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Wednesday, January 19, 2011

I don't want to write this post.

When I was younger I had big, exciting dreams about all of the remarkable things that would happen to me in my life. Every crazy chance I took was another chapter in what would surely become my best-selling memoirs. I dried my eyes after every failed romance, and felt sure new possibility was always just around the corner. I drove thousands of miles in my rattle-trap car going nowhere in particular and anywhere at all but alway sure I was heading somewhere amazing.

After I had my first kid I realized I didn't dream in quite the same way anymore. I had adventures and thrills to be sure, but not of the hare-brained "leap before you look" variety. Kids taught me to be cautious, to be sensible, to be measured. This was not a bad thing, to be sure, it was a necessary step in my development, but it was a befuddling step for me to make.

Tonight I went to the memorial service for a three year old boy. He drowned in a backyard pool in just 4 feet of water. His older brother and sister are so sad and confused. His poor parents are bereaved and shaken and sick with hurt. His grandparents are longing for the little life they had only just begun to know. His teachers are grief-stricken. The entire community came out tonight. I saw people I know only by sight, what you might call a "nodding acquaintance" bowed and wracked by grief. Other parents that held their preschoolers a little tighter in the crowd. One mother was just quietly sobbing as her little girl, obviously a classmate of the child's, kept saying, "Look Mommy, there's M!" as she pointed to the pictures scrolling on the overhead screens. Such a short, small life. A tiny flame snuffed out, blown out, gone in just a moment; in just a breath.

My dreams are different now. I want nothing remarkable. I want an ordinary life. I want to cook for my kids and make Halloween costumes, and drive them to dance class. I want stupid yelling fights with them at age 13. I want sleep-overs and gossip and driving lessons and prom. I want to talk about their majors in college. I want to know what their favorite books are and listen to their favorite music and meet their significant others. I want vacations and dinners and phone calls and letters. I want grandchildren and visits and Thanksgivings and to see who they become. I want to die an old woman, in my sleep, knowing that my kids are okay. That seems to me to be the best dream, the only one worth having.

9 comments:

  1. What a beautiful, heartbreaking post.

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  2. Thanks. I just keep thinking that if *I* feel this bad, his parents grief must be unimaginable. It kept me up all night last night.

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  3. Breathtaking. Heartbreaking. And also, in the end, true.

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  4. The big solace is that the whole community is rallying behind this family. I hope it eases their heartbreak somewhat.

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  5. Poignant, heartfelt, undeniably true.

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  6. I am making them some bread, hope to deliver it tomorrow. What can you do? I just want to somehow magically make things okay for them and I can't. Thanks for reading.

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  7. This post brought me to tears. I will never claim to fully understand the grief of the boy's parents and can only really imagine it and have my heart break with theirs. And I thank you for giving the perspective you gave, the gift of an 'ordinary' life. I think a lot of mothers struggle with this. I've thought and written about this and have always been afraid of 'ordinary'. But you know...you're right. I want an ordinary, totally predictable and 'normal' life trajectory as a parent. I just recently got a scare, having my little one so sick, and it was beyond terrifying, having the thought that I could lose him. Thank God he is here and well. Again, thank you for your insights.

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  8. Thank you for reading. I live in a small town and I see this family pretty frequently, been doing my best to let them know we are still thinking about them and none of us have forgotten M, their darling little boy. His picture is up on my best friend's refrigerator, my oldest daughter plays with their daughter at school. Not a day goes by that I don't look at my own toddler and tremble with gratitude that she is here with me.

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  9. Thank you for this post. My sister died two weeks after her twentieth birthday. It will be two years in one month since her death. Losing a child at three must be absolutely devestating. I know that for my mother (and our family) losing a daughter at 20 still is. Acknowledging and validating this family's grief and the tragedy of a young life senselessly lost is important, essential.
    PS Thanks for your comment on my post. My husband read it to me before it disappeared. Validation, baby, validation. We all need it.

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