"Don't get dirty!"
"Don't hit your brother!"
"That doesn't match. You need to change your clothes."
"Don't touch the glass with your dirty hands!"
I know I've talked about this particular issue more times than I can count. But it's just THAT consuming. I cannot describe what it feels like to have your identity stolen from you, one piece at a time. Grief and major loss changes you at your very core. Of course some small parts of you remain intact, but so many things about your personality are fundamentally different. It changes the way you view life, of course. It changes the way you view death. It even changes the words that come out of your mouth. Not one of the above sentences are currently part of my parenting repertoire. But they were at one time, right? I remember being concerned about those things. That old part of me must have said them, because I hear them now from others and I think, "That sounds so familiar, and yet unbelievably foreign."
I'm inundated with a barrage of conflicting emotions all day long, every day. But there are certain moments that are so supercharged that I can't even begin to do it justice with words. I liken it to a snow globe. Each flake is a different emotion, and when shaken, the calm of the globe is disrupted within an instant and the emotions swirl around in a thousand different directions, never following the path you think they will. I'm doing a terrible job of explaining this, but it's probably the most difficult part to try and describe. At any given moment, I can be extremely angry, happy, sad, afraid, and grateful. So many things about my new perspective are gifts, but not all of them. Some of them just make it hard to live in the world.
Everyone has a "carpe diem" attitude for short periods of time. Something major happens on a global scale and the whole world can be on high alert, and filled with a new sense of appreciation for the small things in life...for a moment. But, inevitably, we go back to normal. Life takes on that predictable ebb and flow and we sink back into our daily grind. I've found that this isn't the case with grief. I can't get back there. Sometimes I'm begging to be back there. I'm begging to fit into the world around me. I can't "turn off" the part of me that says, "none of this matters." It's like the phrase, "don't sweat the small stuff." I'm never sweating, because for me, nearly every part of life is the small stuff. I don't get worked up about much anymore, and of course that can be very freeing, but it also makes it difficult to be around me. How annoying is it to constantly be reminded that your everyday worries are essentially nothing? I can't imagine what it must be like for those friends who've stuck around long enough to find out just how much fun I am at the moment. It's difficult for ME, and I'm the one doing it, so it must be hell for them sometimes.
I no longer care if my children get dirty. It just means they're capable of doing so. They can run through mud, or slide into home. I'm grateful for that simple gift they've been given, and I don't assume that it will always be something they're capable of doing. And the command, "Don't hit your brother!" doesn't apply here. I'm amazed at what my kids have taught me about letting them simply experience things without my input. I remember when my youngest son used to hit my older son in the nose, repeatedly. Easton was a toddler, and at one time I would have explained to him that hitting wasn't nice, and that he should stop what he was doing. But, he'd already taught me to step back and let my kids fight some of their own battles. If Logan had wanted him to stop, he could have remedied the situation all on his own. So, I just sat back and watched them. I offered no suggestions, and today I'm incredibly grateful for the lesson they taught in that moment. That "game" in which Logan was absolutely getting hurt, is one of his favorite memories of his brother.
"Don't touch the glass with your dirty hands!" We say this one often, as children are always walking around touching things with their grimy little paws. Yet again, my kids taught me to let that one go. Ironically, it was after his death that Easton imparted this wisdom. I remember when it was just the two of us at home, and I would try desperately to get a workout in, around his highly demanding schedule. Due to the fact that he had so many seizures, he could never be left alone. Consequently, he had to be right next to me during every attempted workout. He found it quite hilarious that I was jumping with the lady on the screen, but even he, with his limited mobility, would tire of just watching and crawled over to the TV. That, in and of itself, was honestly a miracle. Then he would pull himself to his knees and touch every part of the television that he could reach. When I "scolded" him for being in my way, he'd look back at me with an ornery grin and continue to smear little hand prints all over the screen.
As you can probably imagine, the months ( and even years) following your child's death, involve very little cleaning. In fact, it involves little more than breathing. So, several months after the most horrific day of my life, I pulled myself from the fetal position and began attempting to clean up the basement. When I got to the television, I stopped dead in my tracks. There, on the screen, were perfectly preserved, ornery baby hand prints. In that moment, I could see his effort, his grin, and his eventual reach in my direction. Of course it dropped me to my knees, but it also gave me a brief moment of connection with the boy I hadn't held in entirely too long. See? A million emotions at once. And this example is the best I can give as to the constant push and pull in different directions. It helps me describe what it's like to never again be concerned about small things like smudges on glass. In fact, it's not just that I don't "worry" about such things, I actually beg them...please, my babies...touch the glass.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Still Standing?
