Longing to Long

Many people asked me what I planned to do today. It felt strange to explain that the thing I most wanted on Jackson’s birthday was to have time to be by myself, without my living children.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore my children and honestly credit them with helping me rebuild my life and sense of purpose after losing Jackson. They helped me reclaim motherhood and filled the house with that familiar pitter-patter sound again. They brought back the simple toddler joys of eating cheerios on demand, imitating farm animal sounds in the bathtub, and dancing to “Run Baby Run” in circles around the living room. Six years ago, I would have given anything to know that this future was possible. I couldn’t bear to keep carrying the aching and unrelenting grief in my body or the deafening silence and painful stillness in our house. I needed to know it wouldn’t always feel this way. That I wouldn’t deeply and perpetually long for Jackson every hour of every day for the rest of my life.

Six years later, I do not long in the same way for Jackson. I suspect this is, at least in part, related to the passage of time; it just stings less the farther we get carried from the blast site of Jackson’s death. However, there is more to this. I have come to realize just how hard it is to grieve while caring for young children. It’s not that I’m hiding my feelings from them, I just don’t have the spaciousness to notice them, let alone sit with them or express them. I’m so focused on feeding them, changing them, holding them, cleaning them, soothing them, playing with them – now I find myself longing for silence, longing for stillness, longing to long for Jackson.

I decided to take the day off today and practice what I’m calling “intuitive grieving” – just following my own wants and needs on the anniversary of Jackson’s death. Much like intuitive eating, which focuses on “listening to your body” rather than adhering to rules or external constraints, I am practicing following my own lead without having to consider anyone else’s. For me, outsourcing childcare is a necessary requirement for intentionally creating this freedom to experience my grief, at my own pace, without rushing, without explaining, without the constant planning and managing and juggling of meal times, nap times, play times. Any parent can attest to how difficult it can be to get a single thought out to your partner at the dinner table without getting diverted by a question, meltdown, or sudden mess of spilled milk. Toddlers can throw-off any vibe — not just dinner-table vibes and vacation vibes, but grief vibes, too.

Today, I longed to vibe in my grief without buzzkills. Today, I longed for the spaciousness to feel my feelings, wrap myself up in a blanket, put my feet up, watch videos of Jackson, do some writing, listen to Bahamas, smile and cry, sob and laugh, and eat without sharing. Six years ago, my grief felt like hopelessness, fear, and despair. Today, my grief feels like a long walk in the park with an old friend I haven’t seen in a long time. It’s hard to explain, but I love to spend time with this friend, even if it hurts and my face is wet with tears. There is a visceralness to the pain, just as there is a visceralness to the love. Connecting with these intense feelings and sensations makes me feel alive. And it’s where my dead son lives. It comforts me to know that my grief and love for Jackson are always with me, tucked away but never gone, even when they are understandably drowned out by the chaos of day-to-day life.

By the time I pick the kids of from school, I am ready to resume being with them. I am ready to hold them and smell them and love on them. I am more tolerant of the chaos, more open to the questions, more patient when the milk spills. I will hold them extra tight tonight, knowing full well what a freaking gift they are. And I will kiss them goodnight with a touch more gravity, knowing full well how fragile and beautiful being alive truly is.