Utopia, or Something Like it

Sleeping late, savoring a few cups of morning coffee, catching up on shows that are on far too late for this mama to watch live, binge watching shows of my teenage years: these are the things a week off should be made of- in Utopia.  Not that I didn’t get a version of this, it was just had it snippets mixed into busy, fun days.

We had our annual visit from my cousin and his family.  It’s so fun to see how much has changed from year to year, visit to visit.  Last year they were so hesitant to come, nervous that it was too soon after we lost Jack, less than a month, and that we wouldn't want them there.  Seeing them then was probably the best thing that could have happened to Sean and I, they were and have been so incredibly supportive; it has been invaluable.  The kids get such a kick out of each other and the years between them don’t seem so great.  Living away from the extended family that we were close with growing up, my sister and I were afraid our kids would feel disconnected from them; it hasn’t and we love it.

It was a visit we look forward to all year and it was good.

We had a few lazy days mixed in where my girl and I drank in the time we had together.  If she told me I was her best friend once, she told me a dozen times and I ate it up.  I watched this little girl-no traces of a baby left- who somehow, as her little world irrevocably changed, still manages to grow and flourish.  Though she talks of things that no 3-½ year old should have to understand, in ways that could break your heart.  While we were driving in the car she said, “Not everyone’s baby dies.”  While playing with her new, ridiculous collection of Tsum Tsums (“well, they don't do anything, they just stand there,” she answered her bewildered Uncle Dyl) she asked, “Died means your heart stopped working, right Mommy?”  These questions take my breath away.  Every time.  I was steaming Sean’s shirt for the wedding we were going to attend the next day she came into my bedroom and said, “I would have been a good such a nice girl to Jack.  I would have let him play with my toys and play pirates with him,” and the only thing I could choke out was, “I know, baby.”  I often wonder what makes her talk about him in bursts when we could go weeks other times and she never mentions him.  My guess is, seeing her cousins with their little brothers, got her little mind working, thinking about how it would have been for her.  Who knows.  But my hope is that her heart never hurts, for even a moment, the way mine does at times.

This was all her....I swear

We changed gears Friday night, and played grown-up.  We threw on a suit and a gown and celebrated two of our good friends marriage.  It’s a beautiful thing seeing two people so happy as they begin their life together.  The smiles, the kisses prompted by clinking glasses, the dances.  Oh the dances; I’m not much of a crier at weddings but watching my friend’s adorable father stroke her hair and crying as they danced, I looked at Sean and saw the look in his eye and knew he was thinking of his girl and the tears were approaching the surface.  When the groom took the floor with his mama, though, the floodgates opened.  I couldn’t help but think, that though it may not be at his wedding, I lost my own little dance partner; we’re dancers in this house and no doubt Jack would have learned to dance right along with the rest of us.  I dried my eyes as quickly as I could and took the night for what it was meant to be: fun.  And it was.

I love a week off, busy or not.  Utopia may not exist, but you can get close and in my mind the countdown begins for the next one, planning how it will be spent.  As long as it is with the people I love, I’ll take it all.  And thing about a broken heart is, as long as you keep moving forward, it can't help but heal, little by little.

Good Days

                       

   

It had been such a long time before I had seen a good day after we lost Jack; a really long time.  I’m not talking about good moments.  Being a mother to the most amazing, beautiful little creature I've encountered allows me to have had many good moments.  Even while laying in a hospital bed less than twenty four hours after the worst day of my life, FaceTime with Kennedy could still make me smile; such a juxtaposition.  This is the power of the love I have for her.  So good moments have never been lost on me.  They feel foreign at times or out of place but they are there nonetheless.

                                          

                                    

And what does a good day look like?  It usually means that I’ve slept through the previous night, not waking up, unable to fall back to sleep, left replaying  January 25th over and over in my mind.  It means that I can get myself out of bed relatively easily, a heavy heart not weighing me down.  A good day means my makeup, which is able to be stretched a lot further than it ever was, is applied and is still in tact by the time I arrive at work.  I don’t hide in my office, avoiding struggling children because I can't bear the thought of letting any more sadness in.  Good days turn into good nights, where I do the dishes and clean up, fold some laundry, and entertain a stalling toddler’s excessive questions when she calls me into her room no less than half a dozen times after I've put her to bed.  They mean that I can focus enough to ask Sean questions and hear the answers, actually having a real honest to God conversation.  It means I fall asleep without tears drying on my cheeks.  A good day.

                                           

                                        

           

                                        

                              

Yeah, I have good days.  There are more of them at a time than in months prior.  And so what does this mean?  It means I smile more, even if those smiles don't always reach all the way up to my eyes.  It means I don’t have to try so hard to be in the moment when I am spending time with my friends and family.

But here’s the thing about good days.  They make the bad days hurt a lot worse.  Sometimes the good days trick my heart and so when a bad day pops up it knocks the wind out of me all over again.  Good days make me forget how tiring a visceral sadness can be; how, sometimes, for days after a bad day, I am too tired to explain.  Good days make me forget how much I hate to see pictures of myself taken before Jack died so that when I walk in the house after a bad day and see the happy, smiling girl with her husband and baby girl hanging above the piano,I could scream.  It takes everything out of me not to rip it off the wall and smash it.  After a bad day I hate her, how happy she looks.  I leave it there though for the good days; good days where I feel hopeful that we can get back to a place that resembles that again, albeit different still.  

                                                                Before

                                                                  After

Something I have always told the kids I work with is:  The good thing about bad days is that they always end.  I take comfort in knowing that at least one thing I tell them is factual; I can personally attest to it.  Every night is the chance to start fresh again tomorrow.  

                                     

          

And so, for this gal, coming off a rough couple of days, I look forward to hitting the refresh button and starting what I can only hope will be a few good days; with a week off with my girl coming up, I like my odds.