Dear Leslie (3)

Dear Leslie,
It's Halloween night, which means it's that time again. The time when kids are trick-or-treating and taking part in an age-old tradition of being silly, giddy kids - loving this fun holiday. The time when it's starting to get colder outside and the holidays are around the corner. The time when life is crazy busy with so many fun fall things to do. The time when we realize just how fast the years are passing, and you are still missing it all. The time when we reflect on that horrific night ... the night that should have been Banner's first Halloween, the night when your grandsons should have been annoyed at us wanting to take more pictures of them as we told them to hold still and wait one more minute before they went to trick-or-treat, the night that should have been filled with laughter and candy and rushing to get our 4-month-old to bed on time while big kids kept ringing our doorbell. But, that's not what happened that night, and tonight is the night I reflect on how it all happened. The phone call, the denial, the nightmarish reality. The tears, the yells, the anger, the silence.

Yes, the silence. So much is heard, so much is seen in just the stillness of thinking about you. Sometimes I sit in Quinn's room rocking him often thinking of you and what you are missing. It's quiet as he dozes off, and I see so much of you in his face. He will never know you, at least not in person, but sometimes - just every now and again - I feel you when I hold him. I wonder if you are listening to my lullabies or holding his hand as he toddles along. I wonder if you're laughing at me while I'm frustrated as he tries to roll off the changing table or fighting with him to stay out of the dishwasher. And, sometimes, I have memories of you and him together - memories that never happened. I can see you holding him. He's such a little love, such a cuddler, that I can see you snuggling him as he rests on you. I can see you cracking up as he waddles across the room and tumbles. I can hear you talking to him and trying to get him to say "Bubbie." Yet none of these things ever happened. You live on so clearly in my mind, yet you are not here.

So hard, Leslie. So hard to get that through my head. You won't ever be here to see all these amazing things that are happening here, the things I know you would LIVE for! I know you'd be bugging me to babysit, begging me to have the kids sleep over, having a blast with these grandsons of yours, and gloating over Sam's success. But you aren't here.

And at the same time, you are still often a topic of discussion. This was the year Banner started asking about you. "Where does Bubbie live?" he wanted to know back in December on the way to a birthday party. "Is Bubbie under there?" he asked when we visited your grave on Mother's Day. "Why did Bubbie die?" he wondered after a swim lesson. "When will I die, Mommy?"

I had all the answers ready, but my heart is never ready to hear these questions. My mind races to make sure I say the right things, to leave no question unanswered, to make sure he feels comfortable asking and talking, to prevent fear and anxiety, to keep your memory alive. My heart aches for him that he'll never know you, but it aches more for Sam. I miss you so much for him. And, my heart aches for you - that you continue to miss all this love. It will always and forever be unfair that you are missing it all.

This year, you missed Banner's 3rd birthday. You missed his Shabbat performance this morning. You missed his first year of preschool and how much he's learned! You missed Quinn's first steps, first words, and first birthday. You missed his baby naming and all his first holidays. You missed Banner learning what it really means to be a brother - all the sibling rivalry that's started and the taunting and tormenting that's been going on between the two. You've missed their sweet giggles together, though, too. You would be so impressed with these two boys of ours.

Leslie, I made you a promise last year to make each day a beautiful day. I did my best, and I will continue to promise you that. You're getting farther from us in time, but your memory is still very much alive and well. More and more, there are stories about Bubbie and "when Daddy was little." I can't watch my kids eat an ice cream cone without thinking of you - thanks to the memory Sam always shares about how you taught him how to eat one. I tell Sam when I hear you in his voice or his expression. Banner knows you signed him up for the PJ Library books so when one comes, we tell him "it's from Bubbie!" ("Bubbie must be nice to keep sending me these books!"... We did have to clear this up to explain that you signed him up before you died but that the books will keep coming.) Sam and I often reflect on what you would say or do and how you would say it. And, I have a whole vault of memories stored for safe keeping. So, don't worry that you are being forgotten. Not so. It just really sucks that you aren't here to see it all yourself. And it really sucks trying to explain death to a 3-year-old when we barely understand it ourselves.

Just this month, Richard moved out of the last home you ever knew. It's hard knowing that we won't be back in that home. It's hard because so many of my "made-up" memories are in that home. It's where we announced our pregnancy, it's where you made the last green bean casserole for me, it's where I remember turning around and you smiling at me as you said, "I forgot you were pregnant, and then you turned around and there was this belly there, and I just LOVE that!" It's where Sam dropped you off on his last "date" with you, it's where I picked you up when the snowy weather created a power outage and we spent the day together making challah, it's where you held Banner in your last picture with him, it's where you took your last breath. So, it was hard for me to leave it that last time, but I know you aren't there and that those memories are what matter. It's just yet another ending to this chapter of saying goodbye to you.

