My mind has been a fucking mess lately. Like the brain fog kind of mess. The kind of mess where I try to hold a conversation and words just fall out of my head. Like I am having a fucking stroke.
One of the things that I have learned about grief is that each of the firsts are horrible. They’re rough. One week. Two. One month. Two. His birthday.
Mother’s Day.
There was a baby boy with big blue eyes and long, dark lashes who was (almost) always smiling and made me a mommy for the first time. He was the reason I celebrated Mother’s Day for the first time.
I was young. I’d turned 21 while I was pregnant. We were living in a state on our own. No family. Just me, my then-husband, and a new baby. The most beautiful boy. That boy was flirting with girls from the start. Batting his lashes, showing off those damn dimples from his car seat, and making the cashiers at the grocery store talk about how cute he was.
I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, but I knew I loved him and I’d do anything I could to keep him safe. To make sure he was happy. I failed. I won’t go into details. But I failed.
And I sure as fuck couldn’t keep him safe otherwise he’d be here with me now. But I also couldn’t wrap his gigantic ass in bubble wrap. No matter how hard we try, we can’t protect our kids forever. And I definitely couldn’t protect him from assholes who don’t look before making left turns.
I had almost 20 years with him. It wasn’t enough. No amount of time would have been enough with him.
That beautiful boy with dark hair and big blue eyes. See that blue bear? He loved that fucking bear. I still have it. The damn thing was close to falling apart because he never let it go and was always chewing on the ears. I eventually hid it from him before it actually did fall apart. It’s now in his memory box. A box with everything from that bear and a quilt that my former mother-in-law made for him, a couple of baby outfits, childhood drawings, his high school diploma and cap and gown, his motorcycle license plate, and other random keepsakes…such as his cement covered hard hat from work, one of the shirts from his memorial ride, condolence cards people sent me, the felt bag that my share of the scatter portion of ashes was in, and the sign in book from his memorial service. The second half of that list and so much of the stuff in that massive box is stuff that I shouldn’t even have. Because he should still be here.
This is a really shitty club. I didn’t want to join. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. None of us did. I should try to find happiness with Carter today. I am going to try. And I am so fucking grateful that he is healthy. And that he is slowly getting to a better place. He is still grieving. He is still suffering. He still misses his big brother so much and sometimes just goes through his phone and looks at his photos and videos of Bryce. Tells me how much he misses him and I just reassure him that I miss Bryce too and that we all do.
But while I am grateful to have Carter with me, I still grieve for the boy who made me a mommy. The boy who never grew out of giving me hugs and letting me give him a kiss on the cheek and laughing when I poked his dimples and said “I made them so I’m gonna poke them”. The boy who grew up curling up next to me watching movies. The boy who came and laid with me and cried in my bed when he and his love broke up for that short period of time. The boy who would still come sit next to me and lay his head on my shoulder even once he was a grown, bearded, 6’4″ 19-year-old. Would he admit it to his friends? No clue. But he did it anyway. He acted tough sometimes, but he had a soft heart. An amazing heart. My baby was an arrogant twerp sometimes because what 19-year-old young man isn’t? But he loved so hard. His heart was the best.
My loving and silly boy.
When he bought his bike, I was scared shitless. But not at all surprised to be honest. And I was actually proud of him for managing his finances to be able to buy it. Plus it was in his blood. His dad used to ride. His grandpa used to ride..my dad. He was named after my dad. His middle name…Allen…is my dad’s middle name. He and my dad would text all the time and he’d send my dad videos of his progress with things like learning wheelies. And when my dad would visit, he’d drive him around to the store or wherever he needed to go.
Riding was in his blood.
My blood gave him life. And then someone else took it from him.
So now. It is now Mother’s Day 2023. My first Mother’s Day was 2003. 20 years later and I have gone from holding that beautiful boy in my arms to looking at photos. Or videos. Or staring at the urn of his ashes. Or letting my mind wander at almost 20 years worth of memories of raising the best young man I’ve ever known. The boy who will always hold a massive place in my heart. The boy who took part of me with him when he left us.
Grief is a B!tch 