We love you and miss you and hope you are having a lovely party in Heaven today.
We will sing to you and eat cake and share good memories.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Six
Happy Birthday Jameson.
We love you and miss you and hope you are having a lovely party in Heaven today.
We will sing to you and eat cake and share good memories.
We love you and miss you and hope you are having a lovely party in Heaven today.
We will sing to you and eat cake and share good memories.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Gone
I'm struggling this week. Missing my boy. Thinking about what 6 should be like. Remembering how awful things were three years ago. Wishing so hard it were all a different story I could be sharing today.
My heart is imploding as I write this; grasping to find the words that I cannot articulate. To describe what it is like three years later. The loss is just as great; it does not diminish over time. Instead, it almost feels like it gets bigger as more time goes by. More time that could have and should have been. More time that was stolen away from us. The nagging feeling that we've been cheated out of one of the best things we ever had never goes away. It is always right there, under the veil of composure we try to hard to maintain.
But this week is tough one. It is harder to focus, to talk, to think, to breathe. The ache tugs a little more. The hole gapes wider. The tears flow faster. And there is no release. He is gone in the morning when I wake up. And gone when I accidentally pull too many bowls down for the cereal at breakfast. And he is gone when I make the beds and fold the socks and pick up the toys littering the floors. He is gone when we drop off and pick up from school. He is gone when we walk to the park. He is gone when we eat dinner and when we have baths and read stories. He is gone when the prayers are said. And his bed stays empty when the others are tucked in and kissed because he is gone. And he is gone when the sun goes down and the world gets quiet. He is gone when the dishes are washed and the shirts are ironed. He is gone when I lie in bed at night. And he is still gone when I wake in the middle of the night and can't sleep. He is always gone.
And while I sit here in a puddle, gasping for breathe, struggling to stay present, the world just keeps spinning. And people all around me keep smiling. And breakfasts till need to be made and dishes still need to be done. And laundry mountains grow and drywall sits unfinished and paperwork piles up because I cannot move. And I try to be gentle and allow the grief to happen. Because it's okay to have hard weeks. But the world still turns. And I pray for grace to flow out and cover my family. Because I am not the only one grieving. This is hard week for all of us.
My heart is imploding as I write this; grasping to find the words that I cannot articulate. To describe what it is like three years later. The loss is just as great; it does not diminish over time. Instead, it almost feels like it gets bigger as more time goes by. More time that could have and should have been. More time that was stolen away from us. The nagging feeling that we've been cheated out of one of the best things we ever had never goes away. It is always right there, under the veil of composure we try to hard to maintain.
But this week is tough one. It is harder to focus, to talk, to think, to breathe. The ache tugs a little more. The hole gapes wider. The tears flow faster. And there is no release. He is gone in the morning when I wake up. And gone when I accidentally pull too many bowls down for the cereal at breakfast. And he is gone when I make the beds and fold the socks and pick up the toys littering the floors. He is gone when we drop off and pick up from school. He is gone when we walk to the park. He is gone when we eat dinner and when we have baths and read stories. He is gone when the prayers are said. And his bed stays empty when the others are tucked in and kissed because he is gone. And he is gone when the sun goes down and the world gets quiet. He is gone when the dishes are washed and the shirts are ironed. He is gone when I lie in bed at night. And he is still gone when I wake in the middle of the night and can't sleep. He is always gone.
And while I sit here in a puddle, gasping for breathe, struggling to stay present, the world just keeps spinning. And people all around me keep smiling. And breakfasts till need to be made and dishes still need to be done. And laundry mountains grow and drywall sits unfinished and paperwork piles up because I cannot move. And I try to be gentle and allow the grief to happen. Because it's okay to have hard weeks. But the world still turns. And I pray for grace to flow out and cover my family. Because I am not the only one grieving. This is hard week for all of us.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
The First 50
An update...
1000 List
1. Cleansing rain
2. New beginnings
3. Kilz paint
4. Morning snuggles with sleepy babies
5. Doggy deep breathing at my feet
6. Professional installation.
7. Park Time with new friends
8. Thunderstorms
9. Nap times
10. Thai food
11. Cool evenings and family walks
12. Swim lessons
13. Tissues with lotion
14. Daddy's day off.
15. Home depot employees
16. A good vet
17. Losing my voice while learning to hold my tongue
18. Running water. Clean running water.
19. Wrinkle free dress shirts
20. Turkish delight.
21. Reading together too late at night
22. Enjoying the all night snuggle with the sick and fussy baby.
23. Football season and a working TV.
24. watching her hair grow and curl the same way her brothers did
25. Text from hubs with an unexpected and early leaving from work.
26. Gummy vitamins
27. Teeny wet footprints
28. Coyote howls
29. Having a loop in the house
30. Watching them play together
31. My mom's meatloaf in the oven
32. Baby squirrels chirping and chasing
33. Painting with toddlers.
34. Daily new beginnings
35. Spider webs
36. Coffee. How did I wait this long to write coffee?
37. Tissues with lotion
38. Fresh bread...even if it didn't rise right
39. Baby gates
40. Wild flowers on the side of the road.
41. Grape vines in my yard
42. Acorns
43. Watching my boy play four square with new friends
44. Coffee. Did I already say that?
45. Being married to my best friend
46. Having a mom who always picks up the phone even when I call 7 times in one day.
47. Garden snakes. Yes I did just say that.
48. Not being afraid to try drywalling.
49. IPod music
50. whipped cream
What are you thankful for today?