As you know, I talk to you throughout the year, so this letter doesn't have to say everything. I just want you to know how missed you are, how alive you still are in our hearts, and how deeply I wish it could have been different. 3 years later and it still feels so fresh. It's not as raw perhaps, but there is still a pain. It's just a pain we have become more rehearsed in. We have learned how to deal a little bit better, how to tolerate the voids, and how to bring you along with us.

Missing you always,
Amber

Guest Post: 3 Years

*This is a special guest post by Sam.

Mom,

Tomorrow will be the third anniversary of your passing. It's hard to comprehend how three years can feel like so much time, and yet how it feels like it was just yesterday. That's three years since I last knew I could pick up the phone and call you to talk about anything (or, as the case often was, hear about anything) or nothing at all. 36 months since getting a voicemail with nothing but a song that reminded you of me. 156 weeks since the chance for a family gathering with just the original five of us (ignoring Shelby's assertion that I spoiled her party by taking her place as the baby of the family). 1,092 days since I could tell you I love you and have you respond that you love me more. 26,208 hours since I could tell you all the miraculous moments in my children's lives (yes, there are two of them now!).

I recall so clearly your lamenting in the years after my Bubbie, your mom, died that there's just nothing quite the same about carrying on in life without your mom there to share it with. I knew on some logical level that you were right; I just wish I was still limited to understanding the words and not the experience. There's something to be said for a mother's love - a love you can never replace or reproduce. It is, in the truest sense of the word, unconditional. It is a warm blanket surrounding you through which no cold can ever penetrate. It is a brilliant light over which no shadow can be cast. And though it never fades - even in your absence - there's something indescribable that is just different now that you're gone, something changed that I can't seem to entirely grasp. It makes me so grateful to have had such a blessed life in the glow of your love, yet so longing to bask in it in realtime and not just in the echoes of my memory.

Perhaps my greatest challenge is accepting the success of moving on with life. For all the times I miss you when I'm solitary, or when something random and beautiful reminds me of you, I miss you the most when I share a tender moment with Banner or Quinn. I often think of you when Quinn is laying his head on my shoulder in the twilight, as I sway with him cheek-to-cheek and he slowly drifts off to sweet and happy dreams. You spring into my mind when Banner and I have a deep conversation, or a hilarious laughing fit of love and affection for one another. I want so badly to discuss these daily miracles with you - to share them so that you can enjoy them with me - to celebrate my victories as a daddy. There is always a sense in those moments that you are there with us, that through such pure joy, your love shines through my boys and me simultaneously.

I know that Banner and Quinn would so adore you if you were still around, and that you would likewise be irrevocably entranced by them. I suspect they are exactly as you would predict them to be: smart, funny, thoughtful, adorable, appropriately rebellious (as I recall you describing me many years ago). I only fear that I will be unable to convey what an amazing mom, bubbie and friend you were. I still get a sinking feeling in my stomach, a twinge in my tear ducts, when I am forced to recall that I cannot share with you the daily miracles I experience as a parent. I think if you were here, you might enjoy hearing my excitement in reciting stories about the boys just as much as you would enjoy the stories themselves. And of course, I think you and the boys would most of all find such sweet happiness if you could make your own stories together - something I would trade so very much to make happen.

I often wonder what you would think of me as a parent. Banner was only four months old when you died; Amber and I were only four-month-parents. We were still figuring out which way was up (not that you ever really get your bearings), figuring out who we were as parents and as a parent couple. I wonder if you'd think I'm a good dad and a good father, if you'd think my failures were not as detrimental as they seem in my mind. I often want to confide in you all my fears and doubts of being a parent and learn your insights. Sometimes, I simply wonder how much or how little Banner and Quinn are like me when I was their age.

Most of all, though, I wish we could just talk. Even for a few minutes - just to catch up. Missing you doesn't only happen when something great or terrible occurs. It's not just when I feel so much love for my sons or for Amber, or when I've started my own business or had a baby. Missing you happens every day, all day. It happens in a song for which we shared the same affinity. It happens in a drive down a road on which we had a conversation years ago. It happens in the spectacular, unpredictable appearance of a memory of you while merely going about the mundaneness of an otherwise unremarkable day.

