Filling in that emptiness

Here we are again...Another September 10th.

Deciding what to do for a birthday of someone who isn't here anymore has always been one of the hardest, weirdest loads to carry, Luke. The mental load of being a mom is hard enough, but at least now, with Lena and Lainey being older, they have input on what they want or feel like doing for their birthdays. Your day is always complicated. It always feels like I don't do enough. 

Last night at dinner, I asked the girls what they thought you would want for birthday dessert tonight. They told me it would definitely be Nothing Bundt Cakes--But they couldn't really agree on what your favorite flavor would be. Lainey said vanilla. And then she decided she knew exactly what you would be wearing though: Long Nike socks, black shorts, and a gray Nike sweatshirt with WHITE CROCS🤣. Because what she definitely knows is that you'd be a rizzler, just like her, but older and cooler and 12 years old today. 

I love how Laine is so decisive about her opinions of what you'd be like--It's like she has this made up world in her head where you exist. Or maybe it's just where she wants you to exist. And I always just come back to the reality that the two of you would likely never exist on the same plane together. You and Lena absolutely wouldn't. But in this perfect world, Lainey believes you all do. I wish I could live in that world. Maybe kids understand more about life and death than we ever give them credit for. 

Twelve years out from what is hopefully the worst day of our lives, I still live in shock that any of it really happened. That my entire life would be totally different had you survived. I would likely have whole other sets of activities, of friend groups. But one small, cruel twist of fate, and everything changed. And that's not to say that I don't love my life. I do. I was looking back at pictures from 2012 last night--The days and months after you died. It all feels...empty. The emptiness was almost tangible, even from stupid pictures I had taken with my phone months later. I was in such an awful place--It felt like nothing mattered and everything I had ever wanted for a family was POOF, gone. 

It's such an absolute mindfuck that this is my life now. Full. So busy. Kids driving me crazy just like every kid does to their parents. Birthday parties and soccer practice and too much going on at all times. Twelve years ago, I couldn't see it. I wouldn't allow myself to see it, out of the grief I held for you. 

And that's where all of the truest things ever said about grief land--In the earliest, most shocking days of grief, it's debilitating. A huge rock to carry around in your pocket--a life sentence of heaviness. And 12 years later, you find yourself at IHOP with your kids and husband at dinner on a Monday discussing what kind of cake we should order for you and what you'd be wearing that day. But grief is also a vicious cycle--start with grief, let it sit, let it slide and let life take its course, then feel pangs of guilt--because the grief doesn't feel worse--but you feel like it should. And then you put it back in your pocket, and keep going. With it. Forever. 

Wish you were here having vanilla bundt cake and wearing white Crocs with us today, Luke. Twelve years is a long time without you