The Little Blue Ball and You
February 2, 2014
Good morning, my little star,
Each day as I make my way down the stairs to the main floor of our home (more times than not with dirty laundry in my arms) I am taken aback by the little blue ball that still sits way up high on the second story above the front door on the ledge under our front feature window. How did it get there? Well, I know that YOU know and I know that it wasn’t deliberately “placed” there as you can only reach that narrow ledge with an extendable ladder. It “ended up” there as a result of a bad shot in the mini sticks hockey shoot-out that occurred regularly (sometimes, daily) on the landing at the top of the staircase to the second story of our house. The place where the space opens up to a high ceiling, few walls, and a white wooden railing that was the only stopper to that little blue ball ending up downstairs on the floor… or, less likely, on the ledge above the door where it still sits. I remember the countless times I asked that you boys take the game downstairs where it didn’t matter where or how the ball was hit; downstairs where I could close the door to the basement so I didn’t have to hear the play by play of each shot and the thunk, thunk, thunk, of feet running up and down the stairs to retrieve that little blue ball.
What I hear in my head now when I see that ball and what I remember more than anything else is the sound of boys giggling with delight at the simple fun of hitting a little blue ball (a ball soft enough that it couldn’t possibly damage anything) with little hockey sticks. It’s quite remarkