Being thrown into single parenthood

Someone mentioned to me the other day this concept of having been thrown (unwillingly) into single parenthood when you become a widow. It's mind boggling to me, really. How all of a sudden where once we were partners in crime for this journey of parenthood, now I'm alone for it. I'm Batman without my Robin (OK, Mike was Batman, let's be real here). I'm David without Goliath. Wayne without Garth (Kate, are you reading?!?!) I'm half of a whole set of parents  - I now need to be enough to cover both bases on my own and wear both hats - and it's utterly exhausting. I'm mom and dad. Good cop, bad cop. Yin and yang.
And unlike parents who in some ways 'choose' to be single parents (by divorce, or just wanting kids but no partner etc.), it's not something I chose or wanted. That doesn't mean single parents whose partners are absent for other reasons have it better or easier - not at all. It's hard no matter what. But it is different. I was thrown into this immediately, unexpectedly, and unwillingly. This wasn't a gradual loss. I didn't want him to go. I'm not happy or better off because he's gone. My kids aren't better off without him. Which brings an entirely different angle to the single parent life - dealing with grief and loss while wearing the hats of 2 parents. In one instant I became a widow and a single mother. These labels say a lot in some ways. And at the same time say so little. Widow is always something that made me think of old people (I know, I'm no spring chicken - I'm talking like 80 years old, old - not a 38 year old woman with 2 small children). Then single mom can at times have such a negative connotation with it (and so many assumptions that go with it. Did I leave dad? Did I choose to have kids on my own? What's the story here?). I still wear my wedding bands (and plan to keep wearing them for a long time) so that the assumption is that I am still married (I still feel married, and I still consider us married - I always will). But then there's always the awkward conversation that comes up with people who don't know me well just trying to make conversation. 'Oh what does your husband do?'. Do I go along and just say he's a mechanic? If I do, then there's more questions to answer about him. Or do I just do the blunt 'actually he passed away' route. I've done both - neither are great options. One makes people cringe and leave you alone, not knowing what to say. And the other prods more questions making me need to talk about him as though he were still alive which hurts even more. Imagining that he is here. Not dead.
There are things I could never teach my kids that Mike would have. He was so smart about so many things. He knew how to fix anything. I'm SO not that person. So I will have to rely on others for these bits of wisdom. Good thing I know some good people who will instill it in my kids, but still - have I mentioned how much I hate needing help from others?!?! ;) Speaking of which, I need to get some light bulbs and figure out how to get the bathroom fan cover off. I like to think Mike would be proud of me for just taking life by the reigns and figuring all these things out... but he may also be laughing at me knowing how much I really relied on him for so many things. Who am I kidding, he IS laughing about that with an 'I told you so' attitude. And his memory - I now need to keep that alive for my children. That is a heartbreaking job to have. But it's necessary in situations like this.
Now whenever there's an event that is for a Dad my children will have to relive the reality that their Dad isn't here anymore (as if day to day life without him isn't hard enough, right?). And feel that they are in some way 'different' because of it. How do I handle these situations - do I go in his place? Do I send a close male relative to stand in? These are things I'm still trying to figure out. Where's the handbook? Much like when I had kids, I felt like there should be a manual. I'm feeling that way now. I need a manual that can tell me how to do all this stuff, and do it in a way where my kids and myself have SOME chance of being OK down the road, you know? There are a million ways that I can mess all this up, and I'm sure that I'm doing a great job of messing it up right now. My definition of success will be my kids growing up into happy adults whose hearts and minds continue to have their father live on in spirit. If I can do that, I will have succeeded.