Greg's youngest son turned 13 this week. I invited him for lunch and he chose Friday at 1:15 - so today it was. I was thrilled he wanted to go.
He walked down the driveway, leaned into the driver's window to give me a kiss, and then walked around the car and got in the car in the front seat. I laughed.
"Hey Matt! The last time you were in my car, you were required by law to sit in the back. Now you're 6' tall and a "shotgun" kind of guy, for sure!
"It's been a while," he laughed. (why it's been a while is one of those things I need to leave alone.)
"Where do you want to go? What's it going to be? Pizza? Wings?"
Without a pause, he answered, "You choose. We've always liked the same things."
"I know a great pizza place..." and we were off.
Conversation was easy. I said something about his dad, and I stopped short. I needed to see how he felt about mentioning his dad.
"I need your help," I started. "Do you want to talk about your dad? Not talk about your dad? I'll try to honor whatever feels best for you, but you have to let me know what that is."
"I like to talk about my dad. I like stories about my dad. But only the good things. I only want to talk about the good things."
"We're on the same page. Thank you, Matt."
Lunch went well and then we came back to my house. Matt hadn't seen the beautiful basement his dad finished for our business. He was astounded.
"He showed me pictures, but you just don't get "this" (as he looked around the room) in pictures. I can't believe the ceiling in here. I used to think the ceilings were giant!"
"Well, you were pretty little in those days, but those days are long gone! You're on your way to being a giant." I laughed.
My heart ached for all of the wasted years. Senseless.
We ended up in the dining room playing Dutch Blitz for a couple of hours. Richard stopped by for a quick visit (and a couple hands of Dutch Blitz) on his way home from work. He was happy to see Matt. (and I think Matt was happy to see Richard, too)
I delivered Matt back home at 6:30, asking if we could do it again some time. He said we could. I hope that happens.
It was the first time I'd been to their house since Greg died. Michael warned me before I went to be ready for it to look very different. Greg had two trucks. They were both gone. The boat was gone. The trailer for his truck was gone.
When I pulled up in front of the house, it was all I could to do hold it together, but Matt was out the door quickly and so I swallowed the tears and greeted Matt.
No tears all day. I did what I had to do - pushed down feelings - denied feelings - whatever it took for Matt to have a good afternoon.
But when the day was over and I reached the safe walls of home, I hid in the bathroom and it all flooded in - the pain of seeing a child missing his father - the changes in the house - everything - all of the feelings of the day that I hid. They all came at once.
How could my thoughtful, sensitive son cause this much permanent damage to the children who were his reason for living? I can hardly look at them. I'm old and with any luck, I won't be here long, but those children will carry this the rest of their lives. So much pain. The word, "pain", is completely inadequate to describe what they must be feeling.
I'm embarrassed - I feel partly responsible - I can't imagine why any of them would even want to see me.
I look at the last forty-five years of my life and wonder why it took me so long to see so many of my deficiencies as a mother. I'm ashamed - and so sorry for all of my mistakes.
He walked down the driveway, leaned into the driver's window to give me a kiss, and then walked around the car and got in the car in the front seat. I laughed.
"Hey Matt! The last time you were in my car, you were required by law to sit in the back. Now you're 6' tall and a "shotgun" kind of guy, for sure!
"It's been a while," he laughed. (why it's been a while is one of those things I need to leave alone.)
"Where do you want to go? What's it going to be? Pizza? Wings?"
Without a pause, he answered, "You choose. We've always liked the same things."
"I know a great pizza place..." and we were off.
Conversation was easy. I said something about his dad, and I stopped short. I needed to see how he felt about mentioning his dad.
"I need your help," I started. "Do you want to talk about your dad? Not talk about your dad? I'll try to honor whatever feels best for you, but you have to let me know what that is."
"I like to talk about my dad. I like stories about my dad. But only the good things. I only want to talk about the good things."
"We're on the same page. Thank you, Matt."
Lunch went well and then we came back to my house. Matt hadn't seen the beautiful basement his dad finished for our business. He was astounded.
"He showed me pictures, but you just don't get "this" (as he looked around the room) in pictures. I can't believe the ceiling in here. I used to think the ceilings were giant!"
"Well, you were pretty little in those days, but those days are long gone! You're on your way to being a giant." I laughed.
My heart ached for all of the wasted years. Senseless.
We ended up in the dining room playing Dutch Blitz for a couple of hours. Richard stopped by for a quick visit (and a couple hands of Dutch Blitz) on his way home from work. He was happy to see Matt. (and I think Matt was happy to see Richard, too)
I delivered Matt back home at 6:30, asking if we could do it again some time. He said we could. I hope that happens.
It was the first time I'd been to their house since Greg died. Michael warned me before I went to be ready for it to look very different. Greg had two trucks. They were both gone. The boat was gone. The trailer for his truck was gone.
When I pulled up in front of the house, it was all I could to do hold it together, but Matt was out the door quickly and so I swallowed the tears and greeted Matt.
No tears all day. I did what I had to do - pushed down feelings - denied feelings - whatever it took for Matt to have a good afternoon.
But when the day was over and I reached the safe walls of home, I hid in the bathroom and it all flooded in - the pain of seeing a child missing his father - the changes in the house - everything - all of the feelings of the day that I hid. They all came at once.
How could my thoughtful, sensitive son cause this much permanent damage to the children who were his reason for living? I can hardly look at them. I'm old and with any luck, I won't be here long, but those children will carry this the rest of their lives. So much pain. The word, "pain", is completely inadequate to describe what they must be feeling.
I'm embarrassed - I feel partly responsible - I can't imagine why any of them would even want to see me.
I look at the last forty-five years of my life and wonder why it took me so long to see so many of my deficiencies as a mother. I'm ashamed - and so sorry for all of my mistakes.
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