Today, I went in to the hairdresser and we got into a conversation about kids. (Normal talk when getting a haircut). The hairstylist had a photo of her family up and was pregnant too so it didn't take long to get on the subject. She told me about her kids.
It didn't take long before the subject switched to me. It happened easily enough. I was looking down on the floor and saw a couple of gray hairs on the floor and said something like, "Gray hairs. Oh kids will do that to you."
She said, "Oh, do you have kids too?"
Oops. I said the word "Kids." I said, "Yes," and left it at that.
She asked me how old they were. Simple enough question, right??? Well, for most people, anyway.
I said, "One will be 10 next month and one is 8." I left Jennifer (my daughter who died in 2002) out. She would have been 11.
She went on to ask me if they went to school here in town. Now what in the world made her ask that?? (Turns out she's from out of town).
I said, that my oldest does but that my 8 year old lives in a group home in (***NAME OF CITY***). I said that she was autistic and mentally retarded-- but that she still gave me plenty of gray hairs, just the same. The gray hair comment helped to lighten things up quite a bit and she was able to laugh rather than feel like she had to give me some sort of sympathy for her living in a home. (That was nice). I still said nothing about Jennifer, just the same. The conversation went on about other things.
I don't think I've ever done that before. Possibly when talking to someone in quick passing, but never in a conversation. It's not that I'm denying that she ever existed. (I think about her daily). I'm not trying to betray her. (I love her so much). I just feel like I have to go on and can't be telling my story to every passerby. Friends, yes. But beauticians who don't even know my name??? I just feel a need for normalcy. Do you know what I mean? As hard as that conversation was, another part of me enjoyed having a normal (casual) conversation without telling my life story to a practical stranger.
Still, a good part of me feels like I betrayed my daughter.
~Sandy
Jennifer's Page: http://www.geocities.com/sandymeyers/rememberingjenny.html
It didn't take long before the subject switched to me. It happened easily enough. I was looking down on the floor and saw a couple of gray hairs on the floor and said something like, "Gray hairs. Oh kids will do that to you."
She said, "Oh, do you have kids too?"
Oops. I said the word "Kids." I said, "Yes," and left it at that.
She asked me how old they were. Simple enough question, right??? Well, for most people, anyway.
I said, "One will be 10 next month and one is 8." I left Jennifer (my daughter who died in 2002) out. She would have been 11.
She went on to ask me if they went to school here in town. Now what in the world made her ask that?? (Turns out she's from out of town).
I said, that my oldest does but that my 8 year old lives in a group home in (***NAME OF CITY***). I said that she was autistic and mentally retarded-- but that she still gave me plenty of gray hairs, just the same. The gray hair comment helped to lighten things up quite a bit and she was able to laugh rather than feel like she had to give me some sort of sympathy for her living in a home. (That was nice). I still said nothing about Jennifer, just the same. The conversation went on about other things.
I don't think I've ever done that before. Possibly when talking to someone in quick passing, but never in a conversation. It's not that I'm denying that she ever existed. (I think about her daily). I'm not trying to betray her. (I love her so much). I just feel like I have to go on and can't be telling my story to every passerby. Friends, yes. But beauticians who don't even know my name??? I just feel a need for normalcy. Do you know what I mean? As hard as that conversation was, another part of me enjoyed having a normal (casual) conversation without telling my life story to a practical stranger.
Still, a good part of me feels like I betrayed my daughter.
~Sandy
Jennifer's Page: http://www.geocities.com/sandymeyers/rememberingjenny.html
