Morbid obsession

We are getting up and at 'em this morning to go to a funeral. The mom of a good friend of ours died. Neither Tim nor I are "native" to this area, so our friends here are friends we've made as adults, as opposed to being "back home," where your friends are friends from, like, forever.

Point being: we did not know the deceased at all. We met her one time, briefly. But both Tim and I know what it's like to lose your mom (both of our moms died in December as well, so welcome to the melancholy holiday club). And we both know that even though nothing makes you feel better when your mom is dead and you're at her funeral, having friends show support is a nice thing that you do remember when you come out of the grief fog later on.

So it's off to a funeral for someone we didn't know. But the fact that it's someone's mom makes me incredibly sad. It makes me miss my own mom. And it makes me go to that dark place where I wonder what my kids would wear to my funeral and the fact that they have NOTHING appropriate to wear should that need arise. And Carlie's hair? I am so totally the only person on this planet that can do anything with that hair. So she would be a complete ragamuffin mess if I were to die.

And this is going to sound somewhat freakish and a little bit mentally unstable, but I have considered putting together a box of funeral clothes for my kids, like tucked away in a closet with a note that will lead them to it if I die. That way, they'll have something acceptable to wear. But then I remember packing diaper bags with extra clothes for babies and toddlers, and how the day they finally needed to wear those clothes? Yeah, they were, like, two sizes too small. And because my family is pretty much oblivious to anything remotely resembling "appropriate" and "acceptable" when it comes to attire, they'd just wear the too small clothing to the funeral, and be all knobby wrists poking out of sleeves and high-water pants. So I guess jeans will have to do.

Morbid, much? I know.