Grieving the Perfect Day

It was perfect.

The way he grinned as I poked my head in his room to say good morning. I sat on the edge of his bed as he earnestly told me how daddy was at the Book Choo Choo (Indigo) buying him a helicopter in his grey car. I gently let him down explaining that daddy was at the office but we could go downstairs for cheerios!! We held hands, our morning ritual, as we walked to the steps. I watched him get to the bottom as I waited to receive the go ahead to come down.

We played choo choo for a while. Using the coins from our piggy bank he paid to get water or cross the bridge. He gave me pennies while he clenched the toonie firmly in his hand.

Then he abruptly stood up and said, "cheer" and went over to the couch. Using the guidance from his fire truck choo choo I pulled out the cheerios, milk, bowl and spoon. Then began our morning routine. Me, sitting down first and then Milo, sidling up and plopping his bum in my lap. I held the bowl while he slowly ate the cheerios, frequently distracted by the allure of Umi Zoomi and their math powers.
We sat like this for over an hour. His legs crossed over mine, relaxing and laughing at the funny parts.

Then back to the trains. He wanted to do a photo shoot and we took turns taking pictures of each other with my iPhone. He even let me hold Big Dog.






I asked him if he wanted to go to Book Choo Choo but surprisingly he said no. So we stayed home and went to the basement and while I put toys in boxes he came behind me and threw them around the basement. I worked on the recycling instead. Less tempting to throw I guess.

I talked with Maria as he played and when he was ready we came upstairs and he finger painted with water colors. I made a pizza and then we sat on the couch once again, familiar and at ease, munching on pizza.

Then he went for a nap and I could hear him driving his truck into his wall and talking and probably looking out the window for at least an hour. At 6pm I found him on the floor, curled up with his bum in the air. I couldn't resist texting a picture to Hunter despite the cost.


And that was my perfect day with my perfect companion. It was so simple and sweet and I was acutely aware that it might be one of the last before he becomes a big brother and I am no longer a mother to one child.

I feel sad when I think of that. I feel a sense of grief and mourning because it is a death. A death of what we've known for the past two years and almost 11 months. No longer will it just be Milo and I hanging out at the mall or Heritage Park or pilfering off Indigo. It won't be the three of us singing "Head Shoulders Knees and Toes" at dizzying speeds during Family Home Evening. Everything will change. There are many unknowns.

For instance, will we still be able to cuddle on the couch and eat cheerios together? Will we go on dates to Ikea or the park? Maybe we will. Maybe we won't. I don't know.

But in this death there is an amazing birth, both literal and figurative. And it's all for the better. For example: I think I'll feel a little relief when Milo talks to his baby sister instead of to his stuffed dog. Or, in all seriousness, when I think of the extraordinary joy Milo has contributed to this world just by being himself, I can't help but think that it will be same with this baby girl. The world will be improved with her presence and life will be enriched in ways I can't imagine.

So, who can be sad when a death brings a joy like that?