Joy to the world

Josephine, my sweet love. My delightfully funny, beautiful darling girl.

Today you are nine years old.

You are with your dad this week, so I went to school this morning to find you and wish you a happy birthday. I was already having a frazzled morning and I wandered around school, not able to find you. I was about to leave when I got a message from your dad that you had come to school late. So I got out of the car and went back in and had to wander around some more because you had left your classroom with a math group you're in.

Something about all the wandering around, not able to find you, made me feel weepy. I wanted to say to everyone I encountered, "where is she?? I just want to wish her a happy birthday, dammit!"

So when I finally found you, I did weep a little bit. I wrapped you up my arms and hugged you and kissed you.

You shouldn't have been that hard to find. Your short, blue-green hair stands out.

We did your hair two weekends ago. You really really really wanted blue hair. I had no problem with blue hair, but I really really really didn't want to spend hundreds of dollars, and many hours in a hair salon, in order to achieve it.

So I did it myself.

The bleaching part was easy, though there were gaps in my application. So when we rinsed and dried it, there was a little bit of a tiger stripe-y effect. Which was kind of cool, honestly.

Then we applied the blue dye. After 45 minutes, we rinsed it out. I realized that when you're paying all that money at the salon, what you're really paying for is access to a salon sink, in which you can tilt your head back and rinse the dye directly down the drain, rather than having to kneel in the shower as blue runs over your hands and your body and gets on everything.

But it was worth it. It looked super-cool.

You're super cool.

You're in fourth grade now. You have tons of friends. Everybody loves you and thinks you're delightful.  You're funny and goofy and strong.  You keep getting taller and taller.

Your brother is having a rougher time right now - he frequently feels like you're the favored child. And he's probably right, for some people. It's not fair, but it's true. You're easier than he is, at least for the time being.

The two of you bicker and get on each other's nerves, as siblings do. But when you were at your dad's this weekend and Zeke was with me, I had a feeling you would miss him. I wasn't surprised when you texted last night asking to talk to him.

You are a kind soul. You still say, "AAWWWWW!!!!" every time you see a dog anywhere, anytime. You're sweet to your friends.  You're funny as hell.

Even though you now have your own room with two beds, you still always sleep with me. "I don't like being away from you," is your rationale. And it's OK. I don't mind. I love waking up with you. You put your hand on my face and say, "I love you."

I love you, too.

There was something about your new hair color that was reminding me of something, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then the other day, in an "ah-ha" moment, I realized what it was - the character of Joy, from the movie Inside Out. With her optimism and cheerfulness and zany side.



 You are Joy. You are joy.

I love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Mom

River deep, mountain high

Dear Emma,

It has been four years since you left us.

Even though in other areas of my life, four years feels like a million, with you it doesn't feel as long as that. The pain, while duller at this point than it was, is still fairly acute and close to the surface.

When we were at the beach this past summer, Zeke was going through some stuff (still is, honestly), and your dad and I did some bonding over the dilemmas of single parenting and pushing through the difficulties. And we talked about you a little bit, and what that is like for him. He is an amazing person and an amazing father, and truly an inspiration to me. I have more respect for his strength, resilience, and grace under pressure than I can possibly say.

It made me think that another reason that your death was such a tragedy - on top of the tragedy of your life having been cut short, and the family's loss and grief - is that you are missing out on the experience of having the love and support and guidance of such an incredible father.

I climbed another mountain for you this past weekend for your yahrtzeit. The only deviation from tradition is that I wore a different baseball cap because I can't find the green Red Sox hat that I usually wear. It actually really bothered me not to have that hat.

Every year the way I approach the climb changes a little bit. So many people I know have lost loved ones recently. I thought that maybe instead of just hiking for you, I would ask people if there was a loved one they wanted me to carry up the mountain as a way of honoring their memory. In the end, I carried nineteen names in addition to yours. I was touched by how much it meant to people, and I was touched by how much it meant to me as well.

We climbed Mt. Democrat in honor of the upcoming midterm elections. I feel like you would have approved of that. Neither Christin nor I had a good night's sleep, but I think that actually portends a good climb, because our best climbs have come on days after a shitty night's sleep.

This was a great climb.

