It has taken me thirteen years to gather the courage to put a picture of all 4 of my kids together. It is like they exist in different dimensions. There are sweet, baby pictures of Alex in the house. A beautiful baby draped in blue… frozen in time as a perfect, adorable image.
And then there are the everyday pictures of the other three kids. On vacation, candids taken in the kitchen, silly and serious pictures alike that canvas every aspect in my life: in my office, on my phone, all over Facebook.
It is like Alex doesn’t belong in everyday settings. He is perfectly preserved on a shelf.
I get to take him off the shelf twice a year. Once on his birthday, and once on the anniversary of his death. That’s it. Partially because I wouldn’t be able to function in life if he were top of mind, and part of my everyday psyche. Partially because I don’t know what to do with him outside of these two dates… how do I explain him to people who don’t know about him? How do I introduce him to people who never met him? How do I find space for him in my everyday life without seeming sad, and making everyone feel awkward?
So, he turns 13 today. Today is the day I bring balloons and birthday cake home to the kids. This is the day I smile for my family, and sing happy birthday to his memory.
This is also the day where I think about what we have lost. I think about the 13 years that have been taken from us. I won’t say stolen, but they were taken without notification or consent. The longer he has been gone, the more time I have lost. I don’t know what all milestones look like, but I do know what 13 year old looks like in a boy.
13 years old is independent and headstrong. It is longing for more privacy, and spending more time in his room. It is facial hair and body odor, and all the natural changes that come along with a boy reaching the maturity of 13 years old.
For me, it is thirteen years of joy and innocence lost as a parent. It is thirteen years where I know that you can randomly and tragically check on your child, and discover they’re not breathing. It is thirteen years of remembering what it is like to perform CPR and waiting for the ambulance. Thirteen years where every single day is tainted with skepticism and weathered from experience. I am not the light, carefree and innocent parent I once was. I am hardened and keenly aware that the worst possible thing could still happen again.
So, yeah.
I take my darling child off the shelf twice a year, and each time I do, there’s a flood of things I go through. Past the family celebration, there is lingering sadness and longing. There is a lump in my throat, and a gaping hole in my heart. I fill that hole every day with kisses and laughter from my other kids, but a thousand jelly beans does nothing, when what you crave is a piece of chocolate.
I long for the sound of his hiccups. I yearn the sound of his baby sneeze. I hunger for the feel of his hand around my finger. I ache for the smell of his head.
Thirteen years is a long time to carry the burden of needs unmet, and desires unfulfilled. And in the coming days I have learned how to put them back on the shelf, along with his memory.
mommyjonas 