Happy Father's Day? Happy Anniversary? Is that what I'm supposed to say? Both happen to be true for us today. They don't have a card for what I need to say which is, "Happy Crappy Reminder of What You Don't Have Day." I hate these "holidays." When Mother's Day rolled around this year, my husband gave me an article to read that was written by a bereaved father in Still Standing magazine. He quite beautifully described what it was like to watch his wife suffer through a day that was meant to bring her joy at one time, and how he was powerless to stop it. I know my own husband feels like this often. A major portion of his loss occurred the day our son had his first seizure. He lost a piece of his son that day, but he also lost his wife. I became absolutely consumed with taking care of Easton, and that meant everyone else had to get what I had left over. I'm not saying I would change that, because I wouldn't, but that doesn't mean that it was easy for my family.
The thing is, Father's day is hard for bereaved mothers just as Mother's day is difficult for the fathers. The loss of a loved one really highlights your inability to "save" anyone from pain. My children are different, and I couldn't fix that. My son is gone, and has left a gaping wound in my soul. And just for fun, I get to watch the man that I love, suffer daily. Today so many fathers got dried macaroni artwork and ugly ties from their kids. They got to hug each of them tightly, or didn't even think to do it because they can always do that tomorrow. Instead, my husband was reminded all day long, that not all of his children would wrap their arms around his neck today. When he saw all the names on the card, he knew that someone's signature was forged. And why? It doesn't make any sense. Shouldn't all of his babies be here today? Wasn't he a good enough father?
Let me tell you something about this man with a broken heart. He coaches the teams. He reads the bedtime stories. He provides for the family he loves. This can be said of many great dads and my husband is no exception. Unfortunately for him, he's had to be more than that. He's had to be a father to a disabled child. He had to learn early on in his son's life that he would never be able to enjoy sports with him. He began to know what it meant to be on the other side of a difficult parent/teacher discussion. And as painful as each of those losses were, nothing will ever compare to the crushing blow he experienced in those last days of his son's life. What man has to sit by and watch his son deteriorate before his eyes? No part of that is fair. And I can't do a damn thing about it. I remember the first time Easton coded and we weren't prepared at all for what that might look like. We were both panicked, but I just went crazy. I screamed and cried and he pulled me to him in a giant hug but I pushed away and beat his chest. I yelled at him that the timing wasn't right and that this was not how this was supposed to happen. He continued to hold me. He took the beating. What man has to watch his son being revived through a glass window, and also pick his wife up off the floor?
Sometimes I honestly don't know how we got to this day. Frankly, I don't know how we get up and do what we do on ANY given day. It's not because we were "meant to be." It's not because we have some magical super power. And it certainly isn't because I "chose the right Daddy for my babies." You know what? Life happens. Some of us get lucky as shit and things fall into place for awhile. Where will we go from here? Your guess is as good as mine. I know with absolute certainty that there are no guarantees. But, what I do know is what I've seen with my own two eyes. I know what I have lived. I know that just for today we could be the poster children for Still Standing magazine, because we are, in fact, still standing. Well, sometimes it's standing. Sometimes it's leaning. And sometimes it's just falling on the damn floor. If we happen to be standing it can be because we're leaning on each other, and sometimes it's because we know we need to lean away. No one else is on this journey with us. It's ours and ours alone. And although I would give anything to take the pain from his eyes, I wouldn't trade the man he's become. I know the fires he's walked through, and I know his scars because they match mine. So, Happy Shitty Father's Day, Happy Crappy Anniversary, and know that although tomorrow isn't promised, if I'm meant to struggle through another day, I'm grateful to be doing it with you.
The thing is, Father's day is hard for bereaved mothers just as Mother's day is difficult for the fathers. The loss of a loved one really highlights your inability to "save" anyone from pain. My children are different, and I couldn't fix that. My son is gone, and has left a gaping wound in my soul. And just for fun, I get to watch the man that I love, suffer daily. Today so many fathers got dried macaroni artwork and ugly ties from their kids. They got to hug each of them tightly, or didn't even think to do it because they can always do that tomorrow. Instead, my husband was reminded all day long, that not all of his children would wrap their arms around his neck today. When he saw all the names on the card, he knew that someone's signature was forged. And why? It doesn't make any sense. Shouldn't all of his babies be here today? Wasn't he a good enough father?
