It's been a rough couple of weeks. I'm not going to lie.
A couple of week ago I attended the funeral of the sweetest four year old boy that ever lived.
It was horrible. And the public part of me wants to write that I am glad he is at peace and the service was beautiful. And the service WAS beautiful but it was horrible. I felt like I was watching myself. My sweet friend was a mess and shaking and sobbing and I felt every sob rack through my heart.
These little ones.To be given a taste of heaven and then having it torn away. It's excruciating.
I wasn't going to go to the cemetery because honestly I didn't know if I had any more than the service in me. But we went. And I stood behind the casket and I could see my friend's face. And she had this stare. This stare I know intimately. The same absent, numb, stare on my face at Gracie's funeral.
And it broke my heart and it brought back waves and waves of feelings and memories that I can't say I care to relive. It is a wonder mothers can even walk at their child's funeral. It is a wonder our hearts can keep beating at all.
They had made these little rubber bracelets that said, "Angels for Atticus" on them. And I wore mine for days after. I went to Wal-Mart and all I could think was. They don't even know. They don't even know that an amazing little boy is gone. Missing from this Earth. And it was all I could do to push my cart down the aisle and not sob like a lunatic for some person's "people at Wal-Mart" photo montage.
The feeling of pain and loss isn't as intense for me as it was at first. But it is always there, stumbling around in the background.
When I braid my niece's hair, I wonder what Gracie's hair would have been like. Would it have been long enough for a ridiculous looking tiny little hair spike by now? Would it have stayed as dark as it was?
I don't even look at the girl's clothing section.
When I think about going to my boy's sporting events, (and I'll be honest I haven't really gone much at all), I sometimes feel resentment that I won't be going to any dance recitals. Won't be searching etsy for the cutest tutus.
I meet new people now and they don't even know. And right now I don't even tell them because I don't like the way it puts them off. Makes them frown and apologize. I don't want others to feel sad. I feel sad enough.
My hope chest is full of little pink things and smells and memories and I can't even bear to open it. I can barely stand that it is even in my room sometimes.
There is always a little baby girl that sticks her head up over the pews at church and I have to look away. I avoid baby blessings like the plague. It's hard to hear a blessing full of life and exciting expectation when I don't get to expect anything.
Okay. Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away but it feels good to just get it out sometimes. I do expect things. Great things. I know I will get to be with my little Belles again someday. I cannot wait for that day. Death is not such a scary thing to me now. I know I have my little baby girl just waiting there for me and that is a wonderful and peaceful thing to know.
I have an amazing husband who is STILL carrying bits and pieces of my heart for me. He is a rock and I sometimes wonder if I deserve someone so good and kind.
My monkeys are still crazy and probably will always be. I was at the grocery store today and I had just a few things left to get and I told the boys, "We're almost done. We're almost at the checkout. Just a few more minutes." And then I realized I was repeating to myself over and over and over, "We're almost done. We're almost there." Insane Mother aisle 8.
James prays that we can all be with Gracie again someday. Harrison prays that she will come back. Bennett just snuggles. I thank the Lord EVERY day for giving me that little boy. I believe He knew that I would need a little baby to love on. Every now and then I sneak into his room at night and pull him out of his crib just so I can rock him. It is all I can do to ease the ache in my heart sometimes.
Anyway. And last post I was telling you to check my other blog. Haha. Someday.
