Young Minds, Beautiful Hearts

My kids. They keep me going. From the moment I first heard my husband was hurt, my kids were in the forefront of my mind. They idolize their dad. How was I going to break their hearts? How was I going to break this news? Before I left the hospital, after he was officially pronounced dead, the last three sentences I said to him were: The boys will be fine. I got this. I love you. “The boys will be fine. I got this.” I hope every single day that that statement is true.

Within thirty minutes of telling my husband that our kids will be okay, I had to break their beautiful hearts. I had no idea how I was going to tell them. I had no idea how I would handle it. How they would react. I didn’t know. As much as we discussed death, we never truly imagined it would happen while our children were so young.

“Is daddy okay?”

I avoided answering them. Knowing we wouldn’t make it home without having to answer and dodge multiple questions, we pulled over to a little park and I sat the boys down and let them know that daddy was not okay. I didn’t sugarcoat it. No euphemisms. I needed them to know that this was real and it did happen, and he wasn’t coming home. “Daddy died. He is no longer alive.”

My youngest asked when he would be alive again and I told him that he wouldn’t be. His little mind started working, but being that he was only 4 years old, he was going over it and over it in his mind before he fully grasped it, which definitely took longer than a day. My six year old knew in the moment. He was expecting it from the time I told him his dad fell and I had to go and speak to the doctors. He immediately asked how high he was working and looked at me as if he knew that this wasn’t going to end well. This wasn’t going to end with us bringing their dad home to heal. And when I told them that their dad was in the hospital, I also knew he wasn’t coming home. But if there was any slight chance that a miracle may happen, I wasn’t going to break their hearts before I needed to. After I told them, we had about three hours in the car until we made it home. My four year old kept asking questions as his way of processing the information; my six year old kept getting frustrated about the repetitive questions and me continually reiterating that daddy would not be home, he was no longer alive, his body had died. All three of us, in different life and developmental stages, process everything differently. What brings clarity to one, confuses the other. What comforts one, hurts the other. Religion, science, and spiritualism all rank differently in understanding death for all three of us. I switch back and forth from heaven, to how the heart and brain function, to his spirit always being with us almost on a daily basis. And to be honest, I’m not well-versed in any of those subjects. It often ends up being a shit show. I try to talk to them individually, but that isn’t always possible.

Since the night their dad died, almost every night, there have been a lot of tears. A lot of questions. A lot of confusion. A lot of heartache. And a constant yearning for a hug from someone who isn’t here. Constant. This month has been difficult. Daddy was always home more in the winter. And a few nights ago, everything was failing. I was failing. I couldn’t handle that day. I wasn’t emotionally available for my kids. I wasn’t able to console them the way they needed. I was fighting back tears every moment of the day. I was breathing heavy and talking myself down from a public breakdown all day long. It was my boys’ first wrestling tournament. One I knew they weren’t ready for as they only had two weeks of practice and never attempted the sport previously. It was the first sport they would try that their dad wasn’t around for. I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t taking videos to show him. I wasn’t taking pictures. He wasn’t there to watch them. To help them. To give a pep talk. Instead, my kids noticed all the other boys practice with their dads. Snack with their dads. Joke with their dads. And most importantly, get cheered on by their dads. I took video and pictures, but for ourselves, not to share with him. I got on the mat and encouraged them. I cheered for them. I wiped the tears from their eyes as I swallowed mine as best I could and ignored coaches who believed they were crying because they were scared to wrestle. They were crying because they were missing their dad immensely at that moment. There was nothing anyone could say. I knew that. They knew that. They went out and wrestled. They give it their all. I was proud of them. They were proud. It was beautiful.

On our drive home they started asking questions about how their dad died. They began discussing it between each other and bouncing questions and answers off one another and I added and clarified when needed. Unfortunately, it ended with everyone being irritated; so, naturally, when we arrived home we decided to decorate the Christmas tree. Why not just pile it all on in one day? It was an exhausting day.

By the time night hit I needed everyone in their own bed. The feelings of grief and disappointment were overwhelming. I was sure my failure was showing and I just wanted the day to be over. I couldn’t do it anymore. As they were getting ready for bed my six year old said to me, “Mommy, can I tell you something? You’re an awesome mom.” His little voice was so sweet and it warmed my heart at exactly the right time. Being that he’s a daddy’s boy who went through a few weeks of not wanting to say the word love, it made that moment even more special and tender. When I was completely doubting myself, he reassured me. And it was then that I knew.

I knew with certainty we will get through this stronger than we started, and we will all do it with grace. Our family is full of love. Our home is full of love. We are missing the guy that gave the best hugs. Made us laugh the most. The guy we all looked forward to seeing every single day. The man we called first with exciting news. We are missing him everyday. I wish everyday that he was here with us. That he could continue in this world with us. We will do that forever. But we will also continue to love. We will continue to love each other. We will continue to love their daddy. And we will be thankful we have each other.

Though we never truly imagined it would look this way, this is the way it is now. While there are so many days filled with sadness and tears, there’s been an incredible amount of bravery and survival from these boys. They have amazed me from the very beginning. When I was deciding what songs to choose for their dad’s photo slideshow, they both helped make the decision. They told me they didn’t want to see his body. They made that choice. They approached me about wanting to speak and stand for their dad at his funeral. I was hesitant, because how incredibly painful is that? But they were both adamant about wanting to stand in front of everyone and represent their dad. So, I allowed it. They wrote a short eulogy. What they were unable to say, due to overwhelming emotions and tears, I spoke for them.

These boys are similar in many ways, but so very different that it all works together beautifully. While the younger one wants magic and sings out the window to his dad, the older one is practical and asks specific questions about the accident and pulls his brother back to reality when he asks for things that are impossible. And on the days that I believe I am failing them, that I couldn’t be letting them down any more than I am right now, they lift me up. When I feel I’ve disappointed them and was unable to console them, they say the sweetest thing or give the most unexpected hug. Most days I do manage to pick them up when I don’t even know how I’m standing, and they do the same for me. They are incredibly brave. Sweet. Considerate. They inspire me.

At their dad’s funeral service I said I would thank him everyday. And what I am most thankful for is these beautiful children that I have the opportunity and privilege to raise. It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever been given and there is only one person in this universe who could have created these little humans with me. No one else. It wouldn’t look the same. We wouldn’t be the same. For that, for them, I am forever thankful.

I’m not happy I don’t have a dad!

I’m not happy about that either.

I’m not happy I only have one parent!

I know, me neither.

I am happy that I have an awesome mom.

Thank you. I am happy I have an awesome son. Two of them.