Remarrying after the death of my wife, Part I: The impact on my daughter

In the months following Aimee's death, my daughter told me that she hoped to have a new mom someday.

Well, she has a new mom.

Some parts of that process have been good. Others, well, not bad, but difficult.

I am one of those people who likes to try and determine the worst-case scenario, and then prepare for it. If something better than that happens, great. If the worst happens, then I was ready for it. And so, our situation is not unexpected.

Life is harder if you're not silly sometimes

In our case, things are not bad by any stretch of the imagination. It's, well, normal. Sarah loves my daughter, and my daughter loves Sarah. But despite my daughter being completely on board about Sarah and I getting married, there's now this tension as she adjusts to not being the only other person getting my attention and affection. Plus, she's doing what children do - testing limits and figuring out her own dynamic with Sarah.

Sarah, for her part, had to jump into the deep end of the pool. As an employee of a school district, she has summers off. That means that when we got married in June of 2015, she went from being a single woman with her own condo to being a full-time stay-at-home mom (for a few months). The bonding time for the two of them was invaluable. But it also meant that neither got much of a break from the other, which I think would have helpful when making a major transition like this.

Things have been bumpy at times. My daughter went  into counseling for a bit. Then Sarah and I did. Then we all did some more. Daughter has recently started seeing a new therapist better suited to her current feelings. Sarah and I did another round.

No, it hasn't always been easy.

Now that we're more than two and a half years in, the situation has evolved. Our daughter (yes, I often say 'our daughter' now) is still somewhat jealous of the attention I give to Sarah, but it's better. The two of them are developing a nice relationship that continues to grow. And we all continue to grow together - sometimes with laughter and sometimes with tears, but always with love.

My daughter's landmines

Today I got a call from Rowan's school. That is, to put it mildly, NOT normal.

Apparently, they were preparing to begin work on their annual Mothers Day project, an occasion that has, in the past, caused no difficulty for Rowan. The last two Mothers Days, she's simply made the present and given it to me instead. But this morning was different.

When her teacher called me, she recounted that as she was talking to the class about this year's project, Rowan began to get upset, and was crying by the end. When Mrs. Adams pulled her aside to ask her what was wrong, Rowan stated that she really wanted to give her present to her mommy (Aimee).

Her teacher handled it beautifully, as always. She let Rowan express her feelings, gave Rowan some options to consider, and helped her feel better. Then she called me to let me know.

Rowan will decide if she wants to give the present to me like the last couple of years, or to give it to Sarah since we'll be getting married soon. Or she might give it to her grandma Donna (Aimee's mother). Or she might keep it herself as another reminder of her mommy, and her love for her.

Personally, I don't any preference at all for which one she chooses. I trust she'll do what feels most comforting to her in this moment. And I'm grateful for the people that Rowan has around her to help her through these moments.

These landmines.

You see, I KNOW there will be more of these. As she grows and matures and develops, things that never bothered her before will begin to. Thoughts about her mother's death that never occurred to her before will. Some of them will make her sad. Some will make her angry.

And many of them will be unexpected.

Landmines.

This is the life Rowan faces, thanks to those who were responsible for her mother's death. A life of landmine events and holidays and conversations. The sudden longings for her mother at major life events.

No matter what I wish, there's no way to fix that. It's just part of her life and what she'll go through.

Hearing Aimee's voice the other night

So, Justin (Aimee's brother) saved a series of voice mails from Aimee from the last month or so before she died, and finally recorded them all into one recording and sent them to Donna, who forwarded them on to me. After sitting on that email for a few days, I listened to them a few nights ago. Rowan heard I had a recording of mommy's voice, and asked to listen to them and so we sat and did so together.

It was so weird to hear her voice so normal and, well, HER. Rowan commented that hearing them made her feel like Aimee wasn't dead, but actually was just somewhere else, like at the store or something. I knew what she meant, because that's kind of how I felt too, like Aimee was just away from the house running a few errands.

The voice mails were bittersweet in another way as well. It's sometimes easy for me to forget in the shock and horror of Aimee's death that her family was still very much grieving her father's death the year before. Aimee was especially struggling with grief as the one year anniversary of his death approached (for those who weren't aware, that's actually why we were in Florida in the first place). In the very last voice mail she left Justin, just two days before we left for Florida, she talks about how she'd been slow to call him back because she'd been in am "emotional hole", and hadn't wanted to drag him down.

I'm so glad that the last six days we all had together were filled with so much fun and laughter. Since Aimee had been so sad, it's somewhat of a relief to think that during her last week alive, she was filled with the happiness of being surrounded by those she loved and who loved her. And when I want to hear that, I can watch the video footage we took that week and see and hear how she looked and sounded then.

Talk about bittersweet.

PS: There was bonus material in the recording Justin sent out: In one of the calls Aimee gets Rowan to talk to Justin, and it was really cool and sweet to hear Rowan's 3 year-old voice again. It was right before Halloween, and they were getting ready to carve pumpkins, and Rowan was very excited. So precious and cute. She still is precious and cute, but it's amazing how much kids change so quickly in these early years.

Rowan sees the urn, and has questions I wasn't ready for

So I'm about six months late on my spring cleaning (or six months early, depending on your perspective). I was tackling some of that this past weekend, and as usual, Rowan wanted to help.

At one point, I was going through the bottom of my bedroom closet when I came across a large box that didn't look familiar. I pulled it out and opened it as Rowan looked over my shoulder. Inside was a beautiful white urn, and I immediately knew what it was.

It was the urn containing Terry's ashes (Aimee's father).

miniature urn with a small
amount of Aimee's ashes

Of course, it's really pretty, which sparked Rowan's interest. "What is that, Daddy?"

Rowan and I have never talked about what actually happens to people's bodies when they die. We've had the "we die and go to heaven" explanation, but I hadn't yet told her that the earthly bodies get left behind. I felt like talking about burying someone's body in a box in the ground would be kind of scary, and even worse would be explaining cremation, which is what both Terry and Aimee opted for.

