Catherine Connors is a mother, writer and recovering academic who traded the lecture hall for the playroom and discovered that university students and preschoolers have much the same attention span. She still dips her toes into academic waters by writing the occasional scholarly article about the place of motherhood in Western philosophy, but mostly now she changes diapers and wipes noses and indulges in long reflections on whether Yo Gabba Gabba is a harbinger of the decline of western civilization. Oh, and she blogs: in addition to Bad Mother blogging at BeliefNet, she is, among other things, the author of HerBadMother.com, Managing Editor of MamaPop, moderator of Her Bad Mother’s Basement, co-founder and co-editor of WeCovet, Contributing Editor at BlogHer, and (deep breath) founder of and contributor to Canada Moms Blog. And in her spare time… oh, wait. She doesn’t have spare time. But she’s okay with that.
I keep trying to write about how my dad’s death has affected my feelings about God and religion and worship and faith. I keep trying, and failing.
I’m failing, in part, because it’s still so raw. The pain still keeps me up at night. But I’m failing, too, because I’m just that confused. And it feels as though there’s a cost to that confusion, that in remaining confused, I’m missing some vital ingredient in a recipe for coping with grief. That if I could just sort this out, I’d feel better.
Part of the issue is this: I still have my dad’s cremated remains. I’d had a plan for those remains, but I’m now doubting that plan, in part because of a lingering attachment to and faith in Catholic ritual. I just don’t know to what extent I should allow the hangover from my Catholic upbringing affect my decisions here. And I don’t know that because I don’t know whether that hangover is just a hangover, or lingering sincere belief.
I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t know how to write about this, because I’m not sure, exactly, that I want to write about this, because every time I make the attempt, I can feel my anxiety rise.
But I need to sort this out. I do. The need presses on me like a physical weight.
This, all of this, is, some days, too hard.