Stumbling Towards Perfect

I once met a young man and we got to talking. He made me laugh. We exchanged phone numbers and started getting to know each other. We were out to lunch when I realized this wasn't someone I was interested in moving forward in a relationship with. He had stated his goals and what he wanted out of life, as did I. What we wanted was too different. It was as simple as that. I thanked him for lunch, he wished me well. I tried to end a different relationship when it was obvious that one wasn't working. He got angry. Felt disrespected. Called me selfish. Called me a lot of other names, too. It was about as opposite a reaction I ever could have imagined. He stood across the street from my house on the sidewalk. Just staring. I closed the curtains. I called the police. What is he doing? Standing there. Is he threatening you? No, he's just standing there staring at my house. Is he yelling? No. He is standing across the street. On the sidewalk. Staring at my house. Where

I started doing something after Avery died that, when I tell people what I'm doing, they look at me with very sad eyes. But they don't need to. I started going to the movies by myself. I like it. I need it. I mean, I really need it. There are obvious benefits: no one steals your popcorn or asks what just happened because they were totally not paying attention; and there are the obvious disadvantages: no one to go get you a refill because they're annoying you by asking plot questions they should already know the answers to, had they been paying attention. But that's not why I do it. It started as a necessity. A holiday without when my oldest daughter was out of the country on a much-deserved escape from reality and my youngest was with his father celebrating with his family. I was very alone on Christmas and the thought was destroying me. I felt frantic. That's a very common emotion felt after the death of a child: franticness . It pops up whenever