Eddie Vedder. Mookie Blaylock. Mr. President.

Diddy,

As you know, I’ve recently formed an unlikely – yet totally healthy, obsession with Pearl Jam. How they ever managed to slip off my musical radar, I haven’t a clue. But it’s a damn shame. Nonetheless, every time I hear a song by Pearl Jam, I have a visceral reaction of sorts. Their lyrics seemingly lace through my tattered heart and wrap around my torn soul, and somehow make me feel a little less hollow.

Eddie Vedder, in particular, possesses talent which I feel is uncanny and I am certain goes unmatched. He should probably be President. I swear the man could croon the world into peace. But, I’ll settle for him singing you into a peaceful slumber. After all, you are my entire world.

Sleep tight, wherever you are. Here is your lullaby for tonight…a la Mr. President.

I miss you desperately. I love you even more.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

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i’ll up the ante again. and again.

Paxton,

A memory of you popped into my mind’s eye this morning. You were happily bouncing and cooing away in your bunny seat, while smiling at your (adorable) reflection in Mr. Cow. As always, I recalled every last detail with acute precision: from the the tiny crook in the lobe of your left ear, to your almost-but-not-quite-off-centered smile, down to the way your arm involuntarily pumped into the air. Your half-excited, half-serious voice echoed in my ears and straight through my bones.

It didn’t take long before I began negotiating, with no one in particular, for a deal they couldn’t refuse. Bring you back to me. I pledged anything – everything, in exchange for you in my arms. My desperate negotiation ended the same way it always does; with the harsh realization that no matter how grandiose or lavish my ante: it will never be enough. You aren’t ever coming back.

Should anyone still find validity in the age-old, psychological Stages of Grief, your Momma must be stuck smack dab in the middle of the ‘Barging’ stage. If you ask me, there is simply nothing universal about the time or way in which a person grieves. Suggesting that a prescribed way to mourn the death of your only child exists, is as insulting as it is ridiculous. In fact, I am quite certain it makes perfectly good sense that I find myself attempting to strike a deal with the universe to let me have the love of my life back in my arms.

Without a doubt, and without pause, I swear on all things good and pure, I would give anything…everything, to have you back again.

I believe it’s just about time for your afternoon nap. Allow the rain falling from the sky wash away any tears you’ve cried today. Let the lyrics of your afternoon lullaby line your soul; I mean every last word. Fade into a peaceful slumber. I will be right here when you awake. I will be here forever thereafter, too.

I miss you. I love you. I hope you catch the kisses I throw into the sky for you.

xoox,

Momma

P.S. Today is April 26th. You’d be 26 months old today. I am so sorry.

 

 

BC. AC. FuC. And Uncle Dave sings Baby Blue for you. (Don’t tell Auntie Kupa.)

Paxton,

When I lost you, I lost so very many things: my only child, my chance to mother you; all the things you were and would have been; our little family; my future; my place and identity; my confidence; my naïveté; my view of the world as a safe and just place.

I can easily say my life is now divided into two distinct parts: Before Cancer (BC) and After Cancer (AC). In addition to mourning the loss of you: my dream come true – I’ve also mourned over the version of me I lost when you died. Some days, I long to have her back. Not as often, or remotely as desperately, as I long to have you back. Yet she is gone. You are gone. I am here: living in my AC world. Without you. And without the Danna I knew for 38 years.

Most days, however, I would not trade in the new version of me. (Other than if to have our entire BC world back…the one where you never got sick, you never suffered, and we never kissed good-bye one.last.time.) Given no choice in the matter, I have morphed into a different woman. Naturally, there are parts of me which are still broken and empty. Some are broken beyond repair. How couldn’t they be? When a parent loses a child, they lose a part of themselves. Beyond that, they are permanently rocked to the very core of their soul. The only way around this truth – is if they simply do not have a soul. However, there are also pieces of me which are far wiser, stronger, and more refined than that of my former self. All of which can be attributed to the fact that particles of you flow throughout my body and are contained within my soul.

Perhaps my former self needed to lose her naiveté, her blind trust, and her belief that those she loved would never betray her. She needed to become strong – in a entirely different capacity: one which allowed her the strength to see the world as it is, not how she willed it to be. She needed to acknowledge that the most difficult times do, in fact, reveal people’s true character – and she had to accept all which was unveiled. She needed to learn, the really hard fucking way, to always trust her god damn instincts.

