The Loss That Trumps All Others

Ok.  I don't know this woman.  But she's wearing the-single-most-meaningful piece of clothing I've ever seen. 

The reason why, is that my cousin, Tyson, sketched the man's head and arms that you see on the front.  My aunt sent me my top, and in perfect "Tyson" fashion, I opened it on Valentine's Day.  My attention was immediately drawn to the tag attached to it. 

The dates probably gave you the first clue.  I'm certain the verb "was" gave the second.  That's all I had to read before the tears began pouring down my face.

What a darling.  And oh, how you are missed, sweet Ty.  Forever 19-years old.  Forever a child in my eyes.  The blonde, cuddly cousin who bunked with me at family reunions. 

The boy who made everyone smile with his sweet disposition, amazing personality, creativity, and giant heart.  A young man who had such a good, solid head on his shoulders.  A wonderful brother and friend and son and cousin and grandson and nephew.  A teenager who joined the Air Force and made his mama so very proud.  The one in the family who had everyone laughing and loving...

It's not fair.

It's not right that you're gone.  At times, I want to kick and scream that you left this earth too soon.  That your precious mother had to endure the loss of a child.  That she never got to see you live out your life, succeed in your career, fall in love, have a baby...  That she doesn't have the privilege of picking up the phone to call you and hear your voice.  That she falls asleep at night, without the security of knowing you are safe in your own home, tucked in for the evening.  That she doesn't let a second pass when she doesn't think of you and remember you and mourn you and believe with her whole heart that your short life had purpose.  That instead of making new memories with you, she remembers dates, like July 18, the day you were born.  Or dreads dates like August 28, the day you died in that horrible car crash.   

It's not fair, and it's awful.  But that's one of the reasons why I write this blog.  It's not always cherries and fresh flower blooms.  That's not life.  That's not reality.  What is reality, is that one thing your death did, Tyson, was gifted your mother to me and gift me to her.  We have an unspeakable bond, and we talk of you and we remember you and we cry for you all the time.  We believe you are an angel watching over us.  And, my God, we miss you!

For Christmas last year, your mom found the character you drew for me.  She framed it and carried it on the plane from California to Arkansas and handed it to me all wrapped up!

I was stunned when I opened it.  When did you draw this?  And why were you thinking of me?  What does it represent?  Oh, I can't wait to one day ask you these questions!

I know my aunt is not alone.  That there are other moms out there who've lost children, who've suffered what, to me, is the worst tragedy.  But the rainbow in this dark cloud, is that we still have and love each other.  We still remember you every day of our lives.  We still honor each other, and we respect the lessons you learned and lived while you were with us.  

And when I look at my own two children, the babies you have never met on this earth, I know in my heart that every second I get with them is a gift from God.  Just as you were, sweet Tyson John Saccone.

The Sweetness That Made It All Better

This is what made everything OK....

Made me forget the entire cup of coffee that went flying inside my car...  the 4-year old caught with toddler scissors about to cut a chunk of his hair... the 2-year old melting down because, well, because she's 2.  It made me forget about the children who were refusing to follow directions, refusing to get dressed, refusing to brush teeth.  Made me forget about the dog-poop in the house, the sweet child who mildly wet his bed and the sheets that had to be washed and changed all before 9 a.m.  Made me forget about the sore throat/sinus mess/upper respiratory infection that keeps beating me down.  Made me forget that we were nearly 30 minutes late to tumble class because of this morning from hell.  Made me forget about the not-proud mommy moment where I laid on the floor, threw my hands up, and cried actual tears.  At which point my daughter came and said, "don't cry, mommy. it'll be ok," and then patted me on the head.

I think it was the 'holding hands' that got me when I looked at them.  The sweetness that made me drop the "poor-me" story-line I was reading myself all morning long.  That made me know and feel in my heart that all of it --ALL OF IT-- was worth this one sweet moment.  I am grateful today for this.

Potty Tricks

OK.  You know you're deep in the throws of mommy-hood when you stare glowingly into the toilet and scream "yay!!!!!  you did it!!!!"

2-year old is out of diapers.  She still wears a pull-up at nap and bedtime.  And --not to get gross here-- but that's usually when she goes #2.  What gives?  She has been going tee-tee on the potty, but she doesn't go #2.  She waits until after nap or when she wakes up, and she leaves the prize in her Dora or Cinderella pull-ups.

Actually, she did it this past Saturday, and this was her reward:

The whole bag!  But then every day since, we're back to going in our pull-up.

What tricks do you use to break this habit?  Help!!