What I Did Not Do On My Summer "Vacation"

Remember that post I wrote in early June, "School's (Almost) Out for the Summer"?  Where I posted a list of what I hoped to achieve while my children were out of school and I became a stay-at-home, work-at-home, full-time semi-crazed mother?

Well, ha on me. Here's a list of what I didn't get done over the past three months.

1. Lose 10 lbs. I maintained. Which has to be seen as a plus, right? (Right?)

2. I did not get my children to put their dishes in the dishwasher. Well, maybe 25% of the time. That's an optimistic percentage.

3. I did not convince my children that bickering with a sibling is overrated. But boy, did I try.

4. I did not eliminate foods with high fructose corn syrup from the family's diet. I limited them, but when you've got two kiddos with you at the grocery store arguing and pleading, I've found I give in more than I should.

5. I did not win the lottery. No surprise there.

6. Nor did I deal with the piles and piles of kid artwork and other assorted schoolwork lying around the house. Let's just say I have a new plan for the fall.

I did have a lovely, relaxing vacation in Massachusetts with my family and my sister. Except for the bickering siblings part, it was terrific. And now, school is back in session, my children are doing well (so far), and James, though exhausted, has done great in all-day kindergarten. Leaving me to focus on those piles and tasks and 10 lbs for six hours each day, though I am desperate to run to school and bring him home at noon.

Catch me in December and I'll let you know how I've done on my summer "things to do" list.

And They're Off

My baby started kindergarten this morning. He was up and dressed and had his backpack on 20 minutes early, stating, "I'm ready to go now!" We told him it wasn't time yet, and he said, "I want to go anyway!"

And I teared up all through breakfast and our short walk to school.

He's ready. And it's hard to let him go. James walked into the school door without a backward glance while all I could do was look back in time, remembering the day he was born, remembering the last five years, wondering why they went by so quickly.

He's ready. And I am not.

He saved my life, you know. James and his sister both did, after Ben died. Charlotte was my reason to get up in the morning when I wanted to stay in bed, covers pulled tight over my head, forever. Though I can't claim to have been a good parent to her in that year after her brother died, I showed up because I had to. Because she needed me. I needed her even more.

Unlike last year, when I lingered at school on the morning of the kindergartener's first day, remembering what might have been, I cried this morning in happiness and sorrow. The milestones I would have marked with Ben are becoming more nebulous now, smaller in significance. I will not know when he would have finished school, for he might have dropped out, or failed a year, or some other unfathomable thing. He may never have gone to college, or gotten married, or had children. I don't know, and I live with not knowing, having to accept it because that is all there is.

I will mark my life now with the two who lived. And it's ok. Though I can't pretend these milestones are normal, untinged with the pain of loss.

James was my second chance, my hope, my future, my joy. All through that long pregnancy filled with fear and expectation, I waited, and hoped, and feared the worst. Then he came and I can't imagine living without him.

He's ready. Ready to go off into the world, eager to learn, so excited to be big.

The past five years have been leading up to this, I know. James, and Charlotte, are both where they need to be. Exactly as it should be, exactly as I want it, except for the longing in my heart.

The Loneliest Number

They say one is the loneliest number, and so often in this land of grief, the solitary loneliness rears its ugly head. Over the last week, as I thought about the first day of kindergarten, I was reminded how alone I sometimes am. In bed on Wednesday night, my husband asked me what was wrong. I tried so hard not to tell him, didn't want to be upset, even though I'd just been crying in the bathroom.

"Ben would have started kindergarten tomorrow," I told him, and started to cry.

He didn't know what to say. I don't blame him for that; I understand that we are not the same. It is my job to get the children to school, to pack the lunches, sort the clothes, take them to the doctor. They are on my mind every moment of every day; no matter what I am doing, they are part of me. I don't know if it's something biological, or something that happens once we have a child, but it does seem to be common to mothers everywhere, this marking of time in relation to our children, this recognition of where they should be. It's not the same for most, probably all, of the dads I know.

And while I have friends who remember every year on the anniversary of Ben's death, there are moments, like the one I experienced this week, when what would have been a milestone in our lives is unrecognized by others. I don't blame them for that either; before Ben, I wouldn't have thought about those milestones in the life of someone else.

But I'm reminded how lonely this journey is, and I wonder if I make too much of what would have been. Do I need to let go more than I have, of Ben, of the possibilities that no longer exist? Or am I right where I should be?

I don't know. Not every day is like last Thursday, but every day I am aware of what I am missing. I don't want to forget completely, but there are times when I am tired of remembering.

Another Day, Another Milestone

I've been thinking about this day all year, wondering what I would do when it arrived. Would I stand on the school lawn, a voyeur into the marking of a moment, many moments, staring at others' tears and smiles? Would I enter into the circle, as I so wanted to do, to both welcome and send off, to be a witness for the parents and children starting a new chapter in their lives? What would I do, on this day that would have meant something for my family, if things had worked out differently?

Today, Ben would have started kindergarten. There are milestones on this journey that we mark; in the first year, the holidays, the gatherings missed, the first birthday, the first anniversary of loss. Later, more birthdays, significant moments, like this one. I won't ever have a day to mark when he might have married, had his first child, no certain date for his first day at college. But this day, this day I know.

I watched for a few moments, from the playground, as James played with a friend, as the kindergardeners gathered,some of them crying and hugging their parents, reluctant to take this big step. The parents took photos and wiped away tears, promised to be back soon, that all would be okay. I walked away as they gathered in their circle on the lawn to mark the official start of their formal educations, holding James in my arms.

"Why you stop and look, mama?" he asked me.

"Because I wanted to," I replied, my voice full of tears.