Though few and far between, there are times where if I quiet my mind long enough, I vividly see the gifts you’ve left for me. Despite the depth and breath of the pain I experience from having lost you, I see reminders all around that I, too, have gained. Not enough. Not nearly enough gain for the hefty, immeasurable price of losing you. Still, you must always know that you alone are a far, far more profound gift than the torture and the despair of living in my new world without you.

My AC world is mournful and tenuous at times. Yet it is also beautiful, meaningful and sublime in a way I never imagined. Gibran describes it best when he prophesied that only after having really “…looked into the eyes of such sorrow” can one find their way to pure joy. For the infinite joy you have brought into my life, and the promise you continue to bring…I remain humbly and infinitely indebted.

It should come as no surprise, Dave has a little diddy for you, Diddy. Allow him to serenade you into a peaceful slumber tonight. Rest your head against my chest. Close those baby blues…Momma is right here.

Thank you for helping your Momma become a better, stronger, wiser woman. 

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

a spicy monkey. a high-jacked computer. and my day is made.

Sweet Diddy,

One of my girls at school needed to take her test at my desk today. The other 15 places to sit in my classroom simply wouldn’t suffice. While she was at it, she made herself right at home. As she sat at my desk she ate my pretzels, used my hair brush, tapped around on my computer, noticed my Pandora was open, and created herself a new radio station on my account. Why not? When I busted her, I pretended to be mad. Like all my ‘kids’, she knows I (mostly) pretend to be mad at them. Disappointed is all-together different. Mad? Well, that almost always just doesn’t happen. First of all, these spicy monkeys keep Momma’s heart beating. Secondly, they need more love than most others in the world. Moreover, they deserve even more love than they need. And like I said…they keep my heart beating.

It’s going on 5:40 p.m., and I’m still at school. As you already know, Momma need not rush off to the gym, or to the grocery store in order to be home in time to let Lucas out and/or to make dinner….much less to pick you up from day care, get you fed, bathed, and ready for bed in time to snuggle up and read a bed-time story – or three, before tucking you in for a peaceful night’s sleep. Instead, I take my time perfecting innocuous tasks, before aimlessly venturing down familiar hallways, through familiar doors, to a familiar parking spot – straight into an unfamiliar life.

As I contemplated whether I would go to the gym, or just run extra-long when I got home, concurrently further avoiding the transition into a new life I never wanted, a song began to play through my SMART Board. Instantly entranced by the lyrics, I closed the 38 windows I had open so I could see the name of the song and artist. (No. I didn’t do what normally functioning people do, and save the work which I was perseverating over perfecting in the first place. It’s fine. I’ll try again tomorrow.)

The tears which fell from my eyes have already left salt-marked stains on my completely lame, but also completely free, GO ARMY! desk calendar. I instinctively know they will serve as an unlikely source of comfort in the upcoming weeks. As I will recall this moment with heightened precision. For it is one of those rare times…that I know you are with me.

Thank you for helping my spicy monkeys love me. Thank you for helping them embrace my broken spirit, my shattered heart, and my many, many flaws. They are of your most brilliant and treasured gifts yet. Thank you for sending me this song – compliments of the spicy ones, who take the liberty to high-jack my Pandora account, much like they have taken the liberty to high-jack my heart…because they know damn well, it’s the only way in anymore.

Here is your lullaby for tonight. It’s from Momma…and one of her spiciest monkeys.

My arms should’ve been fierce enough to have kept you safe.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

a defense lawyer stops me in my tracks. because he knows you.

Paxton,

Tonight I ended what was a very difficult week with a “not-so-happy” hour with two of my lovelies from BCHS. I wasn’t in the mood to be there, but familiar with their persistence in integrating me into the world at-large, I knew it’d be easier to join them. So I did. I made it to about 6:30 before I was ready to leave. As I approached my car, a man parked next to me quickly popped his head out from the backseat of his car where he was putting his child in a carseat. He said, “Excuse me. What does your license plate say?” I knew he was talking to me; but I froze – speechless and paralyzed. He continued, “Does your plate say, Paxlove”? I studied his sincere face and steadfast eyes as I faintly replied, “Yes. Paxlove.” He excitedly persisted, “Is it for Paxton? The baby? The little Peaceful Warrior?” I almost collapsed onto the goddamn pavement.