So when Rowan asked me what was in the urn, I decided to go ahead and cross this bridge. I explained that grandpa's spirit was in heaven, but his body had been left behind and had been turned into these ashes. His family wanted to keep them as one way to remember him, so the ashes were in this urn.

Then I hoped she wouldn't make the obvious connection and ask what happened to Aimee. My hopes were granted.

For about five minutes.

I scattered Aimee's ashes on October 25th last year, the ninth anniversary of the day we met. But several of us kept small keepsake urns with a small amount of Aimee's ashes in them, and mine is on my dresser. So of course Rowan spotted it (it's been there for going on two years without her noticing it before), and asked me what was in it. She had a look on her face that told me she suspected the answer already. I told her in fact that a small amount of Aimee's ashes in it. She asked if she could see, so I opened it up so she could.

I watched her face as she looked upon what was left of Aimee's earthly body. She looked slightly confused, but didn't say anything else. A few seconds later, she looked away and changed the subject.

I'm fairly certain this topic is going to come up again, but ultimately, I'm glad the subject has been broached. And like so many other topics, they're conversations I wish I didn't have to have with my precious little girl.

Rowan got sad, wrote a letter to mommy

When I got home from work a short time ago, I found the babysitter finishing up making dinner, which is normal, but Rowan was nowhere to be seen, which is not.

The sitter let me know that Rowan had seemed sad since she picked her up from school, and after asking for some snuggling and a story, had decided that she wanted to write (actually dictate) a letter to Aimee. Then Rowan shut herself in her room, which was where she still was when I got home. The sitter then handed me the letter she'd written out as Rowan had dictated it.

I went up to Rowan's room and after giving her a hug and talking with her for a minute about how we both missed mommy every day, she seemed to feel better and came downstairs. Then I read the letter while she was distracted by something else. The contents both made me laugh out loud and cry at the same time.

(Before I share the contents of the letter, I should tell you that Rowan loves McDonald's, but I won't take her there very often. I've explained that the food is very bad for you, and during our last visit there I joked of what Aimee would say if she saw me there with Rowan: "Hon! McDonald's, really?? Ugh! You can do better, can't you? Toad!" Rowan thought that was funny.)

Here's what Rowan wrote to Aimee:

Dear mom,
I wish you were here. I want you to see how big I have gotten. My dad has been a really good daddy and sometimes he doesn't let me go to McDonald's. I love you lots.
Rowan

Man, I really love that kid. And I love that she's starting to see something deeper here - that at least part of my motivation in being as good a father as I possibly can rests in the knowledge that I feel an even more profound responsibility to Rowan's development and care because the 'better parent' was lost. That's not a knock on my own parenting, which is improved. It's just a recognition of the vast, immeasurable loss.

A few Mother's Day thoughts, and a few tears courtesy of Rowan

Influences

I have been significantly influenced by two mothers during my life: my mom and Rowan's mom (Aimee). My own mom, who will tell you that going to kindergarten saved my life, was an incredible mentor to me growing up. She was also an example of monumental patience. She knew what kind of adults she wanted her children to grow up to be, and she stayed the course of getting us there through our childhoods (despite some SERIOUS setbacks along the way). And like all good mothers, she is still very much a mom to this day, a point so beautifully illustrated to me after Aimee died. I 'wanted my mommy', but I didn't necessarily want to say so. Turns out I didn't have to, as my mom showed up the morning after we arrived home from Florida, and stayed with me for the next five days.

I could not begin to list all of the things I learned from my mom in one place, but if you know me and think I'm even remotely likable, you can thank my mom for that.

Aimee's influence on me was over a much shorter period of time, but still extremely significant. She had rock-solid ideas about how she wanted to parent (and she expected me to agree with her, whether I did or not!), and she held true to her convictions. She also displayed amazing patience - not as much with Rowan, who was and is a great kid, but with me, who was a slow learner as a father. Just a few of the things Aimee taught me about parenting:

• How to interpret different behaviors from children.
• How to effectively redirect undesirable behavior.
• How to effectively use rewards to modify behavior, without turning it into a system of constant and escalating bribery.
• Build a solid relationship with her now, so that she'll be far more likely to listen to what I have to say when she's older and trying to find her own way.
• And perhaps most important in the aftermath of her death, she had shared with me some pointers she learned when she'd gone through a class on helping young children deal with trauma and loss. A couple of times, these tips helped me tremendously with helping Rowan process her feelings, and I still use some of them today.

For many reasons, I owe Aimee a serious debt of gratitude.

The Rowan Effect

Rowan got to me twice today (Mother's Day), once at the beginning, and once at the end.

Normal weekend practice is for me to try and squeeze as much time in bed as possible, so I'm always still in bed when Rowan gets up. As always, she climbed into bed with me this morning to cuddle, then needled at me until I agreed to get up and make breakfast. But just as I started to move, she dropped me with a question out of the blue:

"Daddy, when you're in bed at night, do you get lonely with Mommy gone?"

Immediately I recalled in my mind how I got into this horrible sleep pattern that I have now: staying up til 3-4 am until I simply could not keep my eyes open anymore, because I could not stand going to bed and thinking about Aimee. I missed her terribly all the time, but it was most acute in the still quiet of bedtime. I missed our gentle teasing of each other, the long talks, and the incredible intimacy we shared. It was, in a word, agony.

"I used to miss her a great deal, but it's better now, " I said. "It's like a lot of things in life, sweetheart. It might be hard at first, but after a while-"

"You get used to it," she finished for me, sounding much older than her now five years of age.

"Yes, sweetie, you get used to it."

With that, she turned and went downstairs.

Fast forward to her bedtime. As I was tucking her in, I asked her "Rowan, with all the Mother's Day stuff, have you been thinking about Mommy today?"

"Yeah," she answered. "I've been missing her all day."

"Yeah, me too."

"Hey," she said, handing me one of her laminated photos of Aimee, "Will you make Mommy talk?"

"Sure."

"Mommy!"

