24 hours in the life of this grieving mama-

6:45-open my eyes, realize I'd rather be asleep than get out of the cozy, warm place that often provides the only true respite from the reality of dead children.
7:15-realize that if I don't get my ass out of bed, my day will shot before it begins, so I throw my workout clothes on and head to the rec room.  Where there are the last sets of "school" pictures I framed and the kids handprints hanging on the wall, staring at me.  I face the doors and try to keep up with my workout without looking at that picture/handprint wall, because today, like almost every other day, it takes my breath away and reminds me of the desperately deep and jagged hole where the lives of 2 of my children used to be.  Unfortunately, facing the doors includes facing the red chair where Mercy used to sit and bounce around like a ping pong ball while I tried to read to her.  It's got the microscope sitting behind it that she'd also spread all over the place and try to examine whatever she could get her hands on.  It also means staring at the bins of art supplies that lined my school room in the old house and caused me hours of aggravation when they'd empty them, but also filled days with so much creativity and joy.
Super.
But if I face the other direction, I have to stare at the wall of toys that never gets played with anymore, the basket of puppets that lay untouched, the My Little Pony bin that only makes an appearance when Lyla comes over. The trains that Max now builds alone.
7:45-awareness that Eva isn't up pokes into my consciousness, so the internal debate over whether to wake her or let her sleep starts to rage.  Did she have nightmares again and that's why she didn't get up to her alarm?  Was she tossing and turning, trying to rest but unable to find that place of respite?  Did she get up in the middle of the night and turn on all the lights again to keep out the fear?  Do I have the energy to deal with her tears if she wakes up engulfed in them?
8:00-I poke the bear and the tears start.  I can't help it, I'm less than understanding and my weariness translates into irritation.  I've NEVER been a morning person and the challenges of mornings since "the accident" can sometimes feel like scaling Mt. Everest.  (And I'm stuck on the damn climb-unable to EVER just take a damn minute.)
She has a headache, so I try ibuprofen and a big glass of water.
Nope.  Not helping.
More tears.
Ok, let's try a shower.
By this time, I'm pissy because Charley and Max are messing around and I seem to have SO little patience any more for things that don't go according to plan.
It's a control issue.  Duh.  I've always been a control freak and when your kids die because of circumstances beyond your control and then you live the aftermath of more circumstances beyond your control, that deep fear and need to just control SOMETHING, ANYTHING, takes over and turns you into harping, nitpicking, buzz-kill of a mother.
9:10-still too much messing around and now I'm REALLY mad.  The standard lecture ensues, which sends Eva completely over the edge.  To which I respond with ZERO compassion.  (Yup, super proud mom moment here.  It's fan-freaking-tastic when your meter is so pegged that you can't even find a shred of peace to bless your child with.)
9:15-Eva sits down to eat her breakfast and all of a sudden, the wailing is beyond anything I've heard from her, in a really long time, maybe ever.  She shut the door on her emotions a long time ago and it shocks me now when it creeps out.
Her pain finally breaks through my wall and my heart is breaking because hers is too.  ALL OVER AGAIN.  Like it does a thousand times a day.
"What-love, what's the matter?"
Through her sobs, she stutters-"Max always gives me a hug when I don't feel good, just like Mercy did.  And I just want her to hug me, Mommy.  I just want her to hug me."
And I have not a word that I can utter that can change that pain, take it away or even make it better.  So I just do what I always do now-I tell her "I'm so sorry, baby.  I'm so very sorry, I wish I'd never sent you, I should have kept you all with me. I'm sorry, I'm just so sorry.  I miss her too, I miss her buttoning my sweater and playing with my hair.  Smearing too much butter on her toast and stealing my candy.  I miss seeing her smile and hearing her laugh. I'm sorry, love, I'm SO, SO, SO sorry."
9:25-convo with my husband, during which I'm reduced to a weeping mess, probably not making a lick of sense other than to just keep repeating that I'm just so very tired.
On. every. level.
9:40-by this time, I've got a headache and I just want to hide in my closet and cry. I open my door and leave my room to find my son on the living room floor surrounded by dinosaurs and trash packs.  Lining them up, building a safe space where his mind creates a world that still has his twin and best friend/brother living in it.  Last week it was his car mat and matchbox cars that were favorites with Sammy, this week it'll be trash packs and dinosaurs.  So-every. single. time. I walk into the living room, which I do at least 50 times a day, that sight will sucker punch me in the gut and take my breath away.
