because it chases spirits and I wanted you to stay.
I wish I could talk to you about the choice to leave as a whole. Packing us all up to go to Chicago is overwhelming.
You would have loved to see Poppy-Marie and Justin playing in the snow. It's supposed to be spring, but it doesn't feel like it. Not at all.
I am still struggling through therapy. I say struggle because constantly having to explain how I feel is tiring. I get that it's helpful, but some days I just want to crawl under a rock.
Till next time. Love you. Miss you.
I get a little tired of people who assume that just because you have kids, you are automatically completely uncool, and that all your time is spent wiping babies from head to toe, giving spit baths, criticizing their every move, volunteering for PTA, blogging in your spare time, clipping coupons before crock potting a pot roast, ironing the clothes, bleaching the whites, mopping the floors, harvesting your eggs, sewing for your etsy shop, scrapbooking the little things, taking pictures of everything they do, saving for college, reading Dr. Suess, socializing at the bus stop, sweeping the floor, laughing over coffee with your jogging stroller, wearing your birkenstocks and listening to Baby Einstein.
Just because I DO THESE THINGS OCCASIONALLY.
Does not mean for one second that sometimes I don’t just want to be a kick ass girl with streaks in her hair, a ring in her nose, a tattoo on her arm, concert tickets in her purse, vodka in her fridge, a leather mini-skirt in her closet, her best single friends and a standing reservation for Las Vegas once a year with a don’t ask don’t tell policy, and the desire to just once be seen as more than the mother of 5 kids. Sometimes I just want to be seen as a “Maggie”. A “Maggie” with an extremely adorable set of children… (I joke, but sometimes it's hard to over come labels. )