It’s hard to see the extent of the damage from this angle, but this week both railway and highway service was disrupted when a giant dinosaur rampaged the city. Cars and buses were overturned, trains were derailed and general chaos took over the city. Luckily, Luke Skywalker was nearby to take down the dinosaur, and stop the beast before he could cause further damage.
This will be a quick one.
I am envious of parents whose children sleep in their own beds every.single.night., with no wake ups. Either they are blessed, or they are liars. Or a bit of both.
My older son started sleeping through the night long before his first birthday. I classify this as not waking up and needing me before 5am. After 5am, I am willing to concede.
As an arrogant and naive first time mother, I was certain Brendan’s stellar sleeping skills were a result of my impressive sleep training. It was gradual, and we never had to leave him to cry-it-out for more than a couple of minutes.
Baby number two proved that it was a fluke. We tried many techniques, and none of them have worked to get Nate to consistently sleep (in his bed) through the night. He teases us once in a while, lulling me into a false sense of security that I can reclaim my bed. For three days in a row he stayed in bed until 4:30 or later.
Then last night happened. So much crying, waking up every 20 minutes starting at 10:30. He didn’t calm down until (in a groggy barely-able-to-stand state) I brought him into my bed. Around midnight.
Here he is, sleeping in. Much cuter now than when he was kicking me in the face at 4am.
Time passes by quickly. It’s a recurring theme in life. It slips passed us while we buy milk, drive to work, make supper. I try to enjoy the small moments with my kids and my husband, but it’s often something I have to remind myself to do, in the midst of the frantic rushing that has become my life since returning to work from my second maternity leave.
With all the rushing around, I sometimes forget to think about anything else. Like the passage of time, and all the things (and people) that I’ve lost.
Nineteen years ago we celebrated your final birthday, and for the life of me I can’t remember a single detail of it. Because at the time, we had not even an inkling that it would be your last. If I had known it would be your last birthday, I’d like to think that I would have locked it away in my memory banks. I would have tried to remember if we went out for supper or stayed home, what kind of cake we had, whether or not we ended the evening with a visit to Grandma’s house.
In the past 19 years, I’ve had a full life, filled with happiness and sorrow; the positive outweighing the bad. But for every moment of pure joy, it’s tainted with the faintest of shadows of your absence. There are days when the loss feels like a fresh wound, others a distant memory. It’s not linear. There is no clear ending and beginning to grief.
Today I do not grieve a life lost; I celebrate a life lived; a person who taught me the importance of valuing each person you meet, helping others when you have the means. My little munchkins may never have had the chance to meet you, but they will know you. Your photo will always be prominently displayed on my bookshelf, and your story will be told.