Dear Emerson, about today...

Dear Emerson,

Today is a strange day. September 19th is typically hard day for me, sometimes I am able to be positive about this day, and be a strength for others, and sometimes I want to be left alone to wallow in my self pity. But this day feels totally different now that you're here with me. You could probably tell something was different because when I walked in your room to get you out of your crib this morning, I started to cry the second I saw and you seemed a little confused. I was even a little confused because it came out of no where. After all, for most of the people in the world, today is just a normal day the same as any other. But 11 years ago on this very date, I lost my mom.

I shouldn't say I lost her, she isn't lost. She died. She is in heaven now. Sometimes I have dreams that I find her and she faked it all so she could run away, but those are just dreams and nothing else. But that number, 11, is scary to me. Every year I get closer to a number that will mean I've been without her longer than I got to be with her. I never wanted the majority of my life to be a life without a mother. But sometimes we don't get to choose our circumstances.

This day, it makes me feel different with you here. It doesn't feel overwhelmingly sad, but it doesn't feel like I can be super positive either. I think what's different is that now that you're here, I have to be sad for an entirely second person now.

Now that you're here I feel sad for me and for you.
I feel sad for you because you don't even know the goodness that you're missing out on without her here. and I feel sad for me because I do.
I feel sad that you won't ever be in a single photograph with her.
I feel sad that she doesn't get to hold you and kiss you and brag about you to her friends.
I feel sad because she's not here to tell me how similar you are to me when I was baby and to argue with me about new parenting tactics vs old school parenting tactics.
I feel sad that she doesn't get to come stay for too long to spend time with you and get on my nerves.
I feel sad that I won't ever get to see how excited you get when she walks in a room.
I feel sad for you that you won't ever get to hear her tell you how much she loves you.
I feel sad that I can't send her pictures of you everyday so we can laugh together about how funny you are. But most of all I feel sad that she's been gone so long that neither you nor I will ever have the slightest idea what it would feel like to have all of these things with her. Because for me she's only memories now and for you she'll just be stories other people tell you.

But that's just life sweet boy, everyone dies sometime. Which means a lot of people have to go through their life too long without moms, and dads, and grandmas, and grandpas. And quite frankly, the way my life worked out after she died was a series of intricate events that led me to your dad which ultimately led to the creation of you (sorry to be gross) and I can't know for sure but there's a large possibility that if she were alive I wouldn't have you or your dad so I can't say that I would change anything, as hard as that is to say out loud. If I only got to have my mom for a short time in my life so that I could end up with you, then so be it. You are worth everything to me. I would suffer the worst pain a million times over for you.

In spite of this strange sadness I'm feeling today, to be over indulgent in self pity today or any day would be a slap in the face to all the huge blessings in our life that we have. We have a good life. But it's okay to be sad, and feel things that are hard to feel.  But, when you're mourning what you don't have don't let yourself forget who and what you DO have. Which is a lot of things and a lot of people.

I love you, sweet baby.

Idahohnoyoudint.

I'm not sure of the exact date, but around this time give or take a couple of days, we were pulling off of the i-15 and into the city of nothing, our new home, Idaho Falls.

Immediately, I was unimpressed, but I wasn't anticipating anything more so it didn't surprise me. I was, however, a little surprised at how quickly the feeling of dread and despair had overwhelmed me, since I had about a week to try and convince myself it would be ok. I had that heavy almost painful feeling in the pit of my stomach as we passed the wal-mart, the forlorn looking pancake house, and other buildings that looked just as sad to be in this town as I was.

                             

As we pulled up to the light located right next to "The Falls" I stared at the water, not knowing at the time that I was seeing absolutely all there was to see in this city. I looked to my right, a car was stopped next to us at the light, an older, beat up and rusted, white sedan with the windows down that contained a lone driver; a woman, possibly in her mid thirties, looking like the midway point of the faces of meth photo series--not completely overcome with meth face, but well on her way. She was wearing a spaghetti strap pink tank top, her hair pulled up with a scrunchie, smoking a cigarette. That's when my emotions surfaced, the flood gates opened, and the tears came. That woman, her cigarette, and her scrunchie were a symbol of all that I lost leaving beautiful Savannah, GA for Idaho Falls, ID, a town where people still wore scrunchies.

I still remember that day like it was yesterday. It's been a hard pill to swallow knowing that this place is my home, the place Taylor and I have been in the longest, and the place where my first baby was born. AND, Although there are terrible things about this place that still keep me from loving it (and knowing that I definitely will not miss it when we finally get to leave), there are good things that help me cope with being trapped here. Target, D.I., a few good people and friends I've made, the extremely low cost of living, the proximity to other places I'd rather be (I.E. Bear Lake, Yellowstone, Salt Lake City) my cute house, and my cute family. When I get asked the question "How do you like living in Idaho Falls?" I can now say, "It's ok, in the summertime." which is an upgrade from "No comment" or "I don't." or "This is what hell will be like."

Here's to hoping that I can survive the next couple of years here unscathed.