Me, as Aimee: "Hi Rowan!"

"Guess how old I am!"

"Are you still 4?"

"Nope, I'm FIVE!"

"Wow, you're getting bigger all the time."

"And Mommy?" Voice much softer now.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"I miss you. I wish you could come back and visit sometimes."

"Oh, sweetie, I wish I could do that for you."

Rowan, voice now cracking, "It's just that I miss you so much, and I wish you were still here."

Luckily, she chose this moment to hug the photo, because I couldn't speak. I was choked up, and tears were in my eyes. And once again, I battled against hating the people whose collective negligence led us down this road of pain, especially for the sake of my precious and innocent little girl.

Please, value the mothers in your life, be they your own, the mother of your children, or what have you. Don't just appreciate them or thank them, but really pay attention to the strength and wisdom they share, because you never know when you may need to call upon it in your own life for yourself or those around you.

Aimee's Missing...

The big news in the Rhoads household this week - Rowan lost her first tooth! She'd been excited about it ever since it first started to wiggle, and on Sunday, in the middle of eating her cereal, it came out (and was immediately swallowed, causing no small amount of consternation on her part). I had to assure her the tooth fairy would still reward her for the tooth, even if it was M.I.A.

Rowan showing off her missing tooth

But this event, like many others, deeply underscores Aimee's absence. Every single time Rowan does something really cool or passes another key milestone in her life, I miss Aimee all the more. "She should be here for this" is the common refrain running through my mind. Aimee would be so proud of all the things Rowan has accomplished in the last 15 months:

• Moving from crib/trundle bed to 'big girl' bed
• Being weaned from using pacifiers
• Finishing her first year of preschool
• Starting ballet classes
• Starting to learn to read and write

And more I'm sure I'm forgetting at the moment.

And that's just the beginning. Rowan turns five years old soon. For some reason, that number seems like an especially big deal to me. I wish Aimee was going to be here for it. Next fall she starts Kindergarten. In the next year or so she'll read her first book, learn to ride a bike, and so many, many more things.

Aimee will miss every single one of them. And that is just not fair, for any of us. 

Observations after one year of Missing Aimee

Here are just some random observations after a year without Aimee. These are in no particular order.

I can do this single dad stuff. It took a long time to accept that I was a good solo father, but I did get there. I seriously doubted myself so much the first 8-9 months. But I eventually came to see that Rowan was as happy as a child could be in her circumstances (though she obviously carries a lot of pain), and that she she clearly felt loved, safe, and secure. Additionally, she is well behaved, well-mannered, and sweet. No matter what a child's parenting situation, you absolutely can not ask for more than that.

That being said, I can see seeds of the challenges I may face with her. I already see her questioning things about her mothers' death, and I know that some of the worst of her pain is still likely ahead of her, as she gets older and learns more about the circumstances of her mother's death and how needless it was.

Speaking of single parenting... I've known single moms throughout my life (including both of my sisters and my mom for at least some stretches of time), and across the board I've admired them for all they manage to accomplish. This year I learned firsthand just how difficult that is, especially if it happens suddenly and you're hell-bent on continuing to do everything well. I learned how to let go of some things, and how to get by on a lot less sleep.

All you need is love? The Beatles once sang that "All you need is love". Well, I'm not sure I completely believe that, but it sure as hell goes a long way. Aimee's love made my life a truly wonderful experience, even when life was far less than wonderful. And after her death, the love of so many friends and family members was just amazingly huge, I still can't fully wrap my head around it. Meals, gifts, free child care, words of support and encouragement, prayers, and so much more.

But please take this to heart: people can't truly love you in practical ways unless you let them. That means if you ever find yourself in a situation like the one I was in a year ago, when people offer to help, let them! I know it's not easy. Our culture idolizes the strong, and in some ways, that's OK. But when you're down, people want to help you, and you hurt them when you don't let them. You're not imposing on them by accepting their offer, you're recognizing their love for you, and returning it by allowing them to feel like they're alleviating your pain or worry in some small (or big) way. I know. I was exactly like that once, always one to say "Thanks, but I got it" when someone  wanted to help me in my times of trouble. But after I read "90 Minutes in Heaven" by Don Piper in the summer of 2011, I realized just how wrong this mentality is. And it was a lesson learned just in time for when I'd really need it. Now I'm passing it on to you. If you're going through struggles, don't be an ass and try to shoulder the burden yourself when someone offers to help. Let them help.

Choose to live. After Aimee died, I didn't feel like living anymore. Not that I was suicidal - I wasn't. But my joy for life was gone, as was my joy in all things (yes, even Rowan to some extent). But very early on, I decided, largely for the sake of my daughter, to choose to live every day. Not just to physically live, but to actually re-learn to find the beauty in life, to find enjoyment in things, and to feel happy again. It was damn difficult, especially the first six months. "Fake it 'til you make it" the saying goes. That's what I did. And slowly but surely, I found some joy again. Far more importantly I showed Rowan, by my example, that life does go on, and that it can be good if you choose to make it good.

Many days I still have to consciously choose to have a good day and find happiness and joy. It's often still difficult. But it's easier than it was, and it's a far better way to go through life than being miserable and taking those around you with you.

No one else is you.  No two people's grief is the same, and you can't compare your own grief process to that of others and wonder if you're 'doing it right.' There is no right or wrong way to grieve. There is no right or wrong amount of time before you can laugh again. There is no right or wrong way to remember your lost loved one. There is no right or wrong time before you can find joy. There is no right or wrong amount of time before you can fall in love again. You get the idea. You have to walk your own path, at your own pace, and do what you know in your own heart is truly the best way for you to go. Just keep in mind that this is never an excuse for being callous to the needs of others grieving with you.

Finally, let go of fear. I have had many fears this first year, some of which are still with me to some degree or another. Early on, I was afraid that most of my friends would move on from this tragedy and get on with their lives, and I'd be alone in my grief. And while slowly most of my friends have moved on from this, they haven't done so and left me behind. They've stayed by my side, checking in and just being available when I've needed them. I have not felt alone.

