Mother’s Work

It’s been a hard week here at our house, where for some reason we’ve been grieving more intensely. Just about everything seems to trigger thoughts of George. Even things like movie choices are tricky. The other night we decided to watch one of Lily’s favorites, HellBoy, (or as she demurely says, “H-Boy.”) As a mom, I protested when George brought this DVD home and shared it with Lily, thinking she was too young for it. But she, like her dad did, has a perverse affinity for over-the-top creature features, so I stood back and let them bond over it.

Everything seemed okay with the movie, until Lily suddenly said, “I’ll never see him again.” Everybody stopped in their tracks. “I’ll never, ever, see him again!”  She started to cry… and then wail. Sara and I both turned red, and dropped down in our seats, like we’d been hit by a truck.

Nothing really helped, not me rocking her, not the dogs, seeing she was distressed, licking her and trying to snuggle. Sara tried to talk to her, but really, we were all too sad to do much.  Eventually, her tears slowed down, then there was a lot of sniffling, then she just gave in and cuddled up with me on the couch. “I’ll never see Daddy again, Mama,” she said periodically, and I, lost for words, hugged her as tightly as I could.

When you dream of motherhood, you imagine birthdays and dress-ups, reading bedtime stories, watching them grow, cheering them on. You don’t think of helping your child survive a broken heart at seven years old. Little kids just shouldn’t have to endure this kind of pain, and seven is too young to realize how fragile life is. Lily has had a lot of her lust for adventure stolen from her. When she thinks about climbing or swimming or jumping, she mentions the possible consequences far more than a child untouched by death. “I don’t want to hurt myself,” she says, eyes wide.

“Will you live a long life?” she asks. “I hope so,” I answer. Not as easy to say, “Don’t worry. I’m going to live forever.” I get hung up on the truth of what I say, and find myself answering carefully, with lots of caveats. Sometimes, still, I lay in my bed and ask myself, “Why did this happen to us?”

Of course, there’s no real answer to that question. Things happen, and you try to move on, live a good life, be a good mom. I’m not the mom I once was, constantly joking and tickling and chasing. I’m quieter, sadder, lonelier. So is Lily. We see families out in the world, and I notice all of us watching the fathers. Those fathers have become fascinating. But none of them seems as cool, as funny, as sweet as Lily’s own father was. Our loss is huge, and permanent, and I’m afraid so are the changes its caused in us.

So today is Mother’s Day, and I’m so very grateful I had the opportunity to help mother Sara, and that I have Lily. Its not turned out as George and I dreamed it would, but being Lily’s mom is the most wonderful thing in my life, and having Sara here is a gift beyond measure. I’ll continue to try to help Lily adjust to our loss. I know she will be okay, because she is strong and wise. Its my job to be here for her as long as I can, and to provide two parents worth of support and love. I’m trying. Its a big job.

Lily as Iron Man

Today we are going to go to the movies and see “Iron Man 2.” George had a ball taking Lily to the first movie, and she’s super excited about seeing the sequel. Iron Man was his theme song, so I’m sure some sad feelings will overtake us at some point in the movie. Its something we have to live with, missing him forever, never, ever seeing him again.

But remembering him, always.

Related posts:

1. Comfort and Joy
2. The Dust is Settling
3. Acceptance
4. The Building Begins
5. Down and Dirty

Tagged as: crying, george maddox, grief, iron man, lily maddox, lisa maddox, mother's day, SARA BYRD, single parent, widow