Before my legs had a chance to give out, he broke into a 40 yard dash in my direction. As he jogged towards me he yielded his “Paxton” bracelet in front of him like a white flag. Meanwhile my friend took over the talking part and proudly proclaimed that I am your Momma. Once in front of me, he put the bracelet an inch away from my eyes and exclaimed (repeatedly) that he wears everyday. He went on to explain how he learned about you and your brave fight. He said he attended PaxFest and donates to your foundation. Most importantly – he told me how he finds daily strength and inspiration through your brave soul.

As I attempted to absorb the scene unfolding around me, I noticed his wife had come out of their car and was now standing just steps behind us. Her hand was over her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face. As our eyes met, we innately stepped towards each other and hugged tightly. Through a tear-filled voice, she told me how you changed the way she mothers her son…and that she marvels at how I find the strength to continue to live without you. These kind-hearted people said so many endearing things to me. All of which I will hold close to my heart for many, many moons to come. The dad ended the conversation by telling me he is a defense attorney and that whenever he is in trial, he rubs his “Baby Paxton” bracelet to find strength and clarity. For he is reminded that whatever he or anyone in the court room is experiencing, or has experienced, pales in comparison to what “Baby Paxton” endured.

The entire time this couple talked to me, I literally did not utter a single word. In hindsight, my inability to speak makes me want to punch myself. I should have taken out my wallet and shown them pictures of you. And told them how everyone who was lucky enough to be in your presence noticed how peaceful (and beautiful) you were. I should have shared with them how (before you were sick and stopped feeling hungry), you would stop mid-suck while eating your bottle, smile right at me – and then happily resume eating. Or let them know your favorite CD is Coldplay’s Rock-a-bye Baby, and that you loved when we would dance around the dining room and sing, “I like to eat, eat, eat apples and bananas.” I should have relayed the stories of how you’d stare into Mr. Cow mirror and “Ooouuuooo!” so fiercely at the site of your adorable reflection that the entire house would erupt in laughter.

On top of failing to tell them any of the many things that make you incredibly special, I deeply regret that I didn’t think to ask them their names. While I hugged the husband, I did manage to eek out the words, “Please don’t take that bracelet off.” (He assured me that he wouldn’t.) With the exception of one simple sentence, I stood mute as two strangers told me how you have changed their lives. In exchange, they allowed me to embrace them as though they each contained a small part of you. I am sorry if I hugged them too tightly. I am more sorry I didn’t tell them about any one of the multitude of things which make you my uniquely perfect Paxton.

Very early this morning I was overcome by one of the greatest moments of despair I have yet felt. I don’t entirely know why. I guess this roller coaster of grief, bereavement, or grief-that-interrupted-the-initial-fucking grief will never make any sense. I do know that I literally begged you to send me a sign if you were still with me. Anything to prove that despite the emptiness in my stomach and the hollowness in my heart, I am not entirely alone in this world.

I believe with all of my heart, you sent that man to me tonight. You rescued me from the abyss of grief which I must consciously ward off from swallowing me whole. More than anything in this entire world, I would give anything – anything – to be the one saving you. It should have been me. Never you.

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I miss you. I love you. I’ll look for you in my dreams.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox.

Momma

Your spark has spread across the pond…to the wild, wild west, and everywhere else too. But I’d rather you were asleep in your crib.

Diddy,

My little Diddy Bop…how I miss you so. More oft than not, I don’t quite know how to begin my letters to you. Perhaps the only normal part of my existence is the abnormal feeling I get when I realize the only way I can communicate with my son, who was killed over a year ago, is through letters he may or may never read. Good thing for you (because as my child, you have obviously found a way to read these) I’ve never been one to conform and do what others perceive to be normal.

Once I begin writing to you, I feel more normal and most certainly more at peace than I have in days. At the close of each letter, I tell myself, “…just write him one note every day….no matter the reason…no matter how profound or inconsequential the message”. But, most days I am still not brave enough to creak open the lid of “Paxton’s Box” and allow myself to participate in the single most vulnerable act: expressing my feelings through the written word. When it comes to writing to you, there are more days than not when it is simply too difficult to navigate the vastness of my grief, especially in total solitude (except for the companionship of my laptop and Sir Giraffey).