Let me tell you something about this man with a broken heart. He coaches the teams. He reads the bedtime stories. He provides for the family he loves. This can be said of many great dads and my husband is no exception. Unfortunately for him, he's had to be more than that. He's had to be a father to a disabled child. He had to learn early on in his son's life that he would never be able to enjoy sports with him. He began to know what it meant to be on the other side of a difficult parent/teacher discussion. And as painful as each of those losses were, nothing will ever compare to the crushing blow he experienced in those last days of his son's life. What man has to sit by and watch his son deteriorate before his eyes? No part of that is fair. And I can't do a damn thing about it. I remember the first time Easton coded and we weren't prepared at all for what that might look like. We were both panicked, but I just went crazy. I screamed and cried and he pulled me to him in a giant hug but I pushed away and beat his chest. I yelled at him that the timing wasn't right and that this was not how this was supposed to happen. He continued to hold me. He took the beating. What man has to watch his son being revived through a glass window, and also pick his wife up off the floor?
Sometimes I honestly don't know how we got to this day. Frankly, I don't know how we get up and do what we do on ANY given day. It's not because we were "meant to be." It's not because we have some magical super power. And it certainly isn't because I "chose the right Daddy for my babies." You know what? Life happens. Some of us get lucky as shit and things fall into place for awhile. Where will we go from here? Your guess is as good as mine. I know with absolute certainty that there are no guarantees. But, what I do know is what I've seen with my own two eyes. I know what I have lived. I know that just for today we could be the poster children for Still Standing magazine, because we are, in fact, still standing. Well, sometimes it's standing. Sometimes it's leaning. And sometimes it's just falling on the damn floor. If we happen to be standing it can be because we're leaning on each other, and sometimes it's because we know we need to lean away. No one else is on this journey with us. It's ours and ours alone. And although I would give anything to take the pain from his eyes, I wouldn't trade the man he's become. I know the fires he's walked through, and I know his scars because they match mine. So, Happy Shitty Father's Day, Happy Crappy Anniversary, and know that although tomorrow isn't promised, if I'm meant to struggle through another day, I'm grateful to be doing it with you.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Four
Four. The number of times I got to hear that first cry from my babies. Four. The number of children who should be here now, celebrating today. Four. The number I want to SCREAM at anyone who asks how many kids I have. Four. You should be four today. Are you 4? Do you look the same? How tall are you? Is your hair longer? I should know these things. As your mother, I should never have to ask any of these questions. So many people don't ever have to wonder about these things. When did I become a member of the club of those unfortunate souls who do? I don't even know what size shoe you wear now. That should be a given. I should know. At one time, I knew every gram of food and drink that entered your body. I knew every scratch, birthmark, and scar. I knew every movement and every sound. Why can't I hear you now?
I try so hard to remember the good moments we had. Four is the number of steps you took unassisted in the pool on one of our MANY play/therapy excursions. I remember your crazy belly laugh every time your brother and sisters repeated the same line from a movie over and over in the van. I remember the way you used to sneak the game chips from Sequence into your mouth and then look at me like you were daring me to punish you. I wish those memories didn't burn. I wish they didn't sear my soul in such a way that makes it impossible for me to get out of bed. But, they do.
I looked for a picture of the two of us today. I finally found one, but it was difficult. I, like most Moms, was behind the camera most of the time. This is one of those things that makes me want to tell every mother I know to take advantage of the moments they have. I want to say, "Forget that your hair isn't fixed just right. Forget that your make up isn't done. Who cares if you're 10+ pounds heavier than you'd like to be? Get in front of the damned camera. Capture that moment that your skin is touching your baby's and you're feeling the evenness of their breath. You'll need that someday when you can't get out of bed." But, I know I can't say these things. My need to convey these thoughts comes from a place of hurt and a place of anger. It's never directed at anyone in particular. I'm mostly angry at the old me. I'm angry for not knowing that I wouldn't get to see you turn 4. I'm angry that I didn't take a few more seconds of snuggling time instead of pushing you to do more on your own. I'm angry that I didn't get in the picture.
I wonder what you would like today? I know only those interests that are frozen in time. Do you still like cows? I hope so. That's what's on your cake today. Sara made it for you. Do you know her? Did you see how perfect it is? Do you still love things that light up? We're sending your 4 floating lanterns up tonight. Please look for them. If you have a moment today, we'd love to hear a squeal or a moo. You may have moved on from those sounds, but remember that they are the ones that are locked in our hearts.