As you always knew, I struggle with having faith that there is more beyond this world. I teeter between the comfort of belief and the emptiness of what I perceive to be logical explanation. If you can read this though, I want you to know: These 26,208 hours, these 1,092 days, these 156 weeks,  these 36 months, these three years: they have been amazing. I live an amazing, fulfilling life. Amber and I still have an incredibly enriching, interactive and loving marriage. Banner and Quinn bring me more joy than I ever knew existed in life, and I have a love for them that goes to a depth I never comprehended. Dad, Gayle, Shelby and me are doing fine; we're all happy, we're still together, we're still a family. I understand you now in a way I never did before. Now that I myself am a parent, I finally understand how much you loved me - and everything you did in my life to show it. Thank you for giving me so much love and affection, and know that in doing so, you planted those seeds in me which now sprout anew through my own family. A beautiful legacy indeed.

I love you,

Sammy

"Mommy, I'm So Proud of You!"

So many days and nights are filled with bickering with my "threenage" son. Banner can be argumentative, demanding, cranky, and down-right rude these days. I often go to bed wondering what I'm doing wrong or what I could have done differently when I feel so frustrated with his antics and awful behavior, especially at the end of the day. I've learned that his behaviors are quite exactly what they should be for a boy his age and that I'm certainly not alone in feeling the way I do about his dawdling, his inability to respond to my questions, his inattentiveness, and his assertion of independence. Watching him struggle with sharing his toys and space with his brother, dealing with the sharp cries and yells of frustration, and finding patience as I ask him for the umpteenth time to obey my requests take a toll on me emotionally and physically. It's hard to feel like I'm losing him or have lost my sweet boy on a daily basis. It's hard to know that he is capable of so much more than he gives at times. But, I suppose it's the hardest to watch my baby feel such struggles within himself as he navigates his place in the world and tries to figure out how he fits into it. He's doing all the "right" things for his age, and he's on the road to independence by asserting himself  - even when it frustrates Mommy.

But, today, we had a great day. It was a day that I want to remember during the "not-so-good" days. It was a day when he was on his best behavior and he remembered all of what we expect from him without needing be reminded. He used his manners, he asked for things politely, he listened the first time, he responded when asked questions, he shared with his friends, he played nicely with Quinn, he followed directions promptly, he even corrected his speech when he would say things incorrectly at first ("THank you" after saying "Shank you"). And, at the end of the day, this was a little of our conversation during our cuddle time before he fell asleep:

I asked him what his favorite part of his day was. "Being outside at Britt & Brittney's house," he said.

"Do you know what my favorite part was?" I asked him.

"It was being outside at Britt & Brittney's house!" he suggested.

"Well, I liked that, but it wasn't my most favorite. MY most favorite was when I was cutting Quinn's fingernails and he was holding Mike the Knight. You asked what he was playing with, and when I told you, you asked if you could have it. I said no, that it was Quinn's turn. You said, 'Can I have it when he's done?' When we told you 'Of course!' you calmly walked away to wait your turn. Daddy and I were so happy that you had that idea on your own. It made Mommy very happy to see you share like that."

Then, he leaned over and gave me a hug. "Thank you," I said.

"Do you know why I gave you a hug?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm so proud of you, Mommy!" he told me happily. "I'm proud of you for saying that to me."

"Thank you for telling me that. Can I give you a hug?" I said, as I leaned in to give him another squeeze.

"Why did you give me another hug?"

"Because I love you. I love you and wanted to show you how much I love you with a big hug," I told him.

We just laid there talking and hugging and cuddling. And, while we do that most nights, it was obvious that he felt so much joy in our cuddle tonight, that he agreed he had done a great job today, that he loved hearing how great he did. I praise him often - especially as we greet the night and wind down from a busy day - but this night felt different. It was a night when I felt like all our efforts and modeling are getting through to him. There is a light every now and then! There is a light of hope that these "terrible threes" are going to pass and our boy will be just fine! There are wonderful moments that deserve to be documented just as much as those days of constant testing. Today, we did not fail. Today, I'm celebrating my boy.

