Go Blog Yourself

Merry Christmas to the person who used our suffering for their financial gain.

As soon as it happened, I wanted to tell you, but really I think you needed to be there.  Tonight I served dinned at the Denver Rescue Mission with Tuesday.

She was a 40 something black woman.  She pointed at me, as I read Tuesday on her shirt.  My heart started racing.  I told her I lost my little girl, my Tuesday, and that I’ve never met another.  She grabbed my hand and told me her daughter died 3 days ago.  Maybe you don’t believe in Divine Intervention, but I know that after hearing person after person, when handed a warm plate of food, say “Thank you, Tuesday”, that I got the Christmas present that I needed most.

P.S.  Spence, if you read this some day, know that your mom was so inspired by your tender heart.

I knew what she was going to ask.  I could see it forming in her mouth before my ears picked it up.  I didn’t know I was going to say 3.  My dad told me he’d gotten advise, and that when strangers ask, I should just say 3.  To which I thought, Um, ok, I’m NEVER going to do that.  I will never leave Tuesday out of the count.

I’ve done it twice now.  It didn’t feel good either time.  Especially the first time.  Especially when she was going on and on about how hard it’s been to see all those bruises on her son from his football games.  My urge to trump her had to be choked back by the coffee I was gripping in my sweaty hand.

She doesn’t need to know.  I’m not going to see her again.

Just sit and enjoy your stupid coffee.

You don’t always have to be a public service announcement.

Just sit there and get your toes painted.

Stick to the idle chit chat.

The second time was a little easier, as second times tend to be, but it still caught me off guard.  (You did it again.  Why did you do that?)

“Oh, you finally got you girl!  How perfect!”

Yeah.  Perfect.  I could have said, “No we actually got two little girls at the same time and that was perfect, but one died of cancer so, no, not really all that perfect anymore.”   But that’s usually a conversation killer.

What I’ve gotten from this, 3 vs 4 experiment is that it’s sometimes better to not share her.  It’s not a disservice  to Tuesday and it’s not unjust.  It doesn’t mean I love her or miss her any less.  That is impossible.  I’m not a bad mom because I didn’t tell the sales lady.  I’ve shared her with the world.  Sometimes it’s ok to keep her to myself.

In the same vein, I’m working on letting go of some of the pain and sorrow.  I don’t need it in order to love her, and my theory is by giving some of it away, I’m creating more space for her love.  There is only so much room, and I overflow so easy these days.  If you come here because you’ve lost a child, you might think this is total bullshit. Sometimes I think so too.  1 year and nine months and 2 weeks is not very long in our world.  I’m still making it up as I go.

But today, dear stranger,  as I’m stewing in the news of a sweet boy and his second relapse, I’m sure if you ask me how many kids I have, the answer will be four.