Sunday, January 17, 2010

The Week Ahead

I'm hurting right now...hurting because of my short temper with my kids today, hurting because I can see how much they are hurting and hurting because I'm powerless to stop it. This week is coming. Coming on hard and fast. I've been watching it approach and ignoring it—there is no way this year could be as bad as the previous years. It has been THREE YEARS—three. I have a new baby now, and he is so amazing. Yet the sadness that seeps into me every year is wrapping itself around my family right now.

And the tears. You know how tears sit in your throat and stay there for a while? Like they are waiting to crawl into your eyes at any minute? That is how I feel. Every minute I'm breathing deep, to prevent them from coming. Over everything—Erin's behavior, Evan fussing, Megan needing a binky...everything. Just typing this is making them come again. I have little tolerance.

People are reaching out—comments like, “I know this week is hard for you” and “we are thinking of you” are starting to show up. A few cards, emails. People who really care. Care, yes, but unable to stop this flood of grief. Plug up this hole in my family and the hole in my heart. Oh, I miss her so. The little person she would be right now. Can you see her? When you close your eyes, can you see her dimples? Her tiny earlobes? The way her chin sticks out when she is being stubborn persistent? I can. I see her so clearly in the sparkling lights of her tree. I see her in the clear, cold winter sky. I see her in her baby brother's amazing, milky-sweet breath. She's there—she's really there. But oh so clearly NOT here.

Now I know there are people reading this and judging me—the ones who think I should be over it, that it isn't healthy to feel this way and that I really, truly need help moving on. I accept that. And to them I will say that I'm sorry you can't see her the way I can. Despite (or because of?) the sadness that she wraps us in this time of year, she is beautiful. As the salty tears run down my cheeks and her shining tree lights up my window, I know I wouldn't trade her for anything. Feel free to “move on” without me. I'm going to sit here with my baby girl for a while.

1 comment:

  1. What I hope, and wish for, is a time where you don't feel like you have to justify yourself for loving Sophia.

    "Moving On" doesn't mean you forget. It doesn't mean you stop caring and stop feeling. It means you continue to live your life and you have, most splendidly.

    My friend, I wish I could hold this pain for you, to give you some time without your burden. But this great sadness is part of who you are. Don't stuff it away. Be sad, you miss her. You all miss her.