Today, it is three months today since we lost you. Three very long months. I have missed you every day. And you have missed so much, not the least of which is Lucy in the dress that Jamie found at a secondhand store.
Lucy started Kindergarten. So many firsts - her first field trip (to the pumpkin patch), her first fire drill, her first trip to check out her own book at the library.
She is taking it all in stride, making friends, and soaking in knowledge like a sponge. You would be so proud of her.
Her art teacher taught her about drawing the human form and since then her artwork has changed. She wants to draw all of the time, on any piece of paper she sees.
My advice: don't leave out your tax or banking documents.
Henry is growing through a more challenging stage. He has had a difficult time adjusting to his new preschool. A constant stream of recent viruses (including one very special double-ear-infection-sinus-infection) has not helped.
He has made some BIG strides - potty training, dressing himself, playing cooperatively with others, riding a bike. Here he is, my own captain underpants.
He knows every letter, number, shape, and symbol. He loves worksheets and other games that challenge his mind. We are prepared for this gloriously nerd-like side of him, but not so much for the sports questions he has about baseball, soccer, and football. I think we will be signing him up for sports soon. He got some informal practice throwing sand at the beach. Unfortunately for Lucy (and dad and me), his aim is spot on.
We got the costume box out and he has been wearing them all over town this month. I thought putting a freshly potty trained boy in complicated-to-get-out-of costumes would be inviting a lot of mess, but he has been wonderful - so good that superhero status is probably just about right.
And I know you would be as happy as I am to see Dane's "Bat Bat" outfit walking about town again.
He has so many questions about you and your death. They come out of the blue, often while waiting in lines. At Fred Meyer "Does it hurt to drown?" At Ikea "When can we go see Papa?" As you can probably imagine, this leads to a lot of public crying by yours truly. Yup, I am a walking faucet. What else is there to do when he explains that his nap simply MUST wait because he really needs show you his new
Your son is doing well. The way you and Lynda raised him and the example you set for him shines through. He does you proud over and over again every day.
He does have a few new gray hairs and he looks exhausted as often as not. He struggles to understand where he fits now that you are gone. Your relationship was a cornerstone for his Tribal identity and maybe that bridge has to be rebuilt. Or maybe he has to see that it has been there all along. At any right, a big pillar has gone out from under him. It will take him some time to believe he has what it takes to move forward without you.
And me? I don't know. So many busy nothings and big things and schedules to organize and parts to remember that keep our family running – I feel like I am running a three ring circus most of the time. I don't know what it felt like to drop from an airplane with a parachute or work explosives on a dam, but I can tell you that it takes a certain amount of bravery and skill to load the kids into THE BIG CAR cart and make a grocery run through Fred Meyer.
I would not call my responsibilities torture but keeping things rolling is not always a joy either. This mommy job has a steep learning curve and I'm still on it.
In the quiet moments, I miss you. I am still no where near prepared to think of you gone. It still hurts so much. Luckily, this kind of view helps a lot.
I feel a quiet evolution starting inside me and I don't know what it means. Everything in the world looks different now. Every. Single. Thing. Do you understand that? Do you know that you are that important to me? I had a chance to say the words and I think you believed me. For that, I am ever grateful.
Thankfully, there is still my mom and Lynda too. Top to bottom, they are both so amazing. And B and Bonna. And siblings and cousins and dear friends. The holidays will bring us back together. Maybe my dad will come for a visit here. Maybe life will start to smooth out. Maybe. Maybe.
With all our love,
Margaret
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