I would give anything to hug your 4 year old self, today. I'd drink in every second and soak up every scent. I'd take a thousand pictures of the two of us with my hair undone and my makeup gone. I'd take you on a paddle boat ride and watch you lean over the side just enough to freak everyone out. I'd love you longer, stronger, and with more conviction than any mother has ever known, because I would know the gift of those moments. Help me to stand today, sweet boy. Help me to physically get up and move forward without you. Help me to feel the love and comfort from my children today. All four.
Happy 4th Birthday, my big boy.
I try so hard to remember the good moments we had. Four is the number of steps you took unassisted in the pool on one of our MANY play/therapy excursions. I remember your crazy belly laugh every time your brother and sisters repeated the same line from a movie over and over in the van. I remember the way you used to sneak the game chips from Sequence into your mouth and then look at me like you were daring me to punish you. I wish those memories didn't burn. I wish they didn't sear my soul in such a way that makes it impossible for me to get out of bed. But, they do.
I looked for a picture of the two of us today. I finally found one, but it was difficult. I, like most Moms, was behind the camera most of the time. This is one of those things that makes me want to tell every mother I know to take advantage of the moments they have. I want to say, "Forget that your hair isn't fixed just right. Forget that your make up isn't done. Who cares if you're 10+ pounds heavier than you'd like to be? Get in front of the damned camera. Capture that moment that your skin is touching your baby's and you're feeling the evenness of their breath. You'll need that someday when you can't get out of bed." But, I know I can't say these things. My need to convey these thoughts comes from a place of hurt and a place of anger. It's never directed at anyone in particular. I'm mostly angry at the old me. I'm angry for not knowing that I wouldn't get to see you turn 4. I'm angry that I didn't take a few more seconds of snuggling time instead of pushing you to do more on your own. I'm angry that I didn't get in the picture.
I wonder what you would like today? I know only those interests that are frozen in time. Do you still like cows? I hope so. That's what's on your cake today. Sara made it for you. Do you know her? Did you see how perfect it is? Do you still love things that light up? We're sending your 4 floating lanterns up tonight. Please look for them. If you have a moment today, we'd love to hear a squeal or a moo. You may have moved on from those sounds, but remember that they are the ones that are locked in our hearts.
I would give anything to hug your 4 year old self, today. I'd drink in every second and soak up every scent. I'd take a thousand pictures of the two of us with my hair undone and my makeup gone. I'd take you on a paddle boat ride and watch you lean over the side just enough to freak everyone out. I'd love you longer, stronger, and with more conviction than any mother has ever known, because I would know the gift of those moments. Help me to stand today, sweet boy. Help me to physically get up and move forward without you. Help me to feel the love and comfort from my children today. All four.
Happy 4th Birthday, my big boy.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
She's 9
She'll be 9 tomorrow. It's her birthday, and she's turning 9. To be honest, I don't really remember her turning 8. The entire year was a blur and birthdays are a tough subject in our house anyway. We did nothing last year for her birthday. Seriously, nothing. Well, there was one exception. Another Mom, and a woman who has become a sort of savior friend, made her a cake. She made MY daughter a birthday cake. I vaguely remember her asking if she could do something, but I don't ever remember answering the question. But, when that day came I was lighting a candle on the most perfect birthday cake for a panda-loving princess. My friend had just done it. She didn't need my answer to know what needed to be done. She took over when I couldn't be the Mom. I've only recently realized the value in that. I noticed that I'm learning to be a better mother from the women around me, just as I did before.
Another very special woman in my life suffered her own tragedy the same year our family was faced with the death of our son, Easton. Our stories are unique, and sometimes our grieving processes couldn't be any different. But, we learn from one another. We share pain and progress. We cry and laugh at how far we've come and how far we have left to go. One of the most amazing things I've taken from this woman is her ability to continue celebrating life. We agree that neither of us does things the "right" way. We simply do what we can do. She works tirelessly to make special occasions like birthdays and holidays as special as they've always been. This concept was completely foreign to me, and I've had to take a chapter from HER strength book in order to see the beauty in that. I've seen that celebrations don't mean forgetting. It doesn't mean we've moved on and aren't looking back. It's simply another way we put our feet on the ground and keep walking, together. I'm not saying this is any easier for me than it was a year ago, but I'm grateful to her for leading by example and for never making me feel as though I was doing it "wrong".
This week I've spent most of my free hours baking ridiculously indulgent birthday treats for my daughter to take to school. I took a cue from my friend who'd made the special cake last year and decided that I was going to try to make this birthday memorable, but this time with my own hands. She helped me with the details of creating the perfect panda treats, but more than that she showed me that being present in this moment for this child didn't mean that I was forgetting the one who will never again blow out the candles. And I didn't have to do it on her time. She just waited. She was just there when I needed her to be there, teaching me to make the cookies, but more importantly teaching me to remember that this opportunity still exists for myself and this child. And I love her for that.