10:00-I'm trying to rescue the morning, so I park Max at the counter to start on math and I try to put on my crockpot dinner.  Phone rings-it's my sister.  She can tell the moment I answer that I'm a mess. And I am.
Can't hardly talk without sobbing, make zero sense, pour out every fear, frustration, and all the pain filled pieces of grief that have been building since I mostly stuff them now.  Because I'm supposed to stuff them and wear that mask that makes everyone comfortable.  You know, the one that says I'm thankful to still have 3 children.  I'm blessed to have a home.  The one that says I'm finding purpose in the pain and the silver lining in the deaths of TWO of my kids.  Joy, the finding joy in Jesus mask.
Bullshit.
I am NOT finding joy in much of anything.  I'm freaking pissed that this is our life and I'm so mentally exhausted that it takes every ounce of my energy to find the brainpower to make dinner.
10:45-finally wipe my face off enough to throw crap in a crockpot and hope it's edible.
11:30-guess I should shower.  Maybe it will give me a minute to breath and whisper a prayer that I can get through this day.
12:15-check on lunch for kids.  Am reminded by the smaller pot and less boxes of mac and cheese that there are less little people to feed.  Then I throw away the extra food in the fridge that I can't seem to stop buying and that just expires because there are aren't enough of us to eat it all.  Last week I cooked enough food in 3 days to last us 10 because my default setting just kicked in and big clan mama took over in the kitchen.
That sucks.  Because when I have to put it all in the fridge, it's yet another reminder of who I don't have to feed.
1:00-I field an inquiry from Charley about what we're wearing for Easter, followed by request to have an outfit just like the ones in our very last family picture.  Sucker punch to gut.  I used to get such joy from finding just the right things to showcase the personality and style of each of my neat little people.  I'd spend hours scouring racks for my picky Charley bean, going store to store to find edgy little "men" clothing for Max and Sammy and searching high and low for matching dresses for Eva and Mercy.
Not so much anymore.
Or really at all.
I HATE shopping for any of us anymore.  We're all SO different and holidays, honestly, they suck.
1:45-Max is starting to check out and desperately wants to lose himself in "trash pack" land, so I give him and Charley a break and decide to try and do paperwork/bit of office stuff.  Receive text from my brother about our family visit for Charles' retirement in July.  Start to stress because worry goes into overdrive and I think he's going to tell me he can't come.  Which I can't handle.  Period.  Charles' retirement is scary, it's bittersweet and it's not what we had planned for this stage in our life.  So I need all my people here to stand beside us and celebrate all that my husband accomplished as he served our country.  Because this part of our life looks so different than it should and it's a hard pill to swallow.
2:15-Worry unnecessary, but my heart is still racing and my anxiety is up as I start realizing for the thousandth time that I have no idea how we're going to make it through that day without all of our children by our sides.
2:30-check email looking for estimate from handyman.  Who is at least the 6th person I have talked to as we try to make minor updates to the Island house so we can sell it in a few months.  Stress level peaks as I realize it's STILL not here and I have run out of ideas for finding someone to do this damn work.  I don't want to deal with this.  I don't want to move.  Just going into the storage shed filled with their stuff sometimes starts a spiral I can't get out of of, what on earth will it be like to be constantly surrounded by boxes and boxes of tangible things they touched, wore, played with and lived in?
2:45-Charley starts waxing poetic about moving back "home."  At which point, I not so gracefully respond that it's not a done deal.  And her face falls and she shuffles off to the dining room to do her schoolwork.  So I plod behind her and give her a hug and tell her I'm so sorry-that I shouldn't respond that way.  Just that her dad and I are still praying through so much and the decision about where to live is a big one that we can't just rush into.  And there's so much more to the decision than just where to live.
2:50-the internal war over where to live peaks for the day.  Even though I want to go home in a part of my heart, the other part just can't settle with what it will be like to move back into the home we built for the family we no longer have all of.  What will it be like to wake up every day without Sammy's big brown eyes staring at me from the side of my bed?  How bad will it suck to know that I'll open the door to my room to grab a glass of water before bed and I WON'T see Mercy curled up on the floor just outside my room?  How will it feel to look out and see only 2 kids playing on the swings instead of 4 or 5 hanging from every surface?  HOW will Charley, Max and Eva feel when it hits them that moving home isn't going to fix the holes in their hearts and souls?
3:30-I'm ready for bed.
And it's seriously not even dinner time.
4:00-hop on Facebook for a minute to check an event time and get assaulted by suggested event for Mother/daughter pampering day.  Don't have a little lady who loves to be pampered anymore.  Which makes me cry again. And mad.  MAD.
Mad enough to spit nails.
