I'm laying in bed. It's 7am on a Tuesday morning, but I don't have to go in to work. Hubby has already left and the boys are - blessedly - still asleep. I hear the kid's door open, but don't hear him come out. "Baby?", I ask. He comes in to my room, crying softly. I ask him if he wants to crawl in to bed with me for a few minutes before we get up to get ready for school. He replies "uh huh" and climbs in, snuggling into my side.
I wrap my arm around him and ask him what's going on. He says, "when I woke up, Oma was laying beside me". I am beyond taken aback. "Did you dream that, do you mean?" "Um, yeah, I guess so. I don't know." He says he is scared. I remind him that Oma loved him. I ask him, "well, if Oma was there, why would it have been?" "Because she loves me and wanted to watch over me." I agree with him. He says he misses her so much. I tell him I do, too. Which, to my surprise, is very much the truth.
I hug him closer to me and bury my nose in his sweet curls, kiss the little tears that have streaked their way down his still chubby cheeks. We lay there for a few more minutes, his head on my arm, me stroking his hair, my lips on his forehead, us both breathing softly. He has stopped crying. I ask him if he is okay. He mumbles, "yes, Momma".
It's 7:05. He will be late for school. I don't care. I ask him if he wants to cuddle for 2 more minutes. He says "yes". So we do. It is the most important thing we can do right then.
Today's lesson: You're just trucking along, everything seeming to be fine. When, BAM. Grief hits you unexpectedly. Acknowledge it. Breathe through it. You will still be standing on the other side.