Who wants my shoes?

It's that day again.  The first day of school!  I don't know about your house, but it was a first day of school miracle here.  With two boys, one in 6th grade and one in 10th, the fact they woke up ON THEIR OWN, were not only downstairs and ready before they had to be (with everything they needed, even), but ate breakfast and got out the door on time, without nagging, left me both flabbergasted and tickled pink at the same time.  It made the hassle of shopping, organizing and trying to get them to participate in preparation quite rewarding at 6:30 this am.  If only it could last all the school year...

Speaking of pink, this day is never an easy one.   As I watched my youngest head off to the bus stop, so independent and SO excited to be in middle school, I couldn't help but wonder, as I always do on the first day of school, what it would've been like if his twin sister was racing him to the bus stop.  That's the way it was supposed to be, you know.  With her pretty new back to school dress and platinum blonde hair in a ponytail with a pink bow.  Giggling as they shared yet another exciting adventure together.  I was supposed to be back to school shopping for girly things.  The clothes, the shoes, the backpack, the school accessories, the dance or gymnastic outfits.  We were supposed to get our toes painted together and get her hair cut.  I was supposed to hug my three babies and send them off for another year to learn and grown.  She was supposed to come home with her brother, telling me all about her middle school adventures and what sports or clubs she wanted to try out for or join.  I was supposed to get a hug and kiss from my twins, my son and my daughter.

Instead, my boys got on the bus and I drove to the cemetery.  To visit my daughter's grave.  There is pink there, among the trinkets and tributes left for her.  There is no backpack.  No new shoes.  No pretty new clothes.  No pink hair pretties. Dreams of watching her dance and jump and play died nearly 9 years ago when she did.  I sat there.  I stared at her headstone.  I felt guilty I've neglected the flowers the past few weeks and they've died in the heat.  I saw the resilient roses on the rose bush and smiled.  There will be pink!  She always was persistent...

I felt a heaviness in my heart.  I asked, to no one in particular, why?  Why was I robbed of the joy of raising a daughter?  Why were my boys robbed of their sister?  Why was it MY little girl and not yours? Why do I have to wear these shoes?  They are ugly and tight and they hurt like hell.  I will never, ever be able to get them off.  When everyone is posting back to school photos and complaining about something or other, I am sitting at my daughter's grave site.  Alone.  Alone with my sadness.  My guilt.  The pain of what could have been but will never be.  I won't ever get another hug from her.  I'll never run my hands through her silky hair. We won't ever giggle over the power of pixie dust.  I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, walking further away from the last time I held her.  Heard her voice.  Smelled her scent.  Snuggled her.

I sigh.  Tears spring to my eyes.  For some reason, I'm always surprised by how easy it is, if I let myself just stop for a moment, to feel the pain.  As years go by, you get good at keeping it under the surface so you can function and live life.  Yet it's always there.  Just like those shoes.  They seem to pinch a lot harder on these trigger days.  Perhaps it's because on these days, the pain of her loss swells, making the walk that much more painful.

I'd give anything to give away my shoes.  The truth is, none of you want them.  I don't blame you.  The trade is not a fair one.  It's not even one I'd wish upon my greatest enemy (if I had one).  It's my path to walk.  I accept it.  I have no choice.  That doesn't mean I don't feel the pinch of my too tight, ugly and permanent shoes.  It doesn't mean I don't want to give them away.

It just means I want you to remember, I'm not alone.  There are thousands of other parents who wear this style of shoe and who feel this pain.  They may not say anything about it, but they may be cranky.  They may not call you back.  They may cut you off in traffic.  They may yell or overreact.  It's because they are hurting. Please remember them.  Me.  Us.  We have many days like this every year.

So please, don't make fun of our shoes.  Walk with us in them.  Just for a moment.  You are lucky.  You can always take them off...