Twelve

 Twelve. You're supposed to be 12. I don't even know what that looks like. What does that mean? Anyone who knows me has heard me say that "I hate 12". As a parent, I've always felt like 12 is where I stop having the answers, and hormones kick in, and the craziness starts. But right now I'm so angry that I don't get to be annoyed by "12". 

Are you bigger? What kinds of things do you like to do? What do you want for your 12th birthday? I know what I want for all of your birthdays. I want to complain about how busy I am because it's the end of May and so many things are happening around us as we celebrate your day.  Instead, I'm doing what I always do the night before your birthday. I turn inside myself. I let the pain and the hurt wash over me. I allow my tears to wear me out to the point of falling asleep, only to awaken on that day and cry again. Everything else gets shut out, buddy. It's our day. Me and you. I can't let anyone else in, and I don't apologize for it. 

Still...none of that explains why you're not here. I'll never understand it. I used to be so very angry. I was even angry with YOU for leaving. I know that's not rational, but nothing with grief is ever rational. Sometimes I wonder what I had done to deserve this level of pain? What has anyone done to make them know the depths of Hell that are reached when you lose a child? But I know that isn't rational either. No one deserves this. No one. And ultimately, it doesn't even matter how it happened. The bed is still empty. My arms are still empty. 

I wonder if I were able to see you tomorrow, on your 12th birthday, if you'd be as tall as your big brother was when he turned 12. I know you saw him graduate recently. Were you a proud 12 year old brother, who showed his "brotherness" by poking fun of him and laughing at his expense? Or are you our sweet, loving, cuddly baby brother with blue eyes as deep as the ocean? Could I drink in your baby soft curls if I were allowed to visit for the day? 

These are the questions that won't be answered. These are the things that gnaw at my heart, and bring me to my knees in the strangest moments. I'll never know why you had to leave. I'll never know if my decisions were the "right" ones. I won't get to do it over again, and change the story. So, I'll do what I do on our day. I'll go to our place. I'll sit in the screaming silence. I'll let the burning wash over me. And tomorrow, I'll love "12". 

Tomorrow

 I had absolutely NO idea what I was doing. I was barely 21, and roughly the size of a house, and I thought I knew what to expect....kind of. Then I experienced this long, tumultuous labor and delivery. It was one filled with fear and uncertainty near the end. Little did I know, that was only the BEGINNING of the uncertainty. I thought my baby was tiny. I thought my baby was going to get here quickly and effortlessly, and that I'd be able to go back to finish my senior year of nursing school with no problem. Aaahhhh....ignorance, it truly is bliss. That September day in 2003, I was handed 10 pounds 12 ounces of uncertainty. 

While it took me awhile to figure out how to sleep, shower, cry, feed, dress you, dress myself, etc...you were a little piece of perfection right from the start. My big, "tiny" baby with inquisitive eyes from day one, you gave me the role of mother. I learned more from you than you're likely ever going to learn from me. You've always been so aware of those around you, so in touch with the emotions of other people. Your ability to read the human condition from a very young age has always inspired me. From your sweet, little toddler voice to those days when you began towering over me, each day, each moment with you has been a gift. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day that you officially leave high school. I know I'm supposed to be sad, or "happy/sad", but I'm just not. I'm so unbelievably grateful to have been the person who got to watch you get here. I got to see all of your "big" moments, and the little ones that were actually bigger than we knew. I've gotten to stand in front of you and reach back for your little hand. I've gotten to stand beside you, when you no longer needed that reach. And now I get to stand behind you as you go off to be amazing. The thing is, you already are amazing. You were that first day I saw you. You've been everything I could have expected in a son, but oh so much more. Our family life took a hit that no one should ever experience. And maybe that's why I'm not sad. I know what NEVER seeing this day looks like. But our loss of him does not define you. You are so much more than your losses. As you've grown into the man you've become, my proudest moments are the ones where you're not even around and a friend, teacher, relative, stranger, tells me what a kind, compassionate, and thoughtful young man you are. There is no greater gift than that. 

Logan John, we know better than most that nothing is guaranteed, but I choose to believe that if we're going to be here to live life, we may as well LIVE it. I'll hold your hand when you need it. I'll stand beside you when standing alone feels too hard.  I'll stand behind you when you need a safe place to land. But no matter where you want me to stand, know that every part of you makes me proud. You are more than ready, more than capable of doing amazing things all on your own. I just happen to be the woman honored enough to watch what you do....tomorrow. 

(I'll love you forever, I'll love you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be)