5:00-load Charley up for Lacrosse practice and head off to Newport.  Spend most of the drive thinking about how desperately I don't want to deal with all the crap falling down around us right now.  How I don't want to face this decision about where to live, what Charles should do, what I should do, where our kids should go to school, whether or not we should switch churches because every time I walk in ours, I flash back to the day we filled the FLC with people to "celebrate" the lives of 2 children that ended too soon and in such a disgusting and violent way.
5:30-Drop Charley off and am flooded with guilt that I'm not staying to watch.  But I can't do people today and I just need to go home.
6:00-Call Mom and rehash all the stuff that never seems to change and the frustration I slog through constantly.  Living in the shadow of grief may change, but it doesn't get any easier.  Every day that passes is another day further from the moment I last hugged my children, heard their voices, smelled their sweetness and waved as they pulled out of my driveway for the last time.  Vent that I wish people would stop looking at us moving back home as some kind of exciting life event.
IT IS NOT.
Maybe it will help our hearts and maybe it will make me even madder.  And the rub is that we won't know until we're in it.  There's no crystal ball or burning bush to tell us what to do.  It's simply a leap of faith.  And leaps of faith for people who leapt into a new chapter in faith only to have the worst possible outcome aren't just leaps of faith.  They are momentous launches into a deep, dark chasm that feels bottomless and bleak.
6:45-finally head inside to eat dinner and find my husband and son reading at the counter.  Find my heart filled with gratitude for the wonder of hearing my son read.  Something I wasn't completely sure would ever come to pass. And gratitude for the incredibly giving and selfless people who have come alongside us in that journey.  It's not just a little boy learning to read, it's an anxiety ridden, twinless, brotherless and traumatized little boy overcoming more emotional and mental obstacles in his short little life than most people do in a lifetime.
Gratitude in that moment to provide respite in a day that feels like a thousand heavy bricks crushing my soul.
7:15-hiding in my office.  crap tv.
I simply can't think for one more minute today.  I need to check my brain out and zone out and find a little quiet in this brain that never stops.
8:15 move to room to hide.  take bath and eat popcorn.  more crap tv.  Snuggle goodnight to my little man.
9:15 crap tv has lost it's luster and I read.  Read other broken mama ramblings and pray, with every ounce of my soul that tomorrow will be a little lighter, a little easier, a little quieter.
But I know it won't.  Because at the end of the day, this is my life.  It may look a little different each day, but at at the end of the day-
this. is. my. life.
And every day that I wake up will be another one that doesn't include Mercy and Sam.
So I pray, when I can, that something will give.  Something will change.
I'll keep trying to deal with the alligator closest to the boat, do the next thing and not give up.  Even when, most of the time, it's what I most desperately want to do.
Grief is not self-pity.  
It's not whining. 
It's not being stuck.  
It's the manifestation of a love so deep and so wide and so full that it's all encompassing to wade through life without the physical manifestation of that love.  
Changing, ebbing, flowing and crashing over our life interrupted.    
10:45-close my eyes and pray that the night brings the peace that eludes the day.

I'm not sure when we ALL started to hide behind a mask because it became easier to stop talking about it and being honest than it was to be raw and true to the pain.  When did it become "easier" to shut things out than hear that AGAIN "God has a plan," "God is sovereign," and "God will work all this together for my good and His glory," one more time?  It is so easy to say that when you haven't held the body of your lifeless children, running your hands through their hair while you try not to let the smell of the embalming fluid be what you remember.
So easy.
You may not want to hear this and you may not agree-but I will never believe that the God who loves us, created us in His image and walks beside us in every part of our days would PLAN for my children to die so violently in a field, PLAN for my surviving children to be forever scarred, PLAN for my daughters to blame themselves.
PLAN for us to spend our lives wondering why we didn't get a miracle.
What do I believe?  I have to ask myself that over and over again, and I'm waiting, still waiting for that answer to settle in my soul.
The only thing I know for certain is that The Father, The Lord, The Giver of all good and beautiful things, gave these children to Charles and me.  So I will love them, cherish them, find patience and grace when none remains, and never give up on finding my way out of this fight I'm in for my very soul.
Truthfully, I know one other thing for certain.  I simply cannot censor myself or what this looks like for my family anymore.  I know it's hard to see us cry, painful to hear our sorrow, heartbreaking to watch any of us fall apart, frustrating to not know what to say or do, and exhausting to listen to us over and over again, I know that. 
But the mask is too heavy and painful to wear, so we won't be wearing it anymore.


as always,
clan mac mama