I have also feared for my own safety a lot more. Before, in the back of my mind, I knew that if something happened to me, Rowan would have Aimee. Now I'm it. I am more cautious than I used to be. More paranoid in dark parking lots, that sort of thing. I don't know if that will change. Perhaps it shouldn't.

There have been others. Fear about being a terrible parent. Fear that I won't find love again. Fear that our household won't be able to get by on one income. And so on and so forth. I have had to either learn that the fear was unfounded (I'm not a terrible parent), or that I'll just have to do what I can to address it, such as simply being more careful with my health and well-being.

I have chosen to live, but I will not do so enveloped in fear.

What I have that Rowan doesn't

As Christmas approached, I began to realize that watching Rowan open her presents without someone to share that joy with was going to be pretty sad for me. Fortunately, my mom had anticipated that and let me know that she wanted to be at my house for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. The closer it got, the more glad I was.

On Christmas Eve, after Rowan went to bed (and finally fell asleep), I started wrapping the last of the presents, stuffing the stocking, and eating Santa's cookies (I'm sure this tradition was started by a parent with a sweet tooth as an excuse to get more cookies - I must thank them). All the while my mom sat and talked with me about anything and everything, like we have since as long as I can remember.

On Christmas morning we watched Rowan together as she opened up all of her gifts, delighted over and over again at the wonderful surprises she found in each package. And I thought more than once that this is the sort of thing Aimee loved most - seeing Rowan in her joy and delight was Aimee's greatest joy and delight. I miss Aimee most in those moments, largely because I can't share them with her.

But at least this time, I was able to share the moment with my mom.

As I reflected on this later, I realized this it is in times like these we need our moms the most. Not just the boo-boos and scraped knees of our childhood, or the excitement of scoring soccer goals or piano recitals, or even the pain of navigating high school dating or the excitement of getting our driver's license. It's also when we're adults, with families of our own, and life comes along and deals us a nasty blow, and that inner child in us longs to have our mommy there to comfort us.

My mommy is still here, and when I need her, she's there for me.

Rowan's isn't.

This put Rowan's loss in such a greater scale than I'd ever seen it before. I mean, I know that once you have children you're a parent for life. But the full scope of how important that is didn't really hit me until I noticed how grateful I was to my own mother for being there on Christmas morning. Rowan will have people that love her, but no one loves you like your mother, and Rowan will never have that again. Not through the scrapes, recitals, dating pains, or significant blows dealt by life. I'll be there as long as God allows, and I know that will be good for Rowan, but it won't be the same.

This is the magnitude of the loss suffered on that terrible day.

Sandy Hook

I'm upset. Angry. Heartbroken.

I keep seeing two images from the deadly tragedy. The first is a line of children being led across a parking lot, and one little girl in particular is sobbing. And I think about how horrendous it is when children are forced to face death in ways even most adults shouldn't have to. I think of the terrible fear those poor kids must have felt when the gunshots started. I think of kids that saw their friends or teachers being shot, and how that trauma is going to be with them for life.

I think of kids trying to figure out how to cope with the death of people they knew and loved. I think of how children that young should never have to face death in such a close, personal way. I think of that because after a year of watching Rowan go through it I know how hard it is.

The other image that stays with me is the image of a man, presumably a father of one of the victims, leaning with his head against a car window, crying (now I can't find it again). While I do know loss, I can't fathom the loss of my child, especially in such a senseless, tragic way. I pray to God I never do know that pain (and I think of Donna as I say that).

I have been fighting tears all day. I'm sure I'm especially sensitive to this due to the nearness of the one year anniversary of Aimee's death, but I've been more sensitive to these types of things ever since she died last year. The empathy I feel for people who experience sudden loss has been magnified dramatically since last December. I imagine parents, husbands, or wives getting that phone call or that knock on the door, and getting that terrible news. Thinking of them going through that brings back with sick clarity the moment when Justin came through the door of that house with the news that Aimee was dead, and remembering that what made it hit home was seeing those policemen and others standing at the door. That's when I knew without a doubt that this was real. And then my mind goes back to these families going through that experience themselves, and my heart just breaks all over again for every one of them.

The only hope I have is this:

And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away. Revelation 21:4, NKJV

That verse (which was at the end of Aimee's tribute video) is one of the greatest comforts in times like this. I know not everyone believes what I believe, and that's fine. But for me, I can not imagine how I could possibly have any hope in this world if I didn't know in my heart that ultimately God will redeem all the bad and evil for good, and that His perfect will and justice will prevail.

_______________________________________________________________
PS. I know many people feel very strongly about gun rights and gun control laws in when events like this happen. I would ask that this blog post not be used for those discussions. There are more appropriate forums for those discussions, and I prefer to focus on more universal concepts at this time, such as our shared grief over tragedies such as this. Thanks.

My poor little girl

So, I had another post planned for today, already written and everything. But then, this happened...

As I put Rowan to bed tonight, I talked to her a little bit about some of the dates coming up. Christmas. Vacation from school. And I also talked to her a bit about the upcoming anniversary of Aimee's death. We talked about recognizing that day by writing a letter to mommy, and Rowan talked about what she'd say. Then she said she'd draw three pictures of herself: one happy, one sad, and one angry.

This must have been one of the
happy times.

Me: "The happy one for all the times you've been happy the past year?"
Rowan nodded.
Me: "And the sad one for the times you've been sad, and the angry one for the times you've been angry?"
Another nod.
Me, trying to get into what might be going through Rowan's mind: "Have you been angry at mommy?"
Rowan shook her head to indicate that she had not been angry with mommy.
"Oh, that's good. Because I want you to know, sweetie, that it's not mommy's fault she gone."

Apparently, that was a trigger of some sort.

Rowan burst into tears, sobbing harder and longer than she ever has. Usually when she's cried about Aimee, it's lasted a few minutes. This time it went on and on, and as much as I held her and stroked her head, she was inconsolable for some time. When she finally settled back down, she asked, "Why did mommy leave? Why did she go on that [scuba diving] trip?"

