Come On In

 She gave a speech that brought tears to my eyes and also made me laugh. 

He graduated college and is starting a job for which he's very well-suited. 

She stayed true to herself and cheered on her team until the bitter end, and then shed real tears as the last pitch was thrown. And they were both there to support her as she left the ball field for the last time. 

He has his own apartment, a relationship that truly makes him happy, and a future that keeps him smiling. 

All of this happened while you were supposed to be turning 15. You were supposed to be watching them move those tassels. You were supposed to be making fun of your mom for tearing up from time to time. But just as each of their milestones have been met, you've been missing. 

Your absence has often made it impossible for me to become emotional in the "normal" way moms do when their kids move on in life. I can't be upset that your siblings leave for college. I'm so unbelievably excited for them and I always know where they're going. I can GET there. I can't get to you. And no matter how much I try to be normal in those moments, I can't. It makes for yet more lonely experiences in a motherhood that has been fraught with them. 

That's why I was surprised by my tears as I watched your sister put her softball glove away for the last time. I didn't expect it. I looked to your dad and saw his tears, too. I realized in that moment how unbelievably grateful I was for a "normal reaction" moment. We were kind of like the other families for just a breath. We felt the sting of "loss" and "never again". I felt a brief sense of relief washing over me as I realized that maybe, just maybe there would be moments in our future together that we could feel real joy. Joy that wasn't tainted by pain. Maybe we'll shed tears again when chapters in our lives are simply closing. Could we be healing in ways I didn't think possible? Does the healing mean that we've forgotten? If I'd experienced this a couple of years ago I think I would have chastised myself incessantly. I would have assumed that the fact that my grief and my joy could live side by side was a sign of failure. But then I think about the way that people who never got to meet you say your name. I think about the cupcakes shared this week in your name, and the way that my friend always honors my grief. She said your name to new people this week, and instead of the pain in my chest I felt such a sense of pride that you're still so "present". We did that. Your family. The people who love you with a fierceness that transcends death. We did that. 

And Sara holds your birthday as a sacred day in the same way I do. She, too, refuses to work and gives attention to you in a way that somehow keeps you with me. 

As they grow and become people on their own, I feel like our strengthening bonds are a tribute to you and how "present" you still are in our lives. We have an appreciation that others can't know in the way we do. While that can feel isolating, it's also something that draws the five of us together. I didn't see that coming. Parenting you still comes with surprises and gifts. Yes, grief lives here. But now we pull up a chair, invite it in, and it brings love with it. Thank you, E. Happy Birthday ❤️ 💙 💛 

It Stings

 It stings. I couldn't put my finger on it for the longest time. Why did the sun hurt so badly? I wasn't sure why the change of seasons weighed so heavily on my heart. I think maybe I've discovered at least part of the reason that the tears sit so close to the surface these days. It came to me when I put my face to the sun. I needed it, just like every other Midwesterner after a loooonnngg, unbearable February. But like everything else in my life now, it stung a little. 

I remember when I was about 11 or 12 years old and I was taking a walk in my very small, sleepy town. I was alone and it was the first truly beautiful day after a long, cold winter. I was so happy, so "filled" in that moment that I thought, "this is the height of happiness. This feeling right here is what it's all about. I needed this sun so badly and I didn't even know how much until it had gone." I felt a very similar feeling every time Christmas would roll around. I had the magical childhood Christmas experience described in books. I also felt the minor let down of that first season after I'd discovered the "truth" and I wondered if I'd ever feel that same Christmas joy again. It stung a little. But then my own children came and that feeling was bigger than I could ever imagine. No Christmas morning or first day of spring all rolled into one could have captured what it felt like to be a mother. Of course I experienced the moments that I thought were tough in my early years of motherhood, but ultimately, I'd found my calling. My children were my reason. Life made sense. 

And then I held him as he drew his last breath. In that moment I was a lifetime away from the young girl with her face to the sun. I was light-years beyond the mother of excited toddlers running toward the magic of Christmas. That was the moment I left my old body and entered one completely foreign to me. This new body didn't hold the same memories. It didn't FEEL with the same enthusiasm the old one had. It was like shrugging on a coat that wasn't mine, but that I was never allowed to take off again. This "coat" couldn't conjure up the feelings of blissful nostalgia I'd once known. Instead it hung heavily, unforgiving and immeasurably unkind. I didn't want it, but it's what I was given. It took so long to learn how to feel anything but pain beneath weight of that coat. It was a painstakingly long time before I realized that joy could exist there. Not in its entirety, or in the form I'd once known it, but it was there nonetheless. It was just sunshine that stung a little. Christmas magic that burned a bit. 

So that's where my love for those things has gone. It's still there. I still long for the green that shoots up out of the ground in March and I absolutely lift my face to the sun once again. But I must also allow for the sting. I have to heed the weight of the unwanted coat. I don't get to decide that it no longer exists. And as many grievers know, in a way, I don't want it to ever leave. But in those first few moments of sun, that first sign of Christmas magic, that sting that I can often so expertly hide, is the only thing I feel. It's like my broken momma heart feels I OWE her this pain. I must acknowledge her existence, even in the sun, maybe especially in the sun. 

I don't know if this is a feeling that grows smaller with each passing decade. So far it's still strong enough to pull me to my knees. However, you'll likely find me smiling or going about my work while pulling that unwanted coat a little tighter around my shoulders. So if you see me with my face to the sky, believe that I too am grateful for the sun, while I'm also feeling the sting.