I didn't make them because I thought my dauther had to have them. I made them because I can. Because I've been gifted this moment. I get to watch her turn 9. I get to see her move on from her 8-year-old life for the best reason, because she's 9. That's a gift, and I know it. I had no idea what to expect on the day I first met that fiesty little human. She came into the world with an opinion, and she continues to share it today. I don't assume I'll be given the opportunity to see her drive a car, or go on a date. I don't assume I'll see her turn 30, or 40, or 50. Those days aren't guarantees. Those moments aren't mine to claim. But what I know in this moment right now, is that she is silly and witty. She is talented and beautiful. She has more freckles this year than last. And she's 9. And I'm here to see all of it. I won't take that for granted.
Another very special woman in my life suffered her own tragedy the same year our family was faced with the death of our son, Easton. Our stories are unique, and sometimes our grieving processes couldn't be any different. But, we learn from one another. We share pain and progress. We cry and laugh at how far we've come and how far we have left to go. One of the most amazing things I've taken from this woman is her ability to continue celebrating life. We agree that neither of us does things the "right" way. We simply do what we can do. She works tirelessly to make special occasions like birthdays and holidays as special as they've always been. This concept was completely foreign to me, and I've had to take a chapter from HER strength book in order to see the beauty in that. I've seen that celebrations don't mean forgetting. It doesn't mean we've moved on and aren't looking back. It's simply another way we put our feet on the ground and keep walking, together. I'm not saying this is any easier for me than it was a year ago, but I'm grateful to her for leading by example and for never making me feel as though I was doing it "wrong".
This week I've spent most of my free hours baking ridiculously indulgent birthday treats for my daughter to take to school. I took a cue from my friend who'd made the special cake last year and decided that I was going to try to make this birthday memorable, but this time with my own hands. She helped me with the details of creating the perfect panda treats, but more than that she showed me that being present in this moment for this child didn't mean that I was forgetting the one who will never again blow out the candles. And I didn't have to do it on her time. She just waited. She was just there when I needed her to be there, teaching me to make the cookies, but more importantly teaching me to remember that this opportunity still exists for myself and this child. And I love her for that.
I didn't make them because I thought my dauther had to have them. I made them because I can. Because I've been gifted this moment. I get to watch her turn 9. I get to see her move on from her 8-year-old life for the best reason, because she's 9. That's a gift, and I know it. I had no idea what to expect on the day I first met that fiesty little human. She came into the world with an opinion, and she continues to share it today. I don't assume I'll be given the opportunity to see her drive a car, or go on a date. I don't assume I'll see her turn 30, or 40, or 50. Those days aren't guarantees. Those moments aren't mine to claim. But what I know in this moment right now, is that she is silly and witty. She is talented and beautiful. She has more freckles this year than last. And she's 9. And I'm here to see all of it. I won't take that for granted.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Aunt Chach, Mom 2
They don't call her Mom, but they fit in that place in her heart. She didn't give them birth, but she was there to watch them enter the world and was among the first to hold them close. She doesn't have to be the parent, but she guides them with love and understanding. She's watched them grow and has taught me to sometimes simply stand back and watch too.
She wasn't there that first night, but I felt her soul and strength with me. She didn't get to be in the room with me when I made big decisions about his life, but her heart tore in two just as mine did. No one asked her how she was doing that day. No one brought her food and encouraged her to eat, or a pillow and told her to sleep. Her visitor's badge said "Aunt", but that word wasn't sufficient. There should have been a sticker that said "Mom 2". Maybe then they would have known what this was doing to her. Maybe then someone would have taken their eyes off of me for a minute and offered her their shoulder instead.
But, she wouldn't have wanted that. She wouldn't have taken one second of the comfort meant for me. Even though her soul was shredding too. Even though her arms ached for the chance to hold him again, just as mine did. In those last few hours when people were milling in and out and saying their good-byes, she stayed away, and not because of fear or disinterest, but because she was giving me all the seconds I had left. She didn't take one moment of my time with him, although she had every right to do so. They all cried for me and for the five of us who were losing that piece of our lives, but no one cried for her.
She could be sad but not AS sad as the mother. If I cried a thousand tears, she was only allowed 999. She could hurt, but the knife couldn't go as deep. It wasn't allowed. She wasn't the mother. And although she may not have worn the title, I assure you that that day, she lost her child. So today I cry for her. I cry for her pain and misery. I cry for her stifled screams. I cry for the ache in her arms, and the tear in her soul.
