It’s Cade’s turn with the stomach bug. It was his turn all night, in fact. So he’s home with me today while Claire is at school.
And since he is busy laying on the sofa and asking me to turn on the AC (it is 30 degrees outside and maybe 70 inside) as he is “sweaty and disgusting.”
After 10 loads of laundry I find myself hiding in my office in hopes this buffer will create enough silence that he finally sleeps.
So I thought I would blog.
And when I came downstairs, I realized that yesterday’s blog was public, and it wasn’t supposed to be.
(I must have had one of those days because I also texted my mother in law a very inappropriate link to JT’s Saturday Night Live Skit about champagne that had me laughing so hard that I had to send it to everyone I knew who could roll with it. Even though Dallerie is amazing, there are limits to what her daughter in law should share with her, though. But oh how it is soooo funny. Google it if you haven’t seen it, yet.)
Yes, so when I realized I had posted pictures of Claire on Wayne’s Memorial bench, I was mortified.
I password protected it this morning, and then received this sweet email (which I will keep anonymous but you know who you are and I think we should be friends.)
Oh, how I wish I was allowed in to read your protected posts. I get it, I definitely understand the reasoning, the protection, the privacy. I also love your story, your new family, and you. I love your writing and your heart that you guard so closely. I hope you know that I, and many, many other ladies, genuinely care about you and your life’s ups and downs, even though I’ve never met you. I hope you’re finding healing in the beauty of life, and new love, and your babies, and in Jesus. I hope for you that you are truly happy. Anyway, if you ever care to share your protected posts’ password, I’d gladly read them and keep your posts in my heart.
Thank you for sharing your blog.
I get emails like this a lot. Those dang password protected posts make you think I am leading an exciting double-life that I don’t want to share, right? The truth is, most of them include pictures of my step-daughter Grace, and she is not allowed to be posted on my blog (totally fine and I completely understand). The thing is, she is a huge part of our lives, and I worry about her not being “represented” in our family stories, so I still write them and take lots of pictures of her, but in order to respect her parents’ privacy, I don’t post them. And at the end of each year, I print the blog into books, so the kids can flip through and read/see pictures of themselves each step along the way. This has always been my intent since starting out with the blog, and protecting some of the entries allows me the freedom to still do what I want without stepping on toes.
The other half of the protected posts have to do with Wayne. This is the part of the story that I know you might want to read about, because you have from the beginning. It’s just that I seize up when I write about him now because I am afraid of offending Rylan, of making Wayne’s parents sad, of saying the wrong thing, of being ashamed that I am moving on or that I am not moving on as fast as you think or maybe slower than you realize. See how confusing this is? So when I hide them, I can write what I want and I don’t have to think about anyone other than myself. My heart. My feelings. My memories. It truly is the last place I have where I can just be me without worrying if I am right or wrong.
Wayne has been gone 2 years on Feb. 5th. And the truth is I had to really think about what year he died because it was all such an awful blur. I had to think! And that was just two years ago. So I write when I need to with a sense of urgency because I am afraid I will forget. And I don’t want to ever forget. Not even the bad parts.
I am going to re-open up that last blog post just so you can read it. It probably doesn’t matter now, anyway. In the moment, I just panicked because I wrote with a rawness that wasn’t censored or edited.
The things that I was thinking about when I wrote it …
How Claire calls Rylan her Daddy. That she was two when Wayne died and she is almost 5 now. That she sometimes confuses Wayne’s name as Dave (his Dad and her grandpa). How sad I am for her. What will all of this mean? Ry helped me get her potty trained. Reads her stories at night. Taught her to pray. Whirls her around the room and snuggles with her all the time. He is her Dad. He will raise her and love her as his own, I have no doubt. But … it’s that feeling of vulnerability I have for her and for Caeden that the one person who was bound to them forever is gone. Not that Rylan is going anywhere. But he could. Does that make sense? So when I stand at Wayne’s bench with his daughter, there is this sense of loneliness that I think only a widow can understand. I think of how truly lucky Grace is to have such loving and amazing parents, and I get sad when I hear the kids talk about Wayne and when Claire says her Daddy died, and Grace can look across the room and see hers and say, “Mine didn’t” … it’s a helpless and horrible feeling for c2, and at the same time, a grateful feeling for Grace that she knows exactly where hers is.
I can take anything. I can. I just wish I could take Claire and Caeden’s burdens away from them.
And with that being said, all 3 of us know how LUCKY and blessed we are to have Rylan. It’s just that moment when you look over your shoulder and you realize your past is hardly visible and you wonder if you are doing the right thing for your children by urging them forward or if you should take breaks to look back.
And I guess I don’t know that answer. But that was what yesterday’s blog was about.
I write so that Caeden and Claire know what each day looked like. I never want there to be gaps in information because they are simply too small to ever remember all of this. So please don’t think I am not happy with where I am. I just am learning to allow myself to feel again – something that hasn’t really happened since March 2009 when Wayne was diagnosed stage 4. I’m pretty sure my heart shut down back then. It wasn’t until Rylan that I realized it still was beating. So please, for what it’s worth, the sadness you will read comes from being a Mom and not from being a wife. It’s a very different place that I am careful to point out.
It’s in this spirit that I let you in.