A birth day to remember

A very special Cars cake made for a very special birthday boy.

How can it be possible? This little man that changed everything is turned 2 on Friday.

Holy Moly.

In some ways, watching him grow is going by way too fast. Gone are the days of baby snuggles and gibberish....he is now a full-blown Cars lovin', running and jumping, never stops talking, knows what he wants, stubborn red-headed tempered, loving and laughing toddler.

In other ways, though, his birth could not seem further away to me. If my reference of time was based solely on that day, I would swear Carter was an adult. Perhaps because I have suppressed that day in my mind and my heart....sure it was a day of joy that Carter safely made it into the world in spite of tragedy going on around him, but it was also the second hardest day of my life next to losing his daddy. It's one of the few pieces of grief I haven't fully come to terms with and I have a hard time talking about. Ashamed that giving birth to this beautiful was a painful experience. Thinking about that day always leaves me in tears. 

Perhaps it also seems so long ago because so much has changed since then. So much life has been lived, so many milestones have been celebrated, created, and passed. And I have changed since then. I'm not the same person who birthed this beautiful boy two years ago. It's crazy to think that so much could change in such a short amount of time. Maybe that's why it doesn't feel like a short amount of time.

The only thing that gives me the ability to speak about the pain of Carter's birth is the knowledge that out of those ashes came the beauty that is my son. The child that forced me to keep going, robbed me of my selfishness, and brought to life another piece of Jeremy for me to hold on to. And the boy that saved my life. This little man is too full of life to keep me focused on the pain...he leads me forward and focused on living. Children have a funny way of doing that.

I would give anything to see Carter with his daddy, even just once. To see the look on Jeremy's face that I have burned into my heart....the look of falling into unconditional love with the life we created. I would do anything to give Carter an opportunity to know his daddy beyond the pictures and stories we tell him every day. I crave the sight of Jeremy on the ground playing Cars with Carter. I ache to see Carter give just one big sloppy, beautiful kiss to his daddy.

As much as it hurts to know I will never get to see these images in my life time, I also know that I do not want Carter's birthdays to be marked by tragedy. Today, I am reminding myself of how far we've come and how much love and happiness Carter has added to my life just by being in it. And I smile knowing Jeremy is watching, beaming with pride that his little man is happy and healthy, despite my shortcomings. And I look forward to seeing where the rest of his birthdays take us.

Happy Birthday, sweet baby boy. 

I love you always.

Child of a Widow

My dad, my cousin and me about 2 years after my mom died

When I was five, my mom lost her fight with cancer and my dad was widowed at almost exactly the age I was when  I was widowed. The Universe has a really strange sense of humor, by the way.

The two of us had to navigate this new life we didn't plan for. He never got us any professional help and he didn't have much of a support system that I know of.

At school I was the only kid who'd lost a parent. I felt utterly alone and Mother's Day was torture for me as I tried to pretend I had someone living to make a card for.

At Camp Widow West this weekend, I was a part of a panel of amazing widowed people who came to a session to hear from adult children of widowed people. The facilitator and I were the two of us who were both widowed AND children of widows. As each parent took their turn to share their story, a common theme revealed itself. They just wanted to do their best to make sure their kids were okay.

Then I was asked to talk about what helped me when I was a kid and I realized that what would have helped me tremendously is if my father had reached out for help more often like these parents were doing.

Regardless of how he handled his grief or my grief, I turned out okay, though. I'll grieve the loss of my mom my whole life, but I'm okay.

I wanted so badly to reassure these parents that their children would be okay, too. Showing up at Camp and reaching out for help on the journey was a step my father didn't and couldn't really take advantage of. I can only imagine what it might have been like if my father and I had had the resources that SSLF and other grief groups offer.

He needed support for the Herculean task before him and he didn't have it. I can't imagine what it must have been like for him, but I do know what it was like for me. I needed to talk about my pain and my loss. I needed to be with other kids who'd lost their parents. I needed female figures in my life who would take me under their wing and provide some mothering. I needed my teachers to know ahead of time that I didn't have a mommy so they could help soften the blow of Mother's Day. I needed to see a counselor. I needed to keep some things of my mom's. I needed to keep her memory alive as much as possible. I needed to feel loved and wanted by my remaining parent.

Most of this I've managed to either find or create for myself as an adult, but ideally I would have had them as a kid, too.

If you're raising kids as a widowed person, I want you to know (from the other side) that it will be okay. Reach out for help as much as you can. You can't do this alone. Please don't hesitate to have you and your children seen by professionals. If you can, find a camp or a support group for your kids so they have a community of children like them to be a part of. Reach out for help whenever and wherever you can.

And come to Camp! There will be so much support for you there. So many people are out there, doing their best to raise kids after widowhood.

I won't tell you that my childhood wasn't difficult, but most of what made it so was my father's inability to reach out for help, not my mother's death. You are not alone. Please remember that. Reach out for others who are traveling this road, too. We need each other.