I love you, my sister. And I'm so sorry for the loss of your baby.
She wasn't there that first night, but I felt her soul and strength with me. She didn't get to be in the room with me when I made big decisions about his life, but her heart tore in two just as mine did. No one asked her how she was doing that day. No one brought her food and encouraged her to eat, or a pillow and told her to sleep. Her visitor's badge said "Aunt", but that word wasn't sufficient. There should have been a sticker that said "Mom 2". Maybe then they would have known what this was doing to her. Maybe then someone would have taken their eyes off of me for a minute and offered her their shoulder instead.
But, she wouldn't have wanted that. She wouldn't have taken one second of the comfort meant for me. Even though her soul was shredding too. Even though her arms ached for the chance to hold him again, just as mine did. In those last few hours when people were milling in and out and saying their good-byes, she stayed away, and not because of fear or disinterest, but because she was giving me all the seconds I had left. She didn't take one moment of my time with him, although she had every right to do so. They all cried for me and for the five of us who were losing that piece of our lives, but no one cried for her.
She could be sad but not AS sad as the mother. If I cried a thousand tears, she was only allowed 999. She could hurt, but the knife couldn't go as deep. It wasn't allowed. She wasn't the mother. And although she may not have worn the title, I assure you that that day, she lost her child. So today I cry for her. I cry for her pain and misery. I cry for her stifled screams. I cry for the ache in her arms, and the tear in her soul.
I love you, my sister. And I'm so sorry for the loss of your baby.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Give Her Life
I know I've said this a thousand times, but one of the most unexpected parts of this entire process is the feeling of isolation. I didn't realize how lonely it would be to live in "your child died" land. And it's lonely mainly because you can't unlearn what you now know. Sometimes that's excruciating, but sometimes it truly is the gift that everyone claims it is.
I recently read the article "101 Things To Tell My Daughters", as it was making its way through the facebook newsfeed. It's a great compilation of all of the truly important things in life that should be passed to our daughters. I agree that many times the lessons we learn are passed down a generation, but sometimes they are linear and other times they can even be passed from daughter to mother. I gave birth to two beautiful daughters, and I'm grateful for that every day (even when I'm threatening to disown them). But, I've realized in the past year or so that, although I gave them BIRTH 6 and 8 years ago, it is only now that I'm learning to give them LIFE.
As mothers, we worry constantly about whether or not we're doing the right thing. We do our best to protect our daughters from our own difficult experiences, and we kill ourselves trying to make sure that no matter what injury may befall our little legacies, we will have exactly the right band-aid, in exactly the right size. But, when something comes along and strips you of your right to worry and protect, you see things a little differently. I no longer keep band-aids. This is where perspective becomes a blessing and a curse. It's difficult to permanently abandon the worry, to give up that inborn motherly angst of trying to protect/save another human being, especially when those around you don't have the same experience. However, it's also the most freeing moment of your life when you are able to do so. And it isn't just to your benefit. In fact, it's exactly what will give your daughter all the things you've been trying to give her all along.
I'm certainly in no position to be dolling out advice. None of us are, if you ask me. But shared experiences are some of the best ways to connect with others in a loving and understanding way, so here's what I know. I know that my girls are going to skin their knees when they fall off their bikes. I know they're going to look to me to fix it. But, what if instead of rushing over with a band-aid, I love them from a distance as they get back up on their own? This seems simple and cliche, but when exactly is the right time to show them that you have confidence in their ability to get back up? Is it when they fail their first test? Lose their first job opportunity? My youngest daughter fell in a swimming pool this past summer and it happened to be in the deep end. She was flailing and struggling, and two years ago I would have jumped in fully clothed and immediately pulled her to the side. But something inside me told me to stop. Instead of pulling her back out, I calmly told her to swim. She refused and sunk a little deeper, but still I stayed on the side of the pool. I told her to use her legs and her arms and to feel her way to the side. When she made it to the edge, I lifted her out, wrapped a big towel around her and hugged her until she stopped crying. I was so proud of her in that moment, and I told her so. As I was driving home that day, I realized that the lesson wasn't for her. It was for me. I was a new kind of mother now, one that knew that no matter how many band-aids I kept on hand, and no matter how many safety warnings I gave, at some point, my girl was going to be drowning without me. But you know what? My girl can swim.
