Things I Can't Say...

Tears fall and I can't help it. My heart aches and it hurts to remember, to feel, and yet 

I can't stop feeling. 

I've tried over the years to not let this part of my heart hurt, or remember... 

but how could I ever expect it to forget?

And so, when it is three days after my own daughter's birthday...

five days after Ryan's...

the 20th of July, October 6th, each January, every August...

always when it is the week of Thanksgiving... 

and with every Cowboy Christmas Tree I see...

and again tonight, and so many nights, when I have just looked through pictures of her boys with their grins and girlfriends and new fiancee, and her daughters with their beautiful faces, beautiful hair and beautiful eyes...

I cry. 

I cry, I cry, and I cry.

You see...

many years ago I had a friend, a beautiful friend. She was good, and strong. She was determined, and worked hard to do what she felt was right. She was a good mommy and fiercely protective of her babies. She put up with me because I married her husband's best friend... and then as time went on, there came a time when she actually loved me for me, and was a friend as friends should be. 

And then, 

her heart broke.

How could it not? Her babies went to heaven and part of her heart went with them. 

But what she didn't know was that my heart was broken too. 

I loved her babies, I loved her children. I loved her, and didn't know how to help her, didn't know how to take away her pain. How could I? How could anyone? 

Nobody can understand the pain a mother feels who has lost a child until one of their own returns home to heaven's arms. And nobody could understand my friend's pain, for she lost three. 

And so, as much as I tried, I didn't help her. I couldn't help her. And the more I tried, the more I hurt her. The more I reminded her that her babies were gone, and mine were still here. The more I reminded her that she was hurt, and that there was no way I could know, could understand, or could ever be enough of a friend.

She had been there for me through some of my own tough times, and now she needed a friend and 

I wasn't enough. I couldn't be.

In fact by trying, I pushed her farther and farther away. 

Her memories are different than mine. She remembers I put my baby down in front of her, hurting her more, twisting the knife that was already slicing through her heart, searing her with pain. 

I remember I left my baby home, even arguing with my husband because I refused to bring the baby with us. He didn't think it would matter, but I knew it would. 

I didn't want to hurt her, and so I wouldn't bring the baby. 

But in her memory, my baby was there anyway. 

She remembers that I left dishes in the sink, laundry on the floor, and folded the towels wrong. 

I remember that I cleaned the kitchen counters, folded the baskets of clothes, and cleaned up after 

her baby was born.

She remembers that I upset her kids, ruined her mop, and was tempted to leave my marriage, my love.

I remember that I babysat so she could have a break. I held her little boy while he whimpered in pain with a tube in his belly, praying for Jesus to help him know how much he was loved and to ease the pain. I remember that I worked hard to mop the floors and have her house clean when she came home, so that she could rest some more before their family came over to barbecue.

I remember that I didn't leave, that I learned to love more, and that 

I never once gave her reason to be ashamed.

I can't change her mind. She never thought to ask what I remembered, why, or what I was thinking. 

It doesn't matter.

But it does hurt. Still. 

How can I change her memory?

How can I take away that pain?

How can I take heal those hurts? They are bigger than me.

I tried. Believe me I tried. I tried everything from talking to her, to not talking to her, to reaching out to her, to staying out of her way, and everything I could think of in between. 

And that seemed to work the best. To stay away. To just stop coming around. To say hi from a distance, if we happened to meet. To stay away from her memories, away from her pain. To leave her to her hurts, her healing, and her new friends. 

And she has healed. She is still healing. 

She still loves, she still aches, but she is happy.

She enjoys life. 

She enjoys her kids.

She is still a good mommy.

And still fiercely protective. 

She is healthy, and beautiful, and loved.

Jesus brought her peace. He rocks her babies, and holds her heart in His hands when it feels like shattering. At least, that's what I believe.

She still doesn't understand me, and still doesn't believe that I didn't bring my baby to the viewing. 

In her memory, I still taunt. 

I still represent pain. 

I would suppose seeing me brings back waves of emotion, but I know better. 

She is past me. Past my friendship, however weak and meager it may have been. 

But there is one thing I cherish. A card she gave me with a floral wreath 

made into the shape of a heart, before her babies went to live in Heaven. 

Before I caused her so much pain.

Inside, it simply says, "Just because I love you. Thanks for being my best friend."

And if there is one thing I could say to her still, it would be this...

"I love you too. 

Thanks for teaching me so much.

I am glad you are happy. I am glad you found peace, and smiles, and joy. 

 I miss you."

With love,

Your Friend

Dishes, Laundry, and Dinner

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

SLAM!

That's the sound of love coming from my 11 year old right now.

Get the dishes done, or go to bed. That's all I asked. Dishes that I've been asking you to do since 5:00.  Dishes that you should have had done this morning without me asking.  Dishes that are piling up even worse because you won't get them done. Dishes you only have to do two days a week!

No. Stomping and slamming doors is soooo much better than just getting the job done.

Am I asking too much of my kids?  Are they better off just doing nothing around the house and me not having to deal with slamming doors? Sometimes I wonder. Please tell me I'm not the only Mom who deals with this.


Anyway....

Socks. Socks on my hands, that's the trick to doing laundry.  Has been since I was little.  I know, you can start laughing now at the mental picture you just formed in your head.  Me with mismatched socks on my hands bumbling around in the laundry room,  head cocked to one side as I try pathetically to remember which one is the washer and which is the dryer. Disoriented stutters as I try to sort darks and lights.

Well, thankfully it's not that bad. Really. At least not most days :)

I just can't handle the thought of sticking my hands into the laundry hamper and having the germs clobber me as I load the dirty clothes into the washer. Given the smelly treasure we found in the load of little boys pants we washed yesterday, I probably have good reason for that phobia. So, I put clean socks onto my hands as I reach into the hamper and throw the laundry in.Then I throw the socks in too.

Well, the dryer isn't working right now, so despite the rainy weather, we have laundry hanging from baskets, couches, chairs, and whatever else we can find all over the house while we wait for it to dry.  Fun times!

... Not really. There are times when being here alone without my handyman Ryan to fix everything really stinks. Literally. After all, 7 kids create dirty laundry faster than the clean laundry can airdry. That's all I'll say.


And the last thing on my mind right now, but not the least, are my friends. My anxious heart. And my choice of self-medication. Which leads me to dinner.   What???

Yes, Dinner.  (Come on now, keep up with me!)

But, I'll post separately for that. This is too long already. :)