Each week I receive notes, cards, emails, Facebook messages and letters from complete strangers, long-time friends, long-lost friends, and your dearest earth angels who prefer to remain anonymous. Each correspondence serves as a tangible reminder that people, both near and far, are thinking of you, loving you and…holding you close to their beautiful hearts. The notion that I am not the only person in the universe missing you at any (and every) passing moment, often is the very thing which allots me the will to survive another day without you. While I do my very best to at least acknowledge I have received them, I simply do not always have the strength to do so. Ironically, it is typically the messages which mean the most that replying to proves most challenging. (I know it’s ass backwards; it’s just the way my world works.)

This past week, I received two messages which affected me very deeply.The timing could not have proven more critical. Today, with their borrowed strength, I will tell you about the messages and the women who sent them.

The first came from a woman all the way across the pond – in London. She learned of your story through Facebook. By her own admission, she avoided reading any of my Warrior Momma entries when she stumbled upon them via friends’ of friends’ shared posts. She said while she initially told herself it was merely an unconscious choice, she now realizes it was more likely out of fear. She called herself one of the stupid – naïve, uneducated, blind. The other morning, Jessi confronted her fear. She clicked on one of the entries. And as she says, her world was permanently altered. Jessi ultimately blew off an entire day of work to read every entry. She relays that she read every single word, and listened to every single song. Then Jessi wrote me. Among many other things, she said, “…so I’m writing to say ‘thank you’ for introducing me to your Paxton and to tell you that your mission is working because for every person, like me, who moves from the unseeing column to the light there is one more person to help fight the fight. Like so very many people around the world, I am thinking about you and Paxton. I am joining your fight.”

Serendipitously, Jessi is running a Survival of the Fittest event in London in November for an England-based charity called CLIC Sargent. The race benefits children with cancer and their families. Admittedly, the race meant less to her yesterday than it does today and it will mean more tomorrow as she continues to think about more ways to fight. For every pound donated to her race, Jessi will personally donate an American dollar to the Paxton Andrews Foundation. Very best of all, Jessi asked if she could run this race in honor of you! Of course, I said “YES!”

The next message came from a woman, named Bree. She lives a little closer to home – only 2,000 miles away in Arizona. Bree sent me a link to a song, named “How?” by Regina Spektor. She explained that while she never had the good pleasure to meet you, and hasn’t seen or spoken to me in over twenty years, she thinks of us daily – most especially when she hears this song. She also said her life has been changed by your story…and she promised to carry you in her kind heart for the rest of time. I promised Bree I’d put the song on your special playlist; the one I play for you on days, like today, when it’s exceptionally difficult to be so far away from you.

Bree has a baby boy of her own. He was born about a year after you. He is perfect. He is adorable. He is happy. He does not have cancer. Although she’s not said as much, I get the distinct sense Bree’s appreciation of her beloved son has been enhanced through your brave fight…through your beautiful soul. l just have a gut feeling about this. But, you know how I feel about trusting my instincts.

Paxton, I am so grateful that you continue to find ways to send me signs and messages of love and strength. I am extremely proud of the way you use your life spark to change peoples’ lives in ways so profound they cannot even explain…and evermore proud that you you allow your soul to shine so vibrantly, that even complete strangers can’t help but to fall in love with you…even when they are afraid to. But, never mistake the fact that I would trade the awe and wonder of of these intangible forces to have you back in my arms where you belong. I would far rather the only people who knew your name lived in the confines of my (now empty and sad) home. Simply put, I want you back.

Here is your lullaby tonight, sweet boy. I promise I will never forget one memory. Let’s close our eyes and find each other in our dreams.

I miss you. I love you. I hope you are happy.

Stay with me, sweet boy.

xoox,

Momma

She’s got a way….each and everyone of them.

Hi Sweet Diddy,

I arrived at Britta’s yesterday morning. I can’t remember a time I’ve ever been more relieved to be with one of my most special lovelies. Britta moved to Northern California almost one year ago. In fact, her move – her new job – her trip to India – were all delayed because she stayed in Milwaukee to be by my side after July 2nd happened. Despite all the new wave, unspoken expectations which come with the territory of a woman determined to climb her way to the top of a male-dominated business world – Britta adamantly refused to allow the pressures of a new, big time, high-profile job to call her back to California. In hindsight, Britta’s commitment to us, when we needed her most, is not unusual at all. Her priorities have always been family and friends. Her heart is as giant as it is genuine. So, Britta stayed. She stayed and helped Lala make a slide show and a playlist for your memorial late into the night. She took me, in a catatonic state, and held my hand as I ambled through Mayfair to find a dress for your memorial. (I didn’t end up wearing the one we got that stupid day, because the “most perfect one ever” arrived moments before the very last second. But only after first being trapped in the Colorado hellfire’s. Despite my zombie-like state, irony of such nature was not even lost on me.) The morning of your memorial, Britta came to our house. She sat me in our downstairs bathroom and did my make up and then my hair. When it didn’t seem possible she could do more, Britta executed the greatest challenge of all time. She readily agreed to read the letter I wrote you at your memorial. And, she did so bravely and beautifully…just like you.

