Today was my first trip to Walmart since the accident. I’ve been dreading it, because the last time I went was with Jack, just the two of us, to do some last minute stocking up on back-to-school snacks. He was in a great mood. You would have thought my willingness to buy pudding and two flavors of goldfish made me mother of the year.We were in a bit of a rush, so I let him stay by himself in the toy aisle looking at Hot Wheels cars (an interest he and his friend had recently renewed from early childhood) as I ran to the refrigerated aisle. He rolled his eyes as I said, “Don’t talk to ANYONE!”
I felt panicky that he was out of my sight, and I made a mental note that even though he was about to start 7th grade and was probably more than ready to be on his own, I wasn’t ready . I wasn’t yet ready for him to be apart from me. When I told him I’d buy him 3 cars just for the heck of it, something he didn’t ask me to do, he was thrilled, even though it only cost me a whopping three dollars. Later that night he ordered another car off the internet, which arrived the day after he died.
Jack and I also searched unsuccessfully for a Latin/English dictionary, since he couldn’t seem find his old one, not that he looked very hard. After the accident, when I emptied his backpack, I saw it zipped up in one of those little-used front pockets where it had been since June. Sheesh.
This past weekend I read Elizabeth Edwards’s account of a colossal meltdown she had in the grocery aisle when she came upon her dear son’s favorite soda. Brought to the fetal position, on the floor of a public place, by Cherry Coke. I get it, Elizabeth. I get it.
For me, at Walmart today, it was a little bit of everything. I avoided looking down the toy aisle, or at Halloween costumes, but the truth is, our kids are everywhere, in every aspect of our lives.
Dill pickles, picante sauce, Resees Puffs, and goldfish. Pudding, school supplies, and a favorite yogurt flavor. Each felt like a stab to my heart.
On Monday Margaret and I donated our “Jack Food” to a food bank, because what’s the point of keeping unopened boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats or cans of Spaghettios as a shrine to my kid?
So today I was restocking, trying to find something that would appeal to us, when very little seems to. It was hard.
After the food aisle, you could have found me among the soap, sniffing all the varieties of teen-boy body wash, trying to find Jack’s smell. You see, the cleaning lady came the morning before the accident and stripped his bed, so no smell of him lingered there. His other clothes were clean-- sweatshirts washed and ready for the new school year.
Jack and I also searched unsuccessfully for a Latin/English dictionary, since he couldn’t seem find his old one, not that he looked very hard. After the accident, when I emptied his backpack, I saw it zipped up in one of those little-used front pockets where it had been since June. Sheesh.
This past weekend I read Elizabeth Edwards’s account of a colossal meltdown she had in the grocery aisle when she came upon her dear son’s favorite soda. Brought to the fetal position, on the floor of a public place, by Cherry Coke. I get it, Elizabeth. I get it.
For me, at Walmart today, it was a little bit of everything. I avoided looking down the toy aisle, or at Halloween costumes, but the truth is, our kids are everywhere, in every aspect of our lives.
Dill pickles, picante sauce, Resees Puffs, and goldfish. Pudding, school supplies, and a favorite yogurt flavor. Each felt like a stab to my heart.
On Monday Margaret and I donated our “Jack Food” to a food bank, because what’s the point of keeping unopened boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats or cans of Spaghettios as a shrine to my kid?
So today I was restocking, trying to find something that would appeal to us, when very little seems to. It was hard.
After the food aisle, you could have found me among the soap, sniffing all the varieties of teen-boy body wash, trying to find Jack’s smell. You see, the cleaning lady came the morning before the accident and stripped his bed, so no smell of him lingered there. His other clothes were clean-- sweatshirts washed and ready for the new school year.
So today I bought some Old Spice “Pure Sport” for a kid who can no longer use it. Damn, he smelled good. I still can’t believe he didn’t get the chance to get old and stinky. Over the summer he informed us that he did, indeed, have B.O., but Margaret and I checked him out, a face in each pit, and begged to differ.
Even the cleaning products got me down today. I couldn't locate our laundry detergent or any of our "green" cleaning products. "Must EVERYTHING change?" I thought.
So today is hard, as was last night when my hand reached instinctively for four plates to set the table. I realized that for years there’s been no counting, just a connection between mind and body to grab the perfect stack of four.
And we went to cheer on his baseball team, which was brutal because those gorgeous young boys were having so much fun. There was such a sense of learning and camaraderie, and very little pressure. Just boys playing their favorite game under the lights. Tim and I kept looking at each other saying, “He would have loved this!”
And there were the binders. The “new to you” thrift-store binders filled with only 2 days worth of middle school work. A friend emptied out Jack’s locker and brought them to us. I had avoided looking at them for a while. You see, in classic parent style, Tim and I had micromanaged the school life of our eldest. Oh yes we did.
He always had stellar grades, but we were even more focused on the non-academic areas of “self-control,” “works well with others,” etc. In 6th grade we noticed that Jack’s handwriting, which had become pretty sloppy over the last few years, was completely illegible! We considered this a sign of disrespect toward his teachers and Tim, in his usual “chart-loving, self-improvement” fashion, was on it. Middle school was a big deal, and Tim wanted Jack to start out on the right/write foot.
Even the cleaning products got me down today. I couldn't locate our laundry detergent or any of our "green" cleaning products. "Must EVERYTHING change?" I thought.
So today is hard, as was last night when my hand reached instinctively for four plates to set the table. I realized that for years there’s been no counting, just a connection between mind and body to grab the perfect stack of four.
And we went to cheer on his baseball team, which was brutal because those gorgeous young boys were having so much fun. There was such a sense of learning and camaraderie, and very little pressure. Just boys playing their favorite game under the lights. Tim and I kept looking at each other saying, “He would have loved this!”
And there were the binders. The “new to you” thrift-store binders filled with only 2 days worth of middle school work. A friend emptied out Jack’s locker and brought them to us. I had avoided looking at them for a while. You see, in classic parent style, Tim and I had micromanaged the school life of our eldest. Oh yes we did.
He always had stellar grades, but we were even more focused on the non-academic areas of “self-control,” “works well with others,” etc. In 6th grade we noticed that Jack’s handwriting, which had become pretty sloppy over the last few years, was completely illegible! We considered this a sign of disrespect toward his teachers and Tim, in his usual “chart-loving, self-improvement” fashion, was on it. Middle school was a big deal, and Tim wanted Jack to start out on the right/write foot.
He printed out cursive sheets for Jack to practice on this summer. You know, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.” Yep, at 12 ½, Jack was back to first grade penmanship sheets, but he did them.
When I opened those binders, representing just two measly days of school, I wasn’t sure what I’d see, and whether the pages would be sloppy or neat. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to see.
But nothing prepared me for the loss of breath and rush of tears when, upon opening the binders, I saw page after page of the neatest, most deliberate handwriting I’d ever seen.
But nothing prepared me for the loss of breath and rush of tears when, upon opening the binders, I saw page after page of the neatest, most deliberate handwriting I’d ever seen.
I can’t explain it, but it kind of killed me just a little bit more.
