I still mother them….

Tomorrow is Vincent’s birthday, and I have been thinking about that all day. Tomorrow isn’t just another date on the calendar. It’s the day Vincent came into this world and the day I became his mom. No matter how many years go by, that will never change. He’s still my son, I’m still his mom, and tomorrow is still his birthday.

Birthdays are hard because I can’t help thinking about what we should be doing. With Vincent, it wouldn’t have been anything fancy. He wasn’t about going out somewhere for some big birthday dinner. He would want to be home, and I would be making his favorite, chicken and dumplings.

I keep thinking about how simple that sounds. Me in my kitchen making chicken and dumplings for my son on his birthday. What I wouldn’t give to be doing exactly that tomorrow. To have him sitting there waiting for dinner, to hear his voice, to see his face, and to have Gabriella there too. Just all of us at home together.

That’s the stuff I miss the most. The normal stuff. The things you never think you’re going to miss because you just assume there will always be another birthday, another dinner, another night sitting around the house together. You don’t know that one day you would give absolutely anything to have one of those ordinary days back.

This trip to Connecticut was something I needed. I needed to get away for a little while and see different scenery, different roads, water, mountains and places I had never been. We really didn’t have much of a schedule. We just went, and honestly, that was probably the best part.

We found mountain overlooks and little towns. We walked the Walkway Over the Hudson, went to wineries, cruised around the Thimble Islands, rode the ferry across the Connecticut River and explored Gillette Castle. And of course, we ate lobster rolls. Lots of lobster rolls. 😂

At Gillette Castle, I found this huge old oak tree and left a little bit of Vincent and Gabriella there. Then at Hammonasset, we found this beautiful beach with tons of shells, moss-covered rocks and sand that almost looked pink when the sun was going down. It was one of the most beautiful sunsets I have seen in a long time, and I left some of them there too.

I don’t really know how to explain what it feels like to stand somewhere beautiful holding the ashes of your children. I don’t think there are words for that. I just know that when I find a place that touches me, I want to leave a little piece of them there. Maybe because they should be here seeing all of this themselves. Maybe because it makes me feel like I’m still taking them places with me. Probably both.

Today was our last full day here, and we spent it along the Connecticut shoreline. We went through Guilford and ate lobster that had been caught that morning while sitting right there on the dock. We went to Niantic and walked the boardwalk, drove through Old Saybrook and Westbrook, and stopped whenever we felt like stopping. No rushing and no big plan, just enjoying the day.

But as beautiful as today was, tonight my mind keeps going back to tomorrow.

Vincent’s birthday.

And this birthday is going to be different.

For nine years after losing Vincent, I had Gabriella. She missed him too. That was her brother. She understood this day in a way nobody else could because she wasn’t just watching her mom grieve her son. She was grieving her brother right beside me.

I don’t think I realized until now how much comfort there was in knowing she was here missing him with me.

Now she’s gone too.

For the first time, Vincent’s birthday is coming and Gabriella isn’t here to remember him with me. I can’t talk to her about him tomorrow. I can’t ask her what she’s thinking about or hear one of her memories. I can’t have my daughter beside me missing her brother.

Tomorrow, when I miss my son, I will be missing my daughter too.

And that’s hitting me really hard tonight.

I keep thinking about what tomorrow should look like. I should be home making chicken and dumplings. Vincent should be there and Gabriella should be there. There should be a cake sitting on the counter and people talking over each other. Somebody would probably be getting on somebody else’s nerves because that’s what families do.

Nothing fancy. Nothing that would mean anything to anybody else.

But everything to me.

I would give anything for one more birthday like that. One more pot of chicken and dumplings, one more time hearing my son’s voice, one more time seeing my two kids together. Just one more ordinary birthday at home.

That’s something grief has taught me. It’s not always the huge moments that knock you down. Sometimes it’s chicken and dumplings. Sometimes it’s driving down a road and seeing something you know they would have liked. Sometimes it’s a sunset. Sometimes it’s having something funny to tell them and, for one second, forgetting that you can’t pick up the phone.

It’s all those little everyday things that you never knew were actually the big things.

Maybe that’s why taking some of their ashes with me has become so important. They should have had more of everything. More birthdays, more road trips, more sunsets, more dinners at home, more stupid jokes, more arguments, more laughter and a whole lot more ordinary days.

They should have had more life.

I can’t change that, no matter how badly I wish I could. All I can do is keep carrying them with me. So I take them to the mountains and the beaches. I take them down little roads and into towns I’ve never seen. I take them to old castles, giant oak trees and beautiful sunsets. And when I find somewhere that feels right, sometimes I leave a little piece of them there.

Tomorrow I will celebrate my son. I’ll say his name and think about the day he was born and the day I became his mom. I’ll remember his smile, his laugh, the things he did that made me laugh and probably some of the things that drove me crazy too. I’ll picture him at home eating his chicken and dumplings, exactly where he would want to be.

And I’m sure I’ll cry because I miss him. This year, I’ll be crying for Gabriella too.

But I don’t want tomorrow to only be about the fact that Vincent is gone. I want it to be about the fact that he was here. He lived. He laughed. He was loved. He was my son, and he made me a mom.

Happy birthday, Vincent.

I wish I could make your chicken and dumplings tomorrow and sit across from you while you ate them. I wish I could hear you laugh. I wish your sister was sitting there with us.

Mostly, I just wish we could all be home together.

Nothing fancy.

Just us.

I would give anything for that.

I love you, Vincent. I miss you every single day, and no matter where I go, you’re going with me.

Now your sister is too. 💜