This was another instance of Rowan surprising me, as I just didn't expect this kind of question for several more years. But I'm sure it's normal to wonder why the person you love made the decisions they did that ultimately led their death. Aimee decided to go scuba diving, and as a result, she died. So why did mommy make that choice?

I answered her, "Honey, the scuba diving trip shouldn't have been that dangerous. And the more dangerous part, the diving part, went ok as far as we know. The boat should have been safe, and should not have sunk. Mommy should have been safe on the boat."

Rowan seemed to understand this, and we moved into a now familiar phase of Rowan processing grief over Aimee's death - she held onto one of the laminated photos of Aimee and through me, looking at the photo, Rowan talked to Aimee about what she was thinking, feeling, and doing. There were several times where Rowan's voiced cracked as she talked, but eventually she worked through it and ended up happy as she wrapped up her conversation with 'mommy'. She did, however, keep clutching that photo as she settled in to sleep.

And then I, with my head lying next to Rowan, cried for her pain and mine.

...
On a side note, Aimee has been VERY much on my mind the last few days, even more so than normal. And I can feel this swell of emotion building more and more each day as we get closer to the anniversary. What's more, I anticipate that once December 18 is in the rear view mirror, things will not get better right away. I actually think they'll stay tough until after New Years, which was the point last year when I began to try and pick up the pieces of my life and start over.

The season catches up with Rowan

It was bound to happen, wasn't it?

I know some people close to Aimee have been struggling with her death more lately, due to the nearness of the one year anniversary, but Rowan initially seemed unaffected. She was excited about Christmas, loved helping me decorate, and we've talked (a lot!) about what she was going to ask Santa for. I was holding on to a secret hope that she'd make it through unscathed.

Wrong.

Yesterday morning, while getting ready to leave for school, Rowan started to get fussy. When I asked her what was wrong, she said in a small, sad voice, "I don't know. I'm just not feeling like myself today." Besides seeming like a big thing to say for such a young kid, I probed a little deeper, and got to this: she's suddenly hit by the connection between Christmas and her mommy's death.

"Rowan, are you sad?"
Nod.
"Are you sad about mommy?"
Another nod.
"Are you remembering Christmas last year without her here."
Rowan: "Yeah, I was just looking at mommy's stocking and I'm sad because she I miss her."

Sigh.

So the trigger this morning was the stocking. We all have one - even the dog - and Rowan had asked that we hang Aimee's up when we were decorating the house last weekend. No big deal, I figured. So I hung it up. But Rowan apparently was looking at it this morning and was remembering Christmas last year, and it hit her all at once.

I'm not surprised this is happening. Like I said, it's happening to a lot of people. I was talking to my therapist on Monday about my overly heightened memory of what I was doing this time last year, and we talked about how normal that is when approaching a traumatic anniversary. It only makes sense that it would happen for Rowan too. but I had hoped somehow that maybe as young as she was that maybe she'd get by with more of the joy of the season and less of the sadness of her mom's death. but it looks like that's not to be.

Well, we'll deal with this like we've dealt with the rest of it. We'll talk about our feelings. We'll make sure that Rowan knows this is normal for someone who's gone through what she has, and let her know that we can talk anytime she wants. Then we'll talk about good memories of Aimee, and of Christmas, and I'll do my best to guide Rowan in how to move on while honoring and remembering her mother's memory.

And we will do our absolute best to have a Merry Christmas.

I screwed up

Being a parent is hard.

Tonight was the end of a very fun but long day. After church, Rowan and I took advantage of the absolutely gorgeous weather to go play around Green Lake in Seattle for the afternoon. The weather was SO wonderful, I stayed there over an hour later than I should have. It just seemed so, I don't know, magical somehow. I didn't want the day to end.

Once we did get home, everything seemed to be going ok. Bath, TV show, teeth brushing, and eventually Rowan was in bed. But about 10 minutes after I got her down and I collapsed on the couch in exhaustion, I heard her call me and ask me to come back up. I was just so damn tired and not thinking, I said, "Rowan, I am not coming back up there right now. I just left a few minutes ago, and I want you to keep trying to go to sleep."

She almost immediately started crying.

Now under normal circumstances, I'd chalk this up to a tired girl not getting her way. And on any given day that may have been it. But as she started crying I also realized that bedtime has been hard for her lately. And she may not have been looking for an excuse to delay sleep, but some comfort and snuggles from daddy because the sudden quiet left her thinking about her mommy.

Man, can I relate to THAT. My sleep patterns are still a disaster after months of avoiding lying in bed awake.

I took a deep sigh, got up, and headed up to her room. She indeed looked sad. If she'd just been looking for an excuse to stay up, she would have brightened when I came in. Instead, she kept crying, and then broke my heart with, "I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm just a little sad and want a hug."

Many of you will probably tell me it's understandable to be so tired at the end of a long, fun day. You're right. And many others might say that every parent has those moments when we're at the end of our rope, and that I shouldn't be too hard on myself. And you're right as well. But that doesn't change one simple fact. This is not a normal family, and Rowan is not going through something that most children go through. And I know that, just like I know lately has been hard for her. I have to work harder on keeping that in mind before I react, so that I can be better at giving her what she needs.

Luckily, children forgive quickly. I snuggled up to her, and she wrapped her arms around one of mine and cuddled up to me with a sigh. It was only a few moments before her breathing got slower and heavier, and I slipped out of her room and went back downstairs.

Good thing for me, that little child loves me. :)

Rowan's meltdown tonight

It is so hard being a parent sometimes. And I think it's hardest when your little ones are hurting, and you can't take it away and bear it yourself. That's how I felt tonight.

