Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Our Boy...

Several months ago I asked Conner if he wanted to start a "mom and me" journal to help with his grief. The idea was for us to keep a simple spiral notebook and I started with writing a note to him. He would read it, and when he was ready whether it was from having a bad day or a good day, he would then write me back. 

My first note to him was six months ago. Two nights ago he brought me the notebook. 

I cried. Like a baby. And I held our son close and tight for a few minutes as we stood in the kitchen. We cried together. 

Our son misses out on so much. Yesterday Mike's cousin Bert came over to teach Conner how to sharpen a pocket knife using a whetstone. They sat beside each other on our dining room bench, and I sat across from them just watching in silence. I held back tears and swallowed hard to keep the lump inside my throat under control. I love Bert, but it should be Mike beside Conner teaching him how to sharpen knives. 

Then Bert asked Conner where Mike's knife was that he had gotten from Grandpa Norman and I realized again that there are so many stories Conner will never get to hear. There are so many stories Conner will never get to tell. And that's so beyond unfair. 

I worry everyday about how I'm raising our son on my own. I worry about failure, about screwing him up for life. I worry about relationships he will have and how he will so desperately want to talk to his dad about it instead of to me. I will listen. I will talk. I will trust and tell the truth. But I still won't be his dad. 

I think about our son's future and how many things he will endlessly long for his dad to experience with him. 

I think about all the things that I will endlessly long for Mike to share with me. I think about Conner's first driving experience on the highway and not gravel or through the fields. I think about his first "real" girlfriend and his first kiss. I think about his first home run hit out of the park, his first prom, his graduation, his goals after high school. But I also think of all the little things every single day that Conner misses his dad for. 

Special nights when Mike used to share a pallet in the floor with the boys. The simple "how was your day, buddy," that Conner never gets to hear. All the bucks he will harvest, his first bow kill, and just the overall hunting experience. He only got to share a few of those before his dad was taken from us. So much more is missed every minute of every day. 

And I'm just a mom. I'm just a widow. I'm just a woman. I'm trying my best to raise him right and I'm trying my best to maintain some positivity in our otherwise grim situation. I still worry. I still fail. I still cry and show weakness in front of him. 

Our son is the absolute best thing to ever happen to me and as you can read in his journal to me, God is helping me every step of the way. Mike and I sure made a pretty cool kid. Maybe I'm doing something right all by myself after all. 

I love you, son, with every fiber of my being. And even though some days I want to knock you for a loop, you are MY rock too. You make momma and daddy proud beyond measure.