Five Years

Five years. Half a decade. Long enough that all my happy memories of you are fuzzy and sometimes for just a moment, I start to question if they are real. Short enough that if I didn’t have the horrible memories of "that" day, I wouldn’t be able to comprehend that you are really gone. Long enough that I can only imagine what you, at almost seven, would feel like in my arms now. Short enough

Another Milestone

Grief is not linear. Secondary losses are abundant. Another milestone is always on the horizon.

This year the class of 2031 began their 13 year journey through the education system. There will be one student absent the entire time. Few will ever know or notice. His name will not appear on a class roster. He will not be assigned a lunch number. He will not go on field trips. He will not play sports. He will not go to prom. He will not walk across the stage at graduation. He will not be there to look out for his little sister.

The Paradox

Today is the day that my gorgeous, blue eyed, blonde haired, laid back, go-with-the-flow baby boy should be turning five. This is a day that should mark a turning point in our lives as we begin to prepare for entering the realm of chaos brought on by parenting a school age child. Come August my firstborn should be marching off to Kindergarten. How is it possible that so much time has passed since I held him in my arms for the first time? How is it possible that so much time has passed since I held him in my arms for the last time? There are moments when I allow myself to contemplate what should have been. My heart literally, physically aches when those thoughts come to a screeching halt and reality comes crashing down on me as I realize all over again that I no longer know my own child. Three years, five months, and thirteen days later I do not know what my son would look like. I would no longer recognize the sound of his voice. I do not know what bedtime story book he would choose, what his favorite food would be, or what size shoes he would need. Even though this is the fifth anniversary of my son’s birth, I do not know what it is like to parent a five year old.

A Letter to My Firstborn

Dear Beloved Firstborn,

The amount I miss you, the literal, physical ache I have for us to be together hasn’t diminished, not even slightly. What may hurt the most is knowing that in this life it never will. 

You will always be my son, my firstborn, but assuming life goes the way it should this time, there will come a day that you will no longer be my oldest. What a sick, twisted reality. I’m guessing that you knew before your Daddy and I did that you were going to be a brother. That’s likely one of the “perks” of being in Heaven. While there will be no trendy picture with you announcing this news to the world, I have no doubts you know it.

April Fools'

So many times I have felt like the “joke” is on me. Only there’s nothing funny about losing a child or feeling like a fool.   

Today happens to mark a point in time that I have painfully anticipated since losing you. When measuring the passing of time in days, this day is an equivalent to the worst day of my life. Today I have been without you for the exact number of days that I had you, yet you did not live your last day in it’s entirety and I in fact never even got to see you alive that day. It seems impossible to me that after today I somehow will have been without you for longer than I had you here. With this passing of time I miss you no less.   

Snow Boots

Snow. There shouldn't be any reason to grieve when it comes to snow. Oh, but there is. I can't help but wonder what my almost three year old would think of something as ordinary as snow. My mind conjures up an image. I can almost picture him, bundled up, rosy cheeks, laughing as he waddles around. Almost. Not quite. It's fuzzy. Anyway, it’s only a fantasy. My thoughts turn to reality. I think of how he was too little to really enjoy the couple of snows we experienced together, although he did laugh out loud as my parent’s dog chased and dove for snow balls. It is real, a wonderful memory so it shouldn't be fuzzy, but it is. That adds another layer of pain.

Holiday Playlist

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year." At least that’s what I’ve heard. Even before my son’s death I couldn’t get on board with that. This time of year should be peaceful as we reflect on the wonder and majesty of a virgin birth and the salvation that an innocent baby would one day bring to mankind. I’ve always despised the hustle and bustle of the season, the buying of more and more stuff for people who don’t really need for anything, and of course the traditions like straight up lying to kids about creepy elves and a fat man in a red suit. All that aside, the very real heart-being-crushed-inside-my-chest, take-my-breath-away pain of knowing what was and what should have been makes it difficult to have a “holly, jolly Christmas.”