Two bouncy 5 year olds sat at my kitchen table laughing as they slurped up the long spaghetti noodles I’d served in front of them, one with red sauce, one without.
These are the moments I dreamt of when I thought about being a mom. A house full of kids, slamming back screen doors and giggles from the upstairs playroom.
Joe and I wanted four kids. We always knew we wanted an even number so no one had to ride the rides alone at Disney. This is how you family plan before you actually have any idea all that goes into four tiny humans.
I’ve had to mourn that dream right along with my husband as I now raise our only child alone. So I savor the extra plates I get to serve on the nights we host our little friends for a play date.
“How old were you when your dad died?” The tiny voice broke my daydream as her innocent words filled the room.
“Mom, how old was I when my dad died?” My daughter bounced the question back at me.
“You were a baby. Almost one year old.” I answered as I held my breath.
“I was a baby,” she repeated back to her little friend.
“Wow, that’s such a bummer,” the little voice announced, “I’m really sorry you barely even got to talk to him.”
“I know,” my little girl said.
The two girls went right back to shoveling grapes and smiling as they sat side by side- I finally exhaled.
It is a bummer.
A giant bummer.
Mira says goodnight to all the photos in her room.
There was no better, more profound way to put it and I couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of a child’s heart shooting right to the point and nailing it better than most grown-ups.
It’s all that anyone who is hurting needs. Acknowledge and then stay. Sit right beside me in all that is sad.
It is a bummer and I’ll have my grapes fermented tonight.
