Six And Eight: Hell By Numbers

I put on a happy face this morning when I woke up and greeted my children like today was another regular day.

I picked Knox up and held him tight and whispered birthday wishes into his ear as he squirmed for freedom. "You're eight today, cub," I announced as I slathered kisses on his cheeks wet from drool.

I hugged Fric and Frac and told them to try and enjoy their day and to remember it's their little brother's birthday and I promised them it was okay to feel any way they wanted to. My daughter blinked back tears as she nodded; clutching her Shale bear tight and bravely smiled and said "Today's the day we celebrate for Knox."

Frac was remained quiet but I caught him singing Happy Birthday to Knox as he wrestled his brother into his splints and shoes. Frac is the only one who can seem to get them onto Knox's feet.

I watched all three of my children walk down the drive, somber and confused, and then I cried.

I was surprised I could hold the tears back for as long as I did, to be honest.

I feel like a failure as a mom, because what type of mother can't celebrate the birth of her child?

The type of mother, I suppose, that watched her other son die on the same day her other child was born.

Beginnings are hard, endings are harder. And it's all too much when they fall on the same damn day.

October 21 took one son away from me and then later gave me another. The irony of this is lost on me as I struggle to maintain my composure for those around me. I don't know how to graciously accept birthday wishes while listening to hushed whispers of condolences. It's the hardest thing to do and it's my own personal version of Ground Hog's day hell for every calendar year to follow.

The gift of my beautiful child Knox and his life has been marred by the loss of the brother he will never know. Nothing in life is free or fair. My new son came with a price tag, one that we were willing to accept but without really understanding the cost.

One day of hell for a life time of gain, I suppose. A deal with the devil, a fair trade.

But it's so fucking hard, and I haven't found the balance yet. I don't know how to weep for the loss of a child I loved so dearly my world collapsed in his absence while celebrating the birth of another son who I love so dearly my world is righted by his presence.

I can't wish October 21 off the calendar because without it my son wouldn't be here.

But with it, my other son is lost to me forever.

I haven't found a way to reconcile the two just yet and I don't know if I ever will.

Six years ago I watched as my Shale died, uselessly and without purpose or warning, taking with him a joy I've never been able to replace. Our family fractured forever and there is no glue in the world to fix the cracks we all collectively share. That Tanis, that mother, that person, she no longer exists. And I'm learning six years is still not long enough to dull the pain that flows through my heart and cripples my soul.

I miss my son. Wildly. I still wake up at night to be crushed with the realization he isn't just down the hall from me, snoring softly in his room. He no longer exists except for in my heart and the memories of those who loved him.

But eight years ago, my son Knox was born, unbeknownst to me. A culmination of circumstances and horror lead him to our family, and his presence breathed new life into all of us. His unrelenting joy and loving spirit has brought a peace to all of us as we listen to him snuffle in his sleep.

A bed that was empty is once again filled.

But the memory of who is lost haunts me, us, and casts a permanent shadow on our lives.

Six years and the shadow is still long and dark. I was foolish to hope this grief and sorrow would be a terrible memory by now.

I'm so sorry Shale that I couldn't save you. And I'm so sorry Knox that I can't celebrate your birth with wild abandon and joy. I'm still broken inside. There is not a day that goes by that I'm not gripped with a fierce love and thankfulness that you exist and that I can call you mine. But for one horrible day of the year I am all yours. Completely and unreservedly.

But today, today you have to share me with the brother you never knew. And I am so terribly, absolutely sorry for that.

Happy eighth birthday my beautiful Knox. We love you more than any words can ever express.

I'm so sorry Shale. What if's and wishes tear at my heart and we, I, miss you so much it hurts to breathe. You are not forgotten. We love you still. Absolutely. Always.

One day I'll be able to let go.

But it likely won't happen on an October 21.

Happy Birthday Knox. We love you to the moon and back.

We miss you Shale. Every day. Look for our love; it's brought to you by an angel's wings.

Straddling the Line

I couldn't reach him at first, separated by a congregation of friends and relatives, him on one side, me on the other, so I had to content myself with watching him. He was unaware of my presence and for a rare second I was able to witness the boy he has become without any eye rolling or clowning. Somewhere along the path of time, he has come to look like the man his father once was. I'd never noticed the similarities before.

I watched him smile freely to those around him and I waited for him to notice me. For a brief second, I worried my son would be teenaged enough not to care I was there.

I was wrong to worry. He is still boy enough to light up when he sees me. I fervently hope that never changes.

I had to stand on my tippy toes to put my arms around him and bury my nose in his neck. He turned fourteen and this was the first birthday where his body no longer fit alongside mine. Fourteen years was all it took.

He stood there, stoic, as my arms were wrapped tight around him and let me breathe in his scent. He smelled of boyhood, a perfume mixed of sweat, outdoors and innocence. I smelled of airplane and stress. He patted my back as I whispered apologies in his ear for not being the first person in the world to wish him a happy birthday, the first person to hold him tight, as I have always done in the past. It was the first birthday of his that I hadn't been there to witness his arrival in a new year.

In those few moments as I held him tighter than I probably should have, I struggled to reign in my emotions. The tick tock of passing time is loud in my ears and I am all too cognizant that my time in his life as an active participant is limited and winding down.

He's getting too old to need me the way he once did. I'm getting too old to feel this young.

I once worried about the man he would grow to be, but as he steps closer into his adulthood I no longer worry about that. I won't waste my worry on who he will become because I'm confident in whom he is. Instead, I'll worry over what the future holds for him and fret about not finding my place in it.

With yet another set of birthday candles blown out, my contract of motherhood closes in on expiration. As I stroke his hair I find myself wishing children didn't grow so fast. I squeeze my eyes firmly shut to hold back the prick of tears that suddenly threaten to fall as memories of past birthdays, skinned knees and dinky cars race through my mind.

He's a boy straddling the line of adulthood.

No matter how tall, or how old he grows, he will still always be my boy.

As my arms fell to my side, he bent down and kissed the top of my head. "I'll be back soon," he promised as he raced off to go play with the other kids.

I'm going to hold him to that promise.

As he races to his future I hope he remembers to wait for me.

Happy birthday kid. I love you more everyday. 

Recommended STD

You know that saying, be careful what you wish for?

I always forget to be careful when I'm wishing.

Point in case: Looking at your basically ignored Linked In profile and wishing you had a recommendation posted on it so that you could seem as professional as all the other cool kids.

(Side note: What the hell do I have a Linked In profile for? Although, I suppose the better question is, what the hell is Linked In for and does anyone even use it?)

Ahem.

So anyways, when my friend, Anissa, mentioned on her Google+ that she was in the mood to write some recommendations, well you can bet your bottom dollar that I raised my proverbial hand and typed as fast as my little fingers would allow, 'I want!!'

Here was my chance to prove I was worthy to the unmasses who never look at my Linked profile to begin with.

Anissa, because she's Anissa, and she's awesome, complied.

Colour me happy.

And then I saw the recommendation:



I'm just grateful she didn't include the picture of my boobs I drunkenly allowed her to take one night.

Ya.

So thanks Anissa, for upping my street cred. Or something.

Y'all have a happy weekend. And if you're bored and looking for something to read, hop on over to Hogwash From a Hoser. While I basically abandoned this blog all week long to eat the remnants of my birthday cake, I actually posted stuff over there.

I wrote about lame life lists and hookers and it's the type of post I'm hoping my son's future bosses never read. And then I wrote about life as a basically single married woman and how that blows. Because seriously? Waking up to a dog licking your neck is not near as fun as it would be if it were my husband.

Have a great weekend!