Does this make me a genius? Does it make me mother of the year? Of course not. This means that I'm broken. It means that the me I used to be doesn't work anymore. Instead, someone else is learning to walk in new mom shoes. She's learning to LET IT GO (for all of us who can't stop hearing the song in our heads). And, actually...this part isn't so bad. I've watched what I hope will be the biggest fall of my daughters' lives, and I've seen them get back up and start pedaling again. But the greatest gift of freedom I've received is in knowing that even if this wasn't their darkest hour, my only job is to love them through the process. It was chance that I was able to give them birth, but I'm most grateful for the ability to CHOOSE to give them life.
I recently read the article "101 Things To Tell My Daughters", as it was making its way through the facebook newsfeed. It's a great compilation of all of the truly important things in life that should be passed to our daughters. I agree that many times the lessons we learn are passed down a generation, but sometimes they are linear and other times they can even be passed from daughter to mother. I gave birth to two beautiful daughters, and I'm grateful for that every day (even when I'm threatening to disown them). But, I've realized in the past year or so that, although I gave them BIRTH 6 and 8 years ago, it is only now that I'm learning to give them LIFE.
As mothers, we worry constantly about whether or not we're doing the right thing. We do our best to protect our daughters from our own difficult experiences, and we kill ourselves trying to make sure that no matter what injury may befall our little legacies, we will have exactly the right band-aid, in exactly the right size. But, when something comes along and strips you of your right to worry and protect, you see things a little differently. I no longer keep band-aids. This is where perspective becomes a blessing and a curse. It's difficult to permanently abandon the worry, to give up that inborn motherly angst of trying to protect/save another human being, especially when those around you don't have the same experience. However, it's also the most freeing moment of your life when you are able to do so. And it isn't just to your benefit. In fact, it's exactly what will give your daughter all the things you've been trying to give her all along.
I'm certainly in no position to be dolling out advice. None of us are, if you ask me. But shared experiences are some of the best ways to connect with others in a loving and understanding way, so here's what I know. I know that my girls are going to skin their knees when they fall off their bikes. I know they're going to look to me to fix it. But, what if instead of rushing over with a band-aid, I love them from a distance as they get back up on their own? This seems simple and cliche, but when exactly is the right time to show them that you have confidence in their ability to get back up? Is it when they fail their first test? Lose their first job opportunity? My youngest daughter fell in a swimming pool this past summer and it happened to be in the deep end. She was flailing and struggling, and two years ago I would have jumped in fully clothed and immediately pulled her to the side. But something inside me told me to stop. Instead of pulling her back out, I calmly told her to swim. She refused and sunk a little deeper, but still I stayed on the side of the pool. I told her to use her legs and her arms and to feel her way to the side. When she made it to the edge, I lifted her out, wrapped a big towel around her and hugged her until she stopped crying. I was so proud of her in that moment, and I told her so. As I was driving home that day, I realized that the lesson wasn't for her. It was for me. I was a new kind of mother now, one that knew that no matter how many band-aids I kept on hand, and no matter how many safety warnings I gave, at some point, my girl was going to be drowning without me. But you know what? My girl can swim.
Does this make me a genius? Does it make me mother of the year? Of course not. This means that I'm broken. It means that the me I used to be doesn't work anymore. Instead, someone else is learning to walk in new mom shoes. She's learning to LET IT GO (for all of us who can't stop hearing the song in our heads). And, actually...this part isn't so bad. I've watched what I hope will be the biggest fall of my daughters' lives, and I've seen them get back up and start pedaling again. But the greatest gift of freedom I've received is in knowing that even if this wasn't their darkest hour, my only job is to love them through the process. It was chance that I was able to give them birth, but I'm most grateful for the ability to CHOOSE to give them life.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
The House That Grief Built
Today it's his turn. Tomorrow it might be mine, or hers, or all of us combined. Sometimes it's anger, sometimes it's tears. It doesn't really matter which method we choose. They all suck. And we're stuck here in this new existence. Each of us navigating a new world and trying to make the pieces of each individual fit into a family. It doesn't work well. Not without that most precious 6th piece. He's still here of course, but not in the way we want him to be. Not in the way that makes our puzzle fit together.
You know what the biggest problem is? Our physical life, our day to day, has become too damn easy. Seriously, I just read about a parent who is struggling through life with a sick child and she describes the medications, the therapies, the phone calls, the constant worry. And I know all about that life. That's the life that left me completely drained, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It's the one that made me cry myself to "sleep", but only for minutes at a time before the worry would creep back in and take over. Yes, I remember that life well, and I remember begging for it to stop. For at least the physical part to get better. Guess what? It did. And it's horrible.
