Yesterday I met a really nice woman and she told me I looked really
great for having two kids. And I looked at her and I wanted to cry.
Scream. Kick her in the shins. Tell her all about all THREE of my
kids. But I just smiled and said thanks. It happens all of the time.
People who don’t know us don’t know. And I just don’t always want to
get into it.
The problem is that afterwards it always grates on me. It is like a
slap in the face to hear I only have two kids. Because it isn’t true,
but it is. I only have two kids here. I don’t get to raise my
Jameson. I will never get to change another diaper, read another bed
time story, or tuck my little boy in again. I will never get to put him
on the bus for the first time, go to a parent-teacher conference and
hear about his antics and achievements. I won’t get to teach him how to
tie his shoes or ride a bike. And the list goes on and on and on.
I still miss him just as much. I miss all the firsts we will never have
with him. I was going to say that the holidays always make me miss him
more. But it is the holidays and the changing of seasons and the
birthdays and the quiet days…they ALL make me miss him so much. I never
stop missing him. Missing him is a part of who I am now. It is always
there.
And I’m so tired of missing him. I’m so tired of not being a whole
person anymore. I’m tired of thinking about his vivaciousness and
wondering how the hell this happened. I’m tired of the grief and the
sadness. I’m tired of only having fading memories and a digital slide
show. It has only been one year and four months and I’m already just
so tired of it all.
It doesn’t get easier to miss him. It doesn’t get easier to have him
gone. Instead, it feels like he keeps getting pulled farther and
farther out of my reach while I desperately cling to anything and
everything that hasn’t slipped away. He will always be my son and I
will always be a mom of three.
But I only have two kids.
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