Losing it.

Losing one child is one thing.  One very bad thing.  Losing two takes my breath away.

Don’t be misled.  They’re still alive and well.  Well, alive.  Well is subjective.  I’m pretty sure they consider themselves well,  and I won’t argue, having no say in the matter.   Motherhood is complex.  I thought I had it down.  At least, I was happy, my husband and their father was happy,  and our children were happy.

 

Sadly, happy didn’t last.  What happened to remembering all those drives,  singing country songs at the tops of our lungs?  What happened to playing with blocks and race cars and doing puzzles and building tree houses and chasing foolish headstrong animals around the neighborhood?

 

What happened to pizza nights and football games and swim meets?   What happened to saving the day when the day needed saving?  Bandaging the hurts, physical and not so much?  What happened to holding them and having their backs when they just wanted to cry?

 

What happened to licking the bowl?  And Waffle Day?   And Easter Egg hunts?  And the next and the next,  till the eggs were lost until next year’s spring rain washed them down from their perches in trees and on fence posts?

 

Life was perfect?  No.  But 99.99999% of the time is was darned close.  Was I perfect?  Was their dad?  Were they?  No. No. And, no.  Were they beaten or ignored or did they suffer for lack of love?  No.  Were they starved or shackled or encouraged to the point of despair?   No.  Did we love each other and move forward, together?  I thought so.

 

Growing up means growing out and growing on.  For all of us.  That is the goal, right?  Now, though,  I believe, there is such a thing as loving too much.  Not wanting to run their lives, not wanting to be first and last and everything in between.  But just being ourselves, tied as family, bringing new family into our safe and precious circle.   Being a forever family may just be too much.  I suffer sadness and pain, not because they forget to call,  or because they are living full lives.

 

What I suffer is abandonment.  Aggressive and purposeful abandonment.  I was too available,  I laughed too loud, played too hard, supported them too much, all those years.  They want none of me now, and to be certain of that, they stay far away.  No calls, no notes, no, “I’m thinking of you” moments.  Other moms, less joyful, less fun, less happy and engaged and involved, those moms get some love.  I shall envy them always.

 

I won’t regret loving too much.  I’ll just know to watch myself in the future.

 

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