In the past year, Britta has taken yet ANOTHER big, fancy, baller, shot-caller job – and moved again. One day, this girl will run the world; or marry Luda and have babies a plenty. Whichever she decides on first. Needless to say, I haven’t had the energy or the courage to make the trip out here sooner. She & I decided it was imperative, however, that I work in a pit stop while on my nation-wide tour for peace. In the planning, we realized this summer marked 20 years of being friends. (Yeph. Britta is old, huh?!?) As you know, Britta inherently possesses the synergy to generate fun wherever she goes. With the realization of our 20 year anniversary added to the mix, I have a feeling this visit is about to be ah-mazing. Britta has plans galore in the works. All of which I’m sure will prove to be a mother load of fun. And I will do my very best to allow the “happy” to seep through. But as you know, sometimes I get so tired and so sad – I feel happiest just sitting quietly in the company of someone with whom I feel safe (i.e. Britta).

I haven’t seen much of the city yet. But I can say with confidence it’s hands-down my favorite of the four places she’s lived since she moved to California five years ago. Upon my arrival, I was met with a package which was delivered to Britta’s house. It was waiting for me on my bed. (Fresh flowers and bottled water were also at my bedside.) I digress. I was mystified because in my grief-stricken + heart-broken haze, I didn’t even know her address – much less figure anyone else would. For some reason, I wasn’t surprised to find the package was from Grace. Knowing my plan to arrive at Britta’s on July 3rd, Grace contacted Britta and arranged for a special delivery. Along with a beautiful card, which I will keep forever and ever, was a “July 2nd shouldn’t be July 2nd” gift: healing-bead bracelets…giraffe patterned, with an angel wing charm to boot. I love the bracelets. I love Grace too.

I love all my special lovelies, Paxton. I’ve always said I have the very best friends on all the planet. But, the past year has proven this to be less of an opinion and more an undeniable fact. Without my most special lovelies, I would not have made it through July 2nd. I would not have made it through May 8th….or February – all of fucking fuck February. I would not have made it through March, April, May or June either. I wouldn’t have made it through many dark days and endless, terrifying nights in the confines of the last year.

Maybe each of my girls was strategically placed into Momma’s life along the way? Perhaps someone far, far wiser than I has know all along that there would come a time when I ‘d simply be unable to push through one more day without the borrowed strength and bestowed grace of these brave souls? Not one time, did the love and support of these girls waiver. In fact, they did not as much flinch.

Paxton, Momma’s girls share a sisterhood so sacred it is almost unspeakable. They know what I need, and what I don’t need, without me having to say a single word. These girls are the truest form of unconditional love. This is why after the shit storm of my life, I still feel lucky and blessed. So very blessed. Was it is you who placed each of these girls in my life’s path? After all, our souls have known each other before this life….and we will know each other long after this life. Isn’t that right? Yes. In fact, as I write this it makes perfect sense; it was you. Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would do without each and every one of them.

Most of all, thank you for being my son.

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Here is your lullaby for tonight. It will forever remind me of the special lovelies you’ve sent me along the way.

Sweet dreams, My-My.

I miss you. I love you. I hope you are happy.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

songs. signs. and a very silent storm.

Paxton Bowe,

Yesterday, I spent the better part of the morning driving through the city, soaking in the beauty of newfound surroundings, getting lost and then getting found. Normally, the times I was lost would have frustrated me and (inadvertently) lead me to swear at idiots who cut in front of me, and whip-off even bigger idiots who insisted on driving slow in the left lane. (Right after conquering cancer, I’m coming after slow-left-lane drivers.) However, you and your Busha keep me both comforted and amused. Calmed into in a blissful haze, I continued to explore. In the confines of four hours, on several different radio stations, I heard: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”, “What a Wonderful World”, “Brown Eyed Girl”, and “Yellow”. Each time another song came on I called your Lala. With each call, she broke into her trademark, barely audible giggle. Through a tear-crackled voice she’d proudly proclaim, “He’s such a good boy, DD.” Yes. Yes, you are Diddy.