13-Month Newsletter: Quinn

Dear Quinn,
I love you, son. I love you dearly. But, I'm going to be perfectly honest and tell you that this month sucked. We had an amazing time celebrating your big birthday, and I enjoyed reflecting on your year. September was bittersweet as I constantly thought back to your birth and bringing you home and all the "at this time last year" thoughts. You've come so far, grown so much, and continued to dive deeper into my heart. But, this month has genuinely tried both of us. Maybe it's because you are finally getting teeth(!), or maybe it's because your separation anxiety is at an all-time high (even when I thought it couldn't get much worse!), or maybe it's because Mommy started a part-time (temporary) job that has you all confused. Whatever "it" is, you have become a horrible napper, and you aren't eating as well, even though you are seemingly hungrier than ever before (perhaps because you no longer drink formula which may have had more calories?). It's been a hard month on me, because while I love you so, so much - more and more than ever before (which I never thought could even be possible!) - you are draining me! Getting you to rest, when it's all I want to do, is truly awful and sometimes pointless. I just wish I could figure out what has made you so resistant to sleep. Is it your reflux? Are you afraid? Does your tummy hurt? Are you worried you'll miss out on something? Do you just miss us when we leave your room? Such a puzzle! Don't get me wrong, sweet boy, I LOVE cuddling you and rocking you and holding you... but I just can't do it all day or all night! I wish I could, but I'm physically (and mentally) drained!

Yet, when you up and awake, you really are such a great baby! You're personality is so fun and sweet. You are curious and inquisitive about the world around you. You are mostly pretty quiet (except when you go on your screaming/squealing sprees), you are generally a pretty good listener and don't like to be "in trouble," you are learning and responding and so, so fun!

So, what else are you up to??

-You have teeth!!! I'm not really sure how many to count yet, but your first one was your upper right tooth. It's taken a LONG time to come in, though. The upper left is also making a small appearance. And, your bottom left is there, but I can't see the right one yet. . . just a little slit. (So, three and a half teeth, maybe?)

-You walk like a pro. While you still walk like a drunken sailor from time to time, you are faster and faster and extremely proficient in balancing and managing your space.

-You point. (You started doing this a little before your first birthday, but I wasn't sure how consistently you were doing it, so I didn't write about it last month.)

-You say a few words: "nana" for banana, "Mama," "Dada," "Nah" for no, "gucky" for yucky, and "up." You repeat a few words: down, out for example. I think "baba" is Banner, but I'm not sure yet.

-Your schedule looks a little like this: Wake up around 6:15ish and put yourself back to sleep until 7:30. You immediately get your Prevacid, and then you get a 7 oz  whole milk bottle approximately 30 minutes later. We take Banner to school (or at least get him ready for Daddy to take him) around 8:40. Then, we either attempt a morning nap, or I keep you awake. We leave for Grandma's house around 10:20 so I can drop you there while I go to work for a bit. (On days I don't work, we play at home or run errands.) You eat lunch around noon. You go down for a (first or maybe second?) nap around 1:30 (earlier if you haven't napped yet). When you get up (assuming you even fell asleep!), you get a 4-5 oz bottle, which we'll be dropping soon. We eat dinner around 6:00, and then you and Banner take a bath together around 6:45. You're usually asleep around 7:15-7:30, but lately you've been struggling to get to sleep (see above!). Nights have been harder this month - with lots of midnight waking and unsound sleep for us all.

-So, you are in between needing 1 and 2 naps each day. That has really posed problems on guessing what kind of day it's going to be. Hence, the difficulty with your sleeping. You definitely still need two naps on some days, but others, you can handle just one and then go down beautifully (usually). 

-You've become a pickier eater. Textures of some foods don't sit well with you - and if it's sticky, forget it! We've introduced you to eggs, fish, and strawberries. You liked the fish, you liked the eggs if we fed them to you (you don't like the feel of them), and you only ate strawberries once I put chocolate sauce on them! :) You've been spitting out beef and chicken (not meatballs, though). You don't like brisket. You like spaghetti if it doesn't stick to you. And, you can't get enough of bananas.

-You are taking more risks and exploring more on your own, but you are also pretty obedient when we say "no." I'm hoping this stays true for a long time to come - as it would certainly be a nice reprieve from your brother's antics! Daddy and I are not used to a boy who actually listens to "no"! Banner seemed/seems to get a kick out of making us continue to say no! You are much more my personality when it comes to this - I never wanted to be in trouble!

-You went to services at Temple for your first Rosh Hashanah and also for Yom Kippur. And, this week, Daddy built a sukkah - and we had our first dinner in it last night! You seemed to really like eating outside in this different environment. It is a nice change of scenery!

Sweet Quinn, you are a cuddler, a shy, sensitive, loving little boy. I am so in love with you and your personality, and I love seeing more and more of it unfold. I hope we are all able to find rest pretty soon and that whatever is bothering you passes quickly. I really think it's your teeth, and I hope they come in quickly so this pain will pass for you already! 

Happy 13 Months, My Love!
I love you so very much!
Love,
Mommy