I watched him rub his morning time eyes as I felt his forehead.
He swore he was feeling better, and begged to go school.
The routine began.
I supervised the teeth brushing. I coached the dressing. I nursed the baby. I made the breakfast. I packed the lunch. I fed the baby. I loaded the car. I did the drop off.
I returned in time to wipe poop, sing lullabies, and send the youngest to nap land.
I sat in the living room and paused. The date had not escaped me. Should I do something to celebrate? In honor?
I sat. I breathed in. I breathed out.
Something smelled putrid.
I got to my knees and began scrubbing the vomit smell out of my carpet from whatever was ailing my son the day before.
I stripped the couch cushion of its puke stained cover.
I fed the dogs.
I answered some emails.
Then the baby woke up.
My day continued in ordinary fashion – busy with the mundane.
Yesterday marked an anniversary of sorts for me. Nine years ago, something happened that veered my life in a direction that no human is ever prepared to go. It was in some ways, a death. Since then, on the 29th of May, I have chosen every year to do something that makes me feel alive. Sometimes it is a trip to an amusement park and too many rides on a roller coaster… other years it has been pampering at a day spa. It has been a way to celebrate the fact that I didn’t die that day. It has also been an attempt to erase the bad attached to that date.
This year I feel strangely at peace with not celebrating this anniversary. It almost slipped my mind. I’m sure it slipped my husband’s.
It signifies a sort of absorption.
It is not forgotten.
It is not aggrandized.
It is not defied.
It is not denied.
It simply is…
and for me…
there is a freedom in that.