Knowing Lala was in the loop, you made sure to include her in the fun. Just when I thought you were done for the day, Lala called to tell me “Brown Eyed Girl” just came on the radio in her car all the way over in Milwaukee!

However, the most profound “musical moment” happened as I was finishing up my evening run. A song titled, “Storm”, by Lifehouse came onto my iPhone. I don’t know how it popped into my queue; I am certain I’ve never heard it before. In fact, I really don’t recall ever adding any songs by Lifehouse onto my iTunes. As the lyrics played, the world around me came to a standstill: my body paralyzed: my insides numb. The only thing that seemed to have any movement were the chills that rose to the surface of my skin, and the tears that streamed down my face.

You sent me a perfect compilation of songs, baby love.  Now that I know music is  one way you tell me you are with me, the melodies filled my broken heart with remnants of you. Like most things which involve having to parent you from so far away, receiving the songs made Momma equal parts happy and sad. Happy you are sending me signs, even more happy you are with me. Sad because you shouldn’t have to ‘send me signs’ to let me know you’re near. You should amble over to me, outstretch your little arms, and hop right up into my lap. Nonetheless, I enjoyed our day filled with secret messages. I think I smiled more during that four hour excursion than I have in the last four days combined. However, the song by Lifehouse has rested heavy inside of my heart. How it got on my iPod and came into rotation – on all days – seemed too serendipitous to be merely a coincidence. I believe it was to provide me with a vehicle to reciprocate your beautiful efforts, and send you a song.

If art were ever to imitate life, mine is reflected most perfectly by this song. Much like having you, and subsequently losing you – this song is one of the most painfully beautiful things I’ve ever heard.

This is your lullaby tonight. May the lyrics fill your heart with reassurance that there is nothing I would rather do than be exactly where you are. Nothing I rather have than you wrapped in my arms. Nothing I would rather hear than your squeaky voice. Nothing I would rather see than your adorable face. Close those baby blues and fade into a peaceful slumber – Momma is right here.

I miss you. I love you. Sleep tight.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox

Momma

two precious, miracle, blue-eyed boys…together forever.

Sweet Boy,

Tonight I am short on words, but not on tears.

When Bradan’s Daddy contacted me with the news of his baby boy’s passing, I was instantaneously transported back to July. I remember those days with such pristine precision, it seems as if it were yesterday: the suffocating grief, the overwhelming fear, and the pure and unrelenting love…which was all around. At the same time, given how drastically life has changed since you left, July feels like it must have been a million years ago.

Upon Bradan’s arrival, I see you reaching out for his hand. I imagine you holding it tightly and assuring him that he need not be afraid. I believe this because even in the ‘highest layer’, I know you are the bravest litte warrior – with the kindest heart, and most inviting smile.

Both of you precious, miracle, baby boys – with eyes as blue as the sky – belong here with your Mommas and Daddies. I have no doubt every angel would agree that children are meant to outlive their parents. Period. Because we cannot be together, I need you to remember this part of our forever-and-ever-pact: hold onto your angel (the one with the biggest wings) until Momma comes for you. Hold onto Bradan and to the other boys and girls who cross your path too. Most of all, please hold onto my love. And always, always know that you are not alone.

Close your beautiful blue eyes and sleep peacefully tonight, my love; Momma is right here.

I love you. I miss you. I hope you are safe.

Stay with me sweet boy.
xoox,
Momma

Two hundred and twelve steps back. And the other shoe dropped too.

Diddy,

I think I have taken 212 steps back. I knew your birthday would be a force to contend with; needless to say, it far surpassed my expectations. Yesterday and today, however… well, I guess it could all be nicely summarized by saying, “the other shoe has dropped”.