I have been doing some running over the past couple of months. My body hates it - I get weird pains in my hips, my boobs are too big, it's not pleasant for me. But I sure felt the results - I was astounded by how much stronger I felt at high altitude. I only had to really gut it out with 50-steps-then-50-breaths for the last 100 feet or so.

And man, was it ever a gorgeous day. The sun was shining and the aspens are gold and Christin and I could not stop marveling at how lucky we are to live in Colorado.

The yahrtzeit hike presents such a range of feelings and thoughts. It always takes me back to those awful days immediately after your death, because the reason I started walking so much after you died - the reason the climb is at once so fulfilling while at the same time being so wrapped up in losing you - was because of the amazing hike up the Longs Peak trail that Christin and I did 4 days before you died.  When we were in New Hampshire doing our version of shiva, miserable and devastated and out of our minds with grief, all I could think of was that day on the mountain when everything was beautiful and perfect and life-affirming. I was desperate to get back there.

And so I take myself back there every year, in your honor. I get to experience the beauty and perfection that makes me feel the life and strength in my body, while also keeping your memory vibrant. I think that that's what makes reaching the summit such a mix of accomplishment and pride and sorrow - that punch in the gut that makes me catch my breath and cry as soon as we take that final step to the top of the world.

It's like every year, through the joy and effort and flood of memory and emotion that the climb brings on, I re-experience that juxtaposition of intense happiness and then intense agony from four years ago. The climb itself brings you back to life in my head, only to experience losing you again.

As hard as it is, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.

I hope you know how loved and missed you still are. We don't shy away from talking about you - you are and will always be part of us. Our family will never be complete without you. We miss your smile and your energy and your kindness and your generosity of spirit and your sense of humor. We miss hearing about what you're up to.

We just miss you. I miss you. I love you and I always will.

Wendy

Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me

I woke up to the sound of someone walking into the house. I reached out to look at my phone - it was 1:15 in the morning.

I was startled but not afraid. I knew who it was.

I walked down the stairs and into the living room. He stood there looking exhausted and weepy.

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, helpless.

"How did you get here, sweetie?"

"I walked."

"You walked here from daddy's?"

It's three and a half miles. It's 1:15 in the fucking morning.

He nodded and started to cry. "I needed to be with you," he said.

I looked down and saw he wasn't wearing any shoes. Three and a half miles. Three and a half miles in the middle of the night with no shoes. Wandering around Colorado Boulevard in the middle of the night.

Three and a half miles in the middle of the goddamned night with no shoes.

"Mom, I'm so tired. I'm so cold."

I sat down on the couch and he curled himself into my lap.  I wrapped my arms around him and rocked him the way I did when he was a baby.

"It's ok, honey. You're ok. I'm here. You're safe."

He nodded and closed his eyes. He was so worn out and relieved to be with me that it brought tears to my eyes.

"Sweetie, let's go upstairs and get in bed. You need to sleep. We can talk in the morning."

He was going through some stuff with his dad. Neither of them was handling it well, but one of them is a child, and one isn't. Sometimes I think adults don't realize the emotional impact they have on their children. They don't think about how their words and actions can make their child feel like the solid ground beneath their feet has turned to quicksand. They don't realize that a cutting remark doesn't just leave a scrape - it's a deep stab.

I was in a constant state of crippling anxiety, worrying about my children, trying to help them navigate a rough time, trying to keep work and the house and everything else functioning.

A woman I know, whose son is friends with Zeke, remarked, "he left his dad's house in the middle of the night and walked to your house without telling anyone? That's such bad behavior. You must have been ready to kill him."

I wanted to say, of course I wasn't ready to kill him, you moron. A ten-year-old doesn't walk three miles to their mother's house in the middle of the night - barefoot - because they're misbehaving. They do it because they're in pain.

It was devastating to think about how desperate he must have felt to do that.

We went to the Outer Banks a few days later. It was as it always is - familiar and beautiful and consistent. I got a good tan. I read some books. I spent some quality time with my brother Josh.

But Zeke was a mess. I was a mess. I felt like my life was a mess. I wasn't sleeping. The anxiety gripped my chest like a vise. I cried constantly. I felt responsible for everything, and like I was utterly failing.

Eventually, after we were home, he and his dad worked stuff out. He's much, much better. School is going well. Everyone is getting along.

You think that the awfulness can't possibly resolve itself. And then, very quickly, it does.

But man, it was a hard summer.