Without that piece of constant movement, that never ending need to "save" a member of our family, we have time to think. And that is dangerous. The first part of the grief process was such a tunnel. We were all just feeling our way around in the dark. Separately. Now it seems we've found pieces of each other again, and although that would seem to be a positive thing, it just brings up more pain and confusion. If I squint hard enough, I can catch a glimpse of my little girl, but it doesn't last long. She may laugh for a moment, but soon she'll be swallowed up by the darkness again. It happens to all of us. My husband is over there in the corner. I know he is because sometimes I see him, but then I remember that it's not all of him. And if I find the courage to look into his eyes, I'm reminded with blinding clarity that I'm no longer all of me. How are we supposed to make that work? This is a rhetorical question, of course. No one has this answer. The people in this HOUSE don't have the answer, and if they don't, no one does.
Every family experiences the emotions of each of its members. Usually you deal with it and move on, right? Sisters fight and they are punished for being unkind to one another, and you move to the next issue. That doesn't happen here. Sure the sisters are fighting, but why? Can you always blame the grief? Maybe it's just a normal part of growing up with siblings. That's possible. But what if you're wrong about that? What if they can't stop pushing each other away because they feel the need to protect themselves from loss again? Maybe they want to control what they can and can't have. That's what their Mom does. So why shouldn't they be allowed the same liberties? Could we be blaming the pain too much? Sure. But it's always there. Even if it isn't the reason for the fighting, it will become the raging voice of punishment. All of the sudden a normal moment of parental frustration becomes a shouted list of the reasons that life is unfair.
This exercise in emotional torture is a life sentence for this family. Everything we do or don't do is colored by what we've lost. We grieve so differently, and the outlets we choose to release that pain couldn't be further apart. How do you make that fit? You don't. You sit back and watch, or you stand up and scream, depending on your role that day. But what you don't do is fix it. What you don't do, is make it better. You let it happen, and you pretend for a moment that you have a choice in the matter, that you're choosing your role. But the truth is, this isn't your house anymore. This is grief's house, and you're just living in it.
You know what the biggest problem is? Our physical life, our day to day, has become too damn easy. Seriously, I just read about a parent who is struggling through life with a sick child and she describes the medications, the therapies, the phone calls, the constant worry. And I know all about that life. That's the life that left me completely drained, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It's the one that made me cry myself to "sleep", but only for minutes at a time before the worry would creep back in and take over. Yes, I remember that life well, and I remember begging for it to stop. For at least the physical part to get better. Guess what? It did. And it's horrible.
Without that piece of constant movement, that never ending need to "save" a member of our family, we have time to think. And that is dangerous. The first part of the grief process was such a tunnel. We were all just feeling our way around in the dark. Separately. Now it seems we've found pieces of each other again, and although that would seem to be a positive thing, it just brings up more pain and confusion. If I squint hard enough, I can catch a glimpse of my little girl, but it doesn't last long. She may laugh for a moment, but soon she'll be swallowed up by the darkness again. It happens to all of us. My husband is over there in the corner. I know he is because sometimes I see him, but then I remember that it's not all of him. And if I find the courage to look into his eyes, I'm reminded with blinding clarity that I'm no longer all of me. How are we supposed to make that work? This is a rhetorical question, of course. No one has this answer. The people in this HOUSE don't have the answer, and if they don't, no one does.
Every family experiences the emotions of each of its members. Usually you deal with it and move on, right? Sisters fight and they are punished for being unkind to one another, and you move to the next issue. That doesn't happen here. Sure the sisters are fighting, but why? Can you always blame the grief? Maybe it's just a normal part of growing up with siblings. That's possible. But what if you're wrong about that? What if they can't stop pushing each other away because they feel the need to protect themselves from loss again? Maybe they want to control what they can and can't have. That's what their Mom does. So why shouldn't they be allowed the same liberties? Could we be blaming the pain too much? Sure. But it's always there. Even if it isn't the reason for the fighting, it will become the raging voice of punishment. All of the sudden a normal moment of parental frustration becomes a shouted list of the reasons that life is unfair.
This exercise in emotional torture is a life sentence for this family. Everything we do or don't do is colored by what we've lost. We grieve so differently, and the outlets we choose to release that pain couldn't be further apart. How do you make that fit? You don't. You sit back and watch, or you stand up and scream, depending on your role that day. But what you don't do is fix it. What you don't do, is make it better. You let it happen, and you pretend for a moment that you have a choice in the matter, that you're choosing your role. But the truth is, this isn't your house anymore. This is grief's house, and you're just living in it.
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