Despite the fact it felt like someone cut my eyes open and rubbed lemons on them, and my head ached from an entire day & night of a “hard-cry” hangover, I got out of bed yesterday morning. I did so because I had every intention to resume going through the motions of life without you. (I continue to do this, hoping that if you are watching, I just may make you proud every so often.) I repeated the mantra I said over & over throughout those first several weeks I returned to work. “Your pain is nothing compared to his. Your pain is nothing compared to his.” As I silently chanted my battle-cry, I used all my insides to put one foot infront of the other and make my way to your room. I simultaneously concentrated on containing the tears pressing against the back of my eyes, and holding down the vomit rising from my tummy up to my throat. I made it to your changing table to say good-morning…but somehow I ended up across the room in our glider. In an instant, I came undone. I couldn’t breathe, much less move. I truly didn’t feel this panic attack coming – which scared me a bit. As you know, at this point, it is somewhat of a challenge to rattle Momma. I tried all my well-versed tricks to regain some semblance of control, but it was too late. Ultimately, I gave in…and unleashed a primal shit show.

I’m still not sure how, or when, I finally managed to bring myself around. Maybe a text message came in from Daddy – inadvertently providing a sense of saftey? Or, perhaps Lucas came into your room to stand by my side? (Although, he never comes in when Momma or Daddy are in your room. It is the strangest, yet most endearing, phenomena. He knows exactly what has happened; he misses you too. Lucas visits your room on his own, and even sleeps in front of your changing table every so often.) By the time I was semi-functional again, I realized I simply would not be able to get myself to work on time. So I called in ‘sick’ again…this time, for a half day. I wonder if they’d consider adding the option of calling in ‘broken-hearted’ to my queue? Those good and kind kids of Momma’s were so relieved to see me. When they saw I had returned for the afternoon, a few of my most ‘belove-lies’ charged into my room and pounced on top of me and hugged me but good. One of my favorite, sassiest, girls planted a kiss right on top of my head. They knew why I was gone; better yet, they knew not to talk about it. It makes me sad to know they worry about me. I love them all so dearly. You would too, Paxton…and they’d have protected you to the end’s of this earth. Momma’s crazy-daisy kids: thank goodness for each of them.

Today is the day we brought you home from the hospital last year. I remember thinking, “There will never be another Valentine’s Day that can top this one.” Little did I know how very true that statement would prove. I keep picturing you in the beautiful outfit Nana made for your “coming home” extravaganza. Given we all operated under the guise that you would be born early, Nana made each part of your outfit smaller than those she had made for your cousins. Nonetheless, you still were drowing in it. Daddy was so irritated that I had you wear it anyway; I couldn’t be swayed – you were just too dang cute in it. Your toes barely passed where your knees should have hit – and I had to cuff the sleeves on your sweater, not once, but twice. My favorite part, however, was the way the hat kept falling down – nearly covering your sweet little face. Oh, Diddy-Diddy, how did this all happen?

Momma? Are you there?

It’s not that I shouldn’t be missing your itty-bitty newborn days; every mom misses those days. After all, they are the very moments we have patiently, yet anxiously anticipated for the previous 9 months. Sweeter yet, they afford the unique opportunity to fall in love 100 times a day, with the same little person. The sleep deprivation, hormone fluctuation, and punch-drunk love state, result in a blissful blur of some of life’s finest moments…which, in hindsight, slip away before you’ve even had a chance to realize they were real. Yes, I should be missing those days. I should be missing those days as I watch you across the room and marvel at how you’ve transformed before my eyes into a one-year old baby, with plump cheeks and locks of blonde hair. I should be missing those days as I gently clean the lint and baby food out from the crevices of your chubby fingers, which match your Michelan-baby body so perfectly that it looks like someone screwed your hands onto the ends of your arms. I should be missing those days as I shriek in excitement because you just took two, maybe three, steps on your own before teetering over right onto your dupa. I should not be missing your itty-bitty newborn days, along with everything else about you. I know I say it all the time, but I just want you back. It is that simple: I want you back.

For some reason, earlier today I recalled one of the songs I sang to you on our first night at home together. We were tucked away in Momma & Daddy’s room as the lyrics started to stream from my mouth…seemingly on instinct. I had never sung them out loud before that moment. I can still feel how very petite and fragile you felt in my arms. I can still feel my cheek brush along yours – which was so soft that it felt like it was made of clouds. Truth be told, I still remember every nook and every cranny of you, sweet boy. My memories of you are so detailed and so plentiful that I have to remind myself more often than I should, that no matter how intricate and abundant my visions remain, I will never be able to reach out and scoop you up into my arms – where you belong.

Alas, in honor of our first night at home together, and the very best Valentine’s Day there ever will be…here is your lullaby tonight, Paxton.

Stay with me sweet boy.

xoox,

Momma