my boys
The baby fell asleep on me three times today and for once, I just let him.
I stared at him and my heart ached for how distracted I’ve been, how little of me he’s gotten in his short little five months of life. Sharing me with his brother, with my attempts to get back to work after five weeks, to keep my household running, to get back to my old self as quickly as possible. And now he has to share me with my grief. Something that steals away all my time and attention far more than everything that came in his first 11 weeks of life. What happened to me wasn’t fair, but it also wasn’t fair to my two boys. My heart aches more for them than for anything else. I know all three of us will heal eventually, even if our hearts are always a little broken and bruised and our throats are forever choking on the what ifs. But when I think of what my boys will be missing out on… when I think of everything they had, the upbringing we would’ve given them… it f*cking hurts more than anything I’ve ever felt.
Axl loves his new life. He loves his school and being in Vermont. He tells me all the time that he doesn’t want to go back to our “old home-home” and wants to stay in Vermont forever. It’s the first time in his 4.5 years of life he’s had family around. It was always just the 3 of us. Now he has aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents and his world has just expanded tenfold. So much support and love, so many people taking him on fun adventures. He’s transitioned into school just fine, he’ll be starting soccer soon. We’ll be seeing his other family regularly.
Sweet little baby Ford won’t even have memories of his dad. I don’t know how much Axl will retain, but his memory has always been sharp as a tack so I hope he’ll get to keep a few. Pete put Axl to bed every night. Always with wrestling and storytelling and shadow puppets and stuffed animal arranging. Once the baby was born he stayed up late washing and prepping all the bottles and formula, cleaning up the kitchen, making sure I would have a running start to my day. He was an amazing partner during my labors. My two boys’ birthdays will be two of my most treasured days of my whole life, particularly when I think about what the experiences with Pete were like. He was a fantastic man. I know they’ll feel the effects of that, but it’ll never be as good as having him here in the flesh.
Axl and Ford will have good lives. But they won’t have Pete. And a huge reason I was so honored to have sons was because I knew Pete was going to raise such exceptional boys. He would’ve taught them how to garden, how to fix things around our house, how to treat women, how to love. Now it’s all up to me and it’ll always feel like I’m coming up short. He was a walking encyclopedia. He knew everything. He was a DIY master. He could fix absolutely anything after watching a couple YouTube videos. He was loyal and caring and protected us fearlessly. He taught me everything I know, and now I have to teach it to the boys.
I just hope they look back on this time and think I was strong. Brave. Resilient. I hope they don’t resent me for moving them away from their home, for making them start over. I hope I don’t f*ck them up too much with my grief. It takes so much of my mental energy away. It’s been draining me lately and it never feels like I have enough to give them. I’m not present enough because I’m always on the verge of a mental breakdown. I scroll on my phone endlessly, keep podcasts playing in my ears at all times, stay busy and productive so I don’t break apart in the quiet moments. But staring at the baby today as he was falling asleep, as he locked eyes with me, I realized how little time I’ve spent just taking him in. My poor, sweet baby who has needed to be held by me every moment of his life or else he screeches and wails. The tiny baby who was strapped to my chest for days straight while his unconscious father was taken out of our home, while I spoke to doctor after doctor, while I had to decide how long to leave him on life support. While I told them to turn it off. While I planned his funeral and picked out his urn. While I cried and cried and cried as he slept on my chest. I can’t imagine what trauma he’s absorbed from those couple weeks. It kills me to think about.
People keep telling me they don’t know how I’m doing this. I never know how to respond. I wasn’t given any other choices. I’m on autopilot. I’m laser focused on these two boys and keeping them healthy and happy. I’m keeping us above water as best I can. Each moment I just look to the next thing that needs to be done, and when I finally get them both in bed at night, I write and cry until my eyes hurt and then I go to sleep and do it all over again.
What other choice do I have?