Grief

For some unexplained reason, my husband called all our grandchildren ‘George’ even though they reminded him repeatedly what their names were. These three kiddos loved their grandpa despite the teasing. Or maybe because of it. Grandpa was the one who let them dump out all the Legos and then he’d sit with them on the living room floor building extravagant structures. He was the one who gave wheelbarrow rides when they helped him rake leaves (I’m not sure how much help toddlers are, but still… there were the wheelbarrow rides). And then one day, their beloved grandpa was diagnosed with late-stage disease, and although he lived much longer than expected, he was gone from his grandkids’ lives much sooner than they wanted. […]

Growing up, I had a tendency to act like a spoiled brat whenever I didn’t get my way. Many people have done this, I know, but what took my behavior to the next level was that no matter which parent made the decision to tell me, “No,” I would always take my frustrations out on my mother. It didn’t matter what the situation was or why I couldn’t have my way, my mom was always the victim of my emotions. In between complaints about how everyone else’s parents got them xyz or how everyone else’s parents let them do xyz, I would berate my mom with incredibly harsh and seemingly unforgivable words and sometimes even become destructive (on more than one occasion,