It's been 10 months since your funeral. 10 months and 6 days since we texted late into the night and made plans for you to come over for dinner the next day. So much has changed in the last 10 months and I've fought most of those changes on the battlefield of my heart.
We aren't in Africa. That's grief we still deal with every day, too. The Daraja choir came last week and I hid my face behind Ella's head when they showed the video of the children's village in Uganda, as tears slipped down my cheeks. I ache to be there. I know you'd understand that.
We are moving. Not anywhere far, just across the train tracks to the other side of main street. It's a bigger house with 5 bedrooms. It reminds me a lot of our old house. I can almost see us sitting in our new basement, your stinky shoes on the floor, a huge bag of peanut M&Ms between us while we discuss your Junior year of college. I miss those days more than anyone could know.
I'm pregnant. Baby #8 is due on December 28th. That's our 11th anniversary and your Mom's birthday. Which means, you'd have finally been home from school for the birth of one of our kids! You'd have loved that since you'd missed the last 2. I know you'd want to be at the hospital right away but then you'd turn red and feel awkward as you thought about what I'd just done with my body. Birth always half intrigued, half grossed you out. I'm sad that this will be our first baby to have never met you.
Lucas and Ashlee turn 7 tomorrow. Then, a week later, Aaron will be 5. Those are the last, first birthdays without you here. We are doing a double sleep over again. This year you won't be here to help me do pedicures with a house full of squealing, indecisive little girls. I'm waiting on Lucas to realize it's his first birthday without you. He still cries often because he misses you. I know that would break your heart.
I signed our older 3 up for Summer with the Arts last night. Bile rose in the back of my throat and dread immediately consumed me. They all want to go again this year. And I want them to go. But I'm already dreading the end of July so much, I can't imagine how hard that week will be for all of us. I don't know how they'll do without you bouncing into each room to check on them.
A few weeks ago I saw a dark headed girl with a backpack on going into the old college trailer at church. In truth, she probably didn't look a whole lot like you, except the brown hair and backpack. But it rattled me.
Abigail is nearly walking and she's realized she's funny. You always enjoyed our kids so much at this age. I can picture you walking in, stepping on the squeaky part of the floor in our kitchen, offering to shake my hand (like I ever let you not hug me), scooping her up and making her giggle. She's such a fun baby.
Grace and I are getting really good at Olivia's hair. Like, I'm getting compliments from strangers, good. It makes me proud. By now, you and Olivia would have made up a dance about shaking her beans. And she'd sing it obnoxiously for days after you'd come over. It would annoy me. Now, I'd do just about anything for that.
We miss you so much. Some days, your absence hits us all over again, almost like it's fresh. Other days, we think about the funny things you've said or done and we laugh, then we all get quiet and wish like hell you were still here.
I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here.
We aren't in Africa. That's grief we still deal with every day, too. The Daraja choir came last week and I hid my face behind Ella's head when they showed the video of the children's village in Uganda, as tears slipped down my cheeks. I ache to be there. I know you'd understand that.
We are moving. Not anywhere far, just across the train tracks to the other side of main street. It's a bigger house with 5 bedrooms. It reminds me a lot of our old house. I can almost see us sitting in our new basement, your stinky shoes on the floor, a huge bag of peanut M&Ms between us while we discuss your Junior year of college. I miss those days more than anyone could know.
I'm pregnant. Baby #8 is due on December 28th. That's our 11th anniversary and your Mom's birthday. Which means, you'd have finally been home from school for the birth of one of our kids! You'd have loved that since you'd missed the last 2. I know you'd want to be at the hospital right away but then you'd turn red and feel awkward as you thought about what I'd just done with my body. Birth always half intrigued, half grossed you out. I'm sad that this will be our first baby to have never met you.
Lucas and Ashlee turn 7 tomorrow. Then, a week later, Aaron will be 5. Those are the last, first birthdays without you here. We are doing a double sleep over again. This year you won't be here to help me do pedicures with a house full of squealing, indecisive little girls. I'm waiting on Lucas to realize it's his first birthday without you. He still cries often because he misses you. I know that would break your heart.
I signed our older 3 up for Summer with the Arts last night. Bile rose in the back of my throat and dread immediately consumed me. They all want to go again this year. And I want them to go. But I'm already dreading the end of July so much, I can't imagine how hard that week will be for all of us. I don't know how they'll do without you bouncing into each room to check on them.
A few weeks ago I saw a dark headed girl with a backpack on going into the old college trailer at church. In truth, she probably didn't look a whole lot like you, except the brown hair and backpack. But it rattled me.
Abigail is nearly walking and she's realized she's funny. You always enjoyed our kids so much at this age. I can picture you walking in, stepping on the squeaky part of the floor in our kitchen, offering to shake my hand (like I ever let you not hug me), scooping her up and making her giggle. She's such a fun baby.
Grace and I are getting really good at Olivia's hair. Like, I'm getting compliments from strangers, good. It makes me proud. By now, you and Olivia would have made up a dance about shaking her beans. And she'd sing it obnoxiously for days after you'd come over. It would annoy me. Now, I'd do just about anything for that.
We miss you so much. Some days, your absence hits us all over again, almost like it's fresh. Other days, we think about the funny things you've said or done and we laugh, then we all get quiet and wish like hell you were still here.
I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here.