Leading up to Rowan's bedtime, she started getting, for lack of a better word, fussy. She was whimpering, crying about little things, or even nothing, scared of everything. It was weird, but it's also becoming more common. Finally she was getting into bed, on the verge of tears, and then she grabbed a picture of Aimee and clutched it and started sobbing. Her little face had so much pain on it, more than I've ever seen before. And she kept holding the picture, sometimes looking at it ad sometimes holding to the side of her face, and she cried and cried. And I held her and stroked her hair and kissed her teary cheeks, but I couldn't really make her feel any better. It was so hard.

It went on for several minutes before she finally started to calm down a bit, and I continued to just hold her, occasionally telling her I was sorry her mommy was gone, and that I missed her too. I so badly wanted to promise her I'd always be there for her, but I know I can't make that promise, because I know that some day, out of the blue, something might happen to me as well. I don't want Rowan to be filled with anger at me for breaking that promise.

This is a picture Rowan recently
drew of her and Aimee. Rowan
is in the pink (big surprise).

Like I said, this is becoming more common for her, although tonight's meltdown was the worst yet. I did re-start her visits with a childhood grief counselor, and I think we'll continue with those visits again for some time. It's amazing in a way, because Aimee has now already been gone for nearly a quarter of Rowan's life, but that bond between mother and child is so strong, that I know that decades from now, Rowan will still have moments where she wishes her mother was still alive.

Lately I've been having thoughts like maybe I don't want to get remarried again, at least not for a long time. I think to myself, "I got this. I can raise Rowan without anyone's help." And the fact is I could. I mean c'mon, LOTS of single parents raise kids and do it well. Even dads. It's not like I'm a pioneer here. And when I think about how hard it might be to find someone that fits in all the ways we need them to in this family, it feels daunting, and I think "To hell with it, I'll do it myself."

But then Rowan has a night like this, and I think that even though she will ALWAYS miss her mommy, it would be great for her of she had someone in that role she could look up to, and be comforted by, and then I completely turn around and feel like I want to go out right now and start interviewing candidates like I'm hiring for a job or something.

I know, I'm a bit insane at time. Loving your child does that to you. A healthy dose of loneliness doesn't help.

At the point I do date again (I haven't yet), I hope to be able to push all of this out of my head, and just get to know the women I'm out with. As badly as I want Rowan to have a mother at times like this - and I won't lie to you, I sure wouldn't mind having someone in my life again as well - I know full well the cost of getting this wrong is far too high for the benefit of just having 'someone'  here. I want Rowan to have the 'right' mom, and for me, the 'right' wife. And of course, I want to be a great husband and continue trying to be a great father.

And as we go, I'll keep holding Rowan and wishing I could take the pain away that seems so big for such a little girl to have to bear.

Back to Florida?

Someday, either I or Rowan may want
to revisit these waters off the coast
of Florida

Back in May, I was struggling with how I wanted to recognize the one year anniversary of Aimee's death, even though it was still about seven months away at the time. I wrote a post here (Dilemma - I'd like advice) asking what people thought of my idea, which was to go back to Florida, charter a boat to take me to the place where she died, and scatter flowers on the water there. This seemed to be how I felt led to recognize that event, but ultimately what I wanted or needed was a ceremonial act of closure. I felt like I needed to do something to 'finish this chapter' and begin the next one. And as of June and into July, I'd about 99% made up my mind that I was going to go.

Then in late July, as I was realizing how hard it would be and how incredibly powerful and symbolic it was going to feel to scatter Aimee's ashes (Letting go of Aimee... literally) it occurred to me that I would have that act of closure then, on that mountaintop. And the more I thought about how that was going to feel, the less I felt like I needed to go to Florida and recognize the anniversary of Aimee's death there.

To be certain, I will do something on December 18, and Rowan will be part of that. Others may be also. And I know that at some point in the future I may again feel the need to go back to Florida, or maybe when Rowan gets older she might want me to take her. I don't know. What I do know is that for now, I am no longer feeling the need to go there myself at this time (thankfully).

Finding mommy

For the last eight-plus months, I've been working towards being the best single parent I can be. For me, that means trying to figure out how and when to be mommy vs. being daddy. Knowing when to be a problem solver or protector, versus a listener or comforter. And of course getting all the 'mommy' stuff done plus the 'daddy' stuff as well. It's not that I think each parent doesn't play all of these roles, but, at least on our family, typical gender roles were more or less the norm. That meant that when Aimee died, I felt like I needed to find my own inner mommy.

It's been a journey, that's for sure.

But I think I'm starting to get a little of what it can feel like at times. I took Rowan out of town for the weekend for some daddy/daughter bonding time. We got back earlier this evening, and tomorrow she starts back up at her preschool. This is what my evening was like, both in my head and what I actually did. Does this sound familiar to you parents, especially single ones?



Rowan is excited about the
"Disney princess" lip gloss I
let her get.

Pulling in the driveway. Mind flashing to what food was in the fridge and cupboards when I left. Do I have dinner? Do I have what I need for Rowan's lunches this week or even tomorrow? No. Need a store run. Better prepare Rowan now before we even get out of the car, since I know she won't want to get back in the car after the four hours we just spent in it. "Hey, Rowan? We're going to have to run to the store in a little bit after I get the car unloaded. OK, honey?" Expected groan from the back seat. "It'll be a quick trip to the store, then we'll go out to eat." Expected uptick in response to that - Rowan like to go out to eat, just like me. OK, dog's out of the car, Rowan's unbuckled, trunk is popped open, bags, suitcases, guitar all loaded on my arms. Door open, Rowan's TV show on so I can unload and put away things quickly. Dirty clothes tossed towards washer. Call to mom, yes, we're home, had fun, lots to do. Reload Rowan into the car. Safeway - lunch meat, cheese, small veggies easily packed for lunches. OK, check, head for restaurant. Dinner, no hope at getting her to eat something healthy tonight, but almost never any healthy options on kids menus anyway. Back home, Rowan's now in the tub, load of laundry started. Back to the bathroom to wash her hair, get her out, dry her off. Clean jammies on and back to the couch to watch a show before bed (normally she only gets one show in the morning and one before bed - the electronic babysitter earlier is a rare exception). I watch with her as a brief break, but also because I need to brush her hair out after her bath, plus learn how to talk like these characters because she WILL ask me to do so soon. Show over, brushing teeth, and glad I paid attention to show because sure enough I've suddenly been conscripted to role play as Captain Hook and his sidekick Smee from the Disney Jr. show we just watched. Meanwhile teeth are clean and now settling in to read stories, say our prayer, and lights out. Straight back to kitchen, do dishes (good LORD I should have done some of these before I left and NOT left them soaking because the smell is nasty). Kitchen finally clean and I start making Rowan's lunch, pause to put clothes in dryer and start new load. Back to Rowan's room to check on her - she's fast asleep so I kiss her head and go back to the kitchen to finish making her lunch. Clothes out of the dryer, wet clothes in the dryer, now... um, ok, now I can sit down and write a blog post. But quickly. It's now after midnight, and I have to get up early. I want to make sure we have plenty of time to get ready and get the new school year off to a good start. Oh, except I still need to fold these clothes and put them away...