1000 List
1. Cleansing rain
2. New beginnings
3. Kilz paint
4. Morning snuggles with sleepy babies
5. Doggy deep breathing at my feet
6. Professional installation.
7. Park Time with new friends
8. Thunderstorms
9. Nap times
10. Thai food
11. Cool evenings and family walks
12. Swim lessons
13. Tissues with lotion
14. Daddy's day off.
15. Home depot employees
16. A good vet
17. Losing my voice while learning to hold my tongue
18. Running water. Clean running water.
19. Wrinkle free dress shirts
20. Turkish delight.
21. Reading together too late at night
22. Enjoying the all night snuggle with the sick and fussy baby.
23. Football season and a working TV.
24. watching her hair grow and curl the same way her brothers did
25. Text from hubs with an unexpected and early leaving from work.
26. Gummy vitamins
27. Teeny wet footprints
28. Coyote howls
29. Having a loop in the house
30. Watching them play together
31. My mom's meatloaf in the oven
32. Baby squirrels chirping and chasing
33. Painting with toddlers.
34. Daily new beginnings
35. Spider webs
36. Coffee. How did I wait this long to write coffee?
37. Tissues with lotion
38. Fresh bread...even if it didn't rise right
39. Baby gates
40. Wild flowers on the side of the road.
41. Grape vines in my yard
42. Acorns
43. Watching my boy play four square with new friends
44. Coffee. Did I already say that?
45. Being married to my best friend
46. Having a mom who always picks up the phone even when I call 7 times in one day.
47. Garden snakes. Yes I did just say that.
48. Not being afraid to try drywalling.
49. IPod music
50. whipped cream
What are you thankful for today?
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Dates
Yesterday was August 31st. I thought about it a week ago-ish and then I had my days all mixed up and they day went by wholly unnoticed. And then again all day today, I forgot all about it until tonight. I was just picking up Narnia to read to Little Man when the date crashed over my head like a ton of bricks. Along with a few extra bricks at the end for not remembering on the date.
Three years ago on August 31st, Jameson went in for a routine hernia surgery and our world changed forever. Because there was never anything routine about Jameson. And this routine surgery turned into a hospital stay, which turned into a PICU stay, which turned into the worst nightmare ever imaginable and in so many ways, it is still going on.
And now it is September first. And school is starting in two days for Little Man. And if Jameson were still here, he'd be going into kindergarten. Come Wednesday, I'm going to feel pretty damn sad when I think about how I should be packing two lunches. And in two weeks, my special little boy would be turning 6. He's been gone for almost as long as he was here.
There seems to be a fine line in this grieving between remembering and allowing myself to be sad and dwelling on the sadness. The dwelling is easy, but it totally sucks. Because it isn't Jameson, which is really what I want to be thinking about it. It's not looking at him, but looking at the black hole that is where he used to be. And that sucks. September is a hard month to remember but not dwell. But I'm going to try.
Tonight, though. I'm just tired. The days are long but the years are short. It is one of the most true statements I've ever heard about parenting. But enough of all of this. I'm going to bed and I'm going to think of my Jameson. Not his four months of dying or his death or his absence, but of him. And his laugh. And his painting eating. And the way he would stick his whole fist in the yogurt and giggle while the dogs licked his hands. And the way he danced. And the way he snuggled. And the way he made everyone around him love him just because.
I can't believe it's already been three years.
Three years ago on August 31st, Jameson went in for a routine hernia surgery and our world changed forever. Because there was never anything routine about Jameson. And this routine surgery turned into a hospital stay, which turned into a PICU stay, which turned into the worst nightmare ever imaginable and in so many ways, it is still going on.
And now it is September first. And school is starting in two days for Little Man. And if Jameson were still here, he'd be going into kindergarten. Come Wednesday, I'm going to feel pretty damn sad when I think about how I should be packing two lunches. And in two weeks, my special little boy would be turning 6. He's been gone for almost as long as he was here.
There seems to be a fine line in this grieving between remembering and allowing myself to be sad and dwelling on the sadness. The dwelling is easy, but it totally sucks. Because it isn't Jameson, which is really what I want to be thinking about it. It's not looking at him, but looking at the black hole that is where he used to be. And that sucks. September is a hard month to remember but not dwell. But I'm going to try.
Tonight, though. I'm just tired. The days are long but the years are short. It is one of the most true statements I've ever heard about parenting. But enough of all of this. I'm going to bed and I'm going to think of my Jameson. Not his four months of dying or his death or his absence, but of him. And his laugh. And his painting eating. And the way he would stick his whole fist in the yogurt and giggle while the dogs licked his hands. And the way he danced. And the way he snuggled. And the way he made everyone around him love him just because.
I can't believe it's already been three years.
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