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 ❤️ 💙 💛