Deep breath.

Like I said, sound familiar, parents?

When I spoke to my mom earlier, I said to her that this is one of the times I miss having a spouse from a purely logistical standpoint. But even when I said it, I knew I could and would get everything done. Single parenting is as old as time, and LOTS of people have done as well or better with a lot less to work with. It's just that for whatever reason, women seem to do this better than men, or maybe that's just my perception (not the necessarily kid-raising part, I mean the planning, organizing, getting all this crap done part). At any rate, it's taken me some time to get the hang of this, but I'm getting there.

And as I hinted at earlier, it's not just getting all the tasks done. I'm getting better at figuring out when to turn male-brain off and turn female-brain on. "Oh, she doesn't want me to tell her she fell down because she wasn't watching where she was going or that if her friend upset her she should find better friends. She just wants me to hold her, stroke her hair, kiss her forehead, empathize with her, and make her feel better. OK, I can do that..." I'm trying to figure out the finer points of putting outfits together so that when all of this sudden this matters to her, I'm ready. And I notice cute girl clothes in the stores now (and when they're on sale). I converse with sitters and teachers about her care and her current mental state. I bring home books from the library, some that teach moral lessons and some that are just fun. I role play with her, and as such I voice characters from TV shows and movies, sip 'tea' at tea parties (water I sincerely hope is from the bathroom SINK), or make her toy unicorns fly through the air and guide them through an adventure to rescue a princess from an evil witch. And lastly, when her voice is breaking and she's telling me that she's just really sad because she misses her mommy right now, I hold her close and I tell her I miss mommy too. And I wish I could soak the pain right out of her and into myself so that she didn't have to bear this huge burden on her little shoulders.

Because that's what mommies (and daddies) do.

Rowan asks her first "Why?"

"Daddy?" The voice of my daughter is coming from her room. It's about 7am last Saturday morning, and I do not want to be awake yet. Rowan has other plans.

"Yes, sweetheart."

She gets up out of her bed and comes into my room, climbing up into bed with me. This is often our Saturday morning ritual, which is a compromise of sorts. I get to stay in bed a bit longer, and Rowan comes and snuggles with me. I'll take it.

After lying quietly for a few minutes, I notice that she's brought with her a laminated photo of Aimee, which she's now holding up and looking at. Turning to me shes asks, "Will you make mommy talk?" She does this every so often, and it's her way of talking to mommy, which she does sometimes when she's missing Aimee particularly badly. Usually she tells 'mommy' about stuff going on in her life, things she did at school, activities we've done, whatever. Today she other things on her mind. Oh, and for me, taking the role of mommy has never gotten any easier, but I know Rowan needs this, so I gladly do it.

Me, as Aimee, "Hi sweety!"
Rowan, "MOMMY!"
"How are you, my precious peach?" That was a common nickname Aimee had for Rowan.
"Good. (Pause) Mommy?"
"Yes, sweety?"
"Why did the boat have a leak?"
Oh shit. I wasn't expecting to have to answer questions like this for at least a couple more years. And the truth is, I don't even know all the answers to all the questions she might ask. But I do know the answer to this one. And I can't really tell her, along with many, many other things I can't tell her at this stage in her life. So I quickly improvise.

"I don't know exactly why, sweetheart. But I wish there hadn't been a leak in the boat."
This doesn't seem to satisfy her, but she doesn't press the issue. The conversation turns to more mundane things for a moment, and then,

"Why didn't the scuba people save you?"
SHIT!

Here too I have a fair amount of information about what the crew of the boat did and did not do in the moments leading up to and after the boat sank. Answering her question with complete honesty is going to lead to more questions, and they're also ones I don't want to answer at this stage in her life. Again, I scramble to say something that answers her question in an appropriate way. And I'm still talking as if I'm Aimee, which makes this all the more surreal, considering how Aimee would feel if she were really here to answer these questions herself!

"There were a number of people who did try to save me, sweetheart. But it was too late. I'm sorry, hon, I wish I could still be with you."
Rowan seemed to accept that and after a second's pause said, "Hey mommy, wanna see my new bed?"
"Sure, honey, take me to your room and show me."

Rowan hopped out of my bed and trotted off to her room, still holding the picture of Aimee, and I could hear her explain to 'mommy' about her new bed, the sheets, and comforter I got to go with it. And as she did so, I laid in my own bed and took several deep, slow breaths, and figured the day had to get better from there.

I know this is just the beginning. There will be more questions. And they'll get more complex as she gets older, and simple or incomplete answers won't be enough. As she matures, I do want her to know the truth about what happened to her mother, but I also want to make sure she gets information she can process at her age. That could mean that some of the things that I have already processed and moved on from will be things still to be faced far into the future for Rowan, and I may have to drag some of that back up in myself in order to help Rowan through it. I have to be prepared that as she grows and gains in understanding about the world, she, at some stages, may even find some blame in me, and be angry with me. Maybe she'll feel like I should have stopped Aimee from going on the scuba trip. Or maybe she'll think I should have gone too, and that I could have saved her if I'd been there. Whatever happens, I know that if she does get angry with me at some point, I'll have to just accept that for a time and help Rowan work through it.

All I can do is the best I can.

What I prayed tonight

Earlier tonight was rough. Rowan was having tummy pain and I had a hard time finding something that made her feel better enough to go to sleep. I was finally successful at about half past 10.

A couple of hours later I was getting ready to go to bed myself (trying to get more than 3-4 hours of sleep these days). As I let the dog out to do her business, I decided I needed to spend a few minutes outside under the stars, talking to God. Here is what I said.

"God, thanks for Rowan going to sleep. I pray whatever was wrong with her tummy is gone now, and she gets a good night's sleep (so I can too). I really love that little girl.

It's in moments like these when I miss Aimee, not only because she would have handled this, but because she would have known how to. If she's up there with You right now, please tell her I love her and I miss her. Tell her that I always think about all those times when she said she felt confident that I could raise Rowan if anything ever happened to her, and that I try to prove her right, no mater how lost I sometimes feel.

I hope I appreciated her enough when she was here. I think I did, I know I thanked You for her frequently and I worked to show Aimee by words and actions how much she meant to me. But if I fell short, please also tell her that too. She was an incredible gift from You.

I never wanted You to take her away from me.

And Lord, please tell her I hope she understands that I'm starting to look for someone else who can come into our lives. It's not that I didn't love her that much. In fact, in some ways it's because of my great love for her that I want to move on. She showed me what a wonderful, amazing thing a great marriage was, and I miss that. She taught me about the importance of each parent to a child, and I want a mother for Rowan. She opened my eyes to all the ways I could be a good husband and father, and she did it without saying much, but through her great example, and I really long to have a partner like that again, but as a wife and as a fellow parent. I miss loving someone like that.

Tell Aimee that Rowan misses her too. She says it a lot more now than she used to, and she cries more often. But she also seems to know that she can come to me and cry to me and that she's safe with me. Let Aimee know that as much as Rowan can be right now, she is happy, even in her grief.

So Lord, help me be a great father, especially now. And when I go up to Rowan's room in a few minutes and lean over and kiss the top of her head as she sleeps, I'll pray to You again soon, this time for her health and well-being and her future.

Thank You for listening to me.

In Jesus' name,
Amen."

The biggest piece of Aimee to go is gone tomorrow

Goodbye, old maroon Toyota Corolla.

Aimee's car has been the biggest tangible object of hers still around. It caused some tears when Rowan and I first arrived home from Florida. Justin and Caroline used for the month they stayed here after Aimee's death. Then is sat in front of Donna's house, a constant, silent reminder, for the next seven months after that. A couple of weeks ago, Donna finally brought it to my place, so I could clean it up and sell it.


A potential buyer came by yesterday, decided to take it, and is picking it up tomorrow.

The somewhat infamous maroon Toyota will be gone. (Infamous because the interior of Aimee's car looked like she was homeless and living in that car. With a hairy dog that shed a lot. The exterior wasn't much better.)

I never was much attached to that car. I used to tease Aimee about it and she's give me the evil eye and say that her car was a "right par-ful drivin' m'chine" in a mock redneck accent (she was from rural Indiana, after all). But Donna, who expresses her feelings more through tangible objects, cries every time she thinks about Aimee's car being gone (I jokingly offered to sell it to her to leave in front of her house, but she laughed and said her neighbors wanted that eyesore out of the neighborhood). And Rowan is attached to it as well. Until Aimee's death, Rowan spent much more of her first 3 1/2 years riding in that car with her mommy than she did in mine. Several times in the last couple of weeks, she's wanted to just go sit in Aimee's car. And since I took it to get the oil changed today, I took Rowan to school in it. Her voice broke this morning as she told me she was going to be sad when mommy's car was gone.

I consoled her as best as I could, and tried to shift her attention to things of Aimee's were keeping, like her wedding dress (which Rowan LOVES). That seemed to significantly improve her outlook, but I suspect there may be a few more tears between now and tomorrow.

No matter what, that car is one of the last, and certainly the biggest piece of Aimee that we still have.

And soon, it too will be gone.

Rowan is scared

As I write this, I am spending a few vacation days in Washington, DC with Aimee's side of the family: Donna, Justin, and Caroline. Rowan is here with us too. It's good to see Justin and Caroline, since I haven't seen them since late January. After Aimee's death they came back to the Seattle area with us and stayed for almost a month, which was a great support and comfort. Then they headed back home to DC.

I was sad to see them go back then, so that made this reunion all the better. And Rowan was excited to see her "Uncle J and Auntie Caroline" too.

Rowan with her uncle Justin
last December in Key West

But I was keenly aware of the circumstances of the last time we were all together. Apparently, so is Rowan.

Although she showed great excitement at first, she has been ill at ease ever since. It got worse as today wore on, almost to the point that she was being a bit irrational, and I'm ashamed to admit, almost a bit annoying to me. Finally, when I put her to bed, she was shaking and told me she as scared. She often does that when what she means is "I don't want to..." Such as, I don't want to go to sleep. But this did feel a little different.

"Rowan, what are you scared of?"

In a very small voice, "I don't know."

"Are you afraid something is going to happen to you?"

She shook her head.

I paused, and something occurred to me. So I asked quietly, "Are you afraid something is going to happen to me?"

Without a second's hesitation, she nodded.

And there you have it. Rowan remembers that the last time this group of people was together, she lost her mommy. Now she's afraid she will lose her daddy too. And you know what? I get it. I totally do. To a four year old, that cause-and-effect theory makes perfect sense.

We'll be here for a couple more days. I sincerely hope that over that time, we'll build up enough new memories with Aimee's family, especially with Justin and Caroline, that Rowan will feel more at ease when we're all together. As her mommy's family, they are her family too, and always will be, no matter what. I want her to be close to them, and through them get other stories and memories to keep her mommy alive to her.

And in the meantime, I'll pray to God that He keeps me safe, if for no other reason than for Rowan's sake.