I’m feeling terribly ungrateful and selfish. I know that there are people (lots and lots of them) in this world who have it much worse than me. There are moms who can’t feed their kids. There are people who don’t even have safe water to drink. Yet here I am, crying because I’m sad about going on vacation, to one of my favorite places on Earth. Houseboating at Lake Powell. We’ve been there before. It’s breathtaking scenery, great fishing, no cell service…just an absolutely amazing great time. We’ve been planning it for some time. The kids are excited. That’s all they’ve been talking about. And excited they should be. It will be a trip to remember forever. I’ve been looking forward to it. Excitement, mixed with dread. Weird, low-grade dread because I know how hard it will be for me. I will be the adult third wheel. I probably won’t notice the third-wheelness all that often, but when I do, it will be sharp, a painful feeling, right in the middle of my chest. I’m with the best of friends and my parents, plus the kids. All people that I genuinely enjoy spending time with. No need to feel weird or sad. Should be easy-peasy. GO HAVE FUN. Is it really that hard? Well, sometimes…yes it is. Because Mike isn’t here and he should be. Because last time we went he practically bankrupted the family buying fishing tackle. He poured over every fishing report he could get his hands on then spent hours at Sportsman’s Warehouse making sure we had just the right stuff.  We worked on the packing and the food plan and we obsessed together about every single thing we should bring. We planned for months. That used to be part of the fun. Now the planning part has lost its luster. It’s just boring, monotonous work. A crappy means to an end. Yesterday was tough. I was too tired, too emotional, everything was just too much. Fighting back tears is exhausting work. It’s easier sometimes to just let it rip. Deal with the consequences of looking like a total drama queen in the middle of Costco, crying like a baby. I didn’t. I held it together but it was not easy.

Every minute on vacation, there will be this gaping hole where he should be. When it is my turn to cook, I will wish he would be there helping me. In reality, me helping him. He was really the cook of this dynamic duo. When I get in bed alone each night, I will think of how much I miss him and wonder if he’s really there, watching over us like they say. I will hope he is, but I will feel pretty doubtful. When we get into the good fishing, it won’t be quite as good without him. We will say a thousand times how much he would love it and that we wish he was here, but I will think it a million times more. The scenery will be a little bit less impressive, like there’s a filter over everything. I won’t want to go hiking quite as much without him and I will choke up a little teensy bit at every gorgeous sunset.

Of course I will still hike, fish, and savor every sunset. Of course we will have fun. Of course we will make the best memories ever. Of course I will plaster the biggest smile I can on my face, because this is living. This is what we do. With limited time, we make the most of every single day. I will be grateful every single time I look up and see Drew looking exactly like his dad. Acting just like him, with that carefree smile he gets when he’s teasing someone. Fishing for hours on end, just like his dad would. And Emrie will tan up just like Mike would because she has his skintone. And when she hops out of the boat, shoeless, walking across gravel like it’s carpet, I’ll be thankful that she got her daddy’s tough feet. Not for a minute will I be unappreciative or take this trip and my kids and my friends and my family for granted. I will be humbled and thankful that we get to be there. I’ll just have to work a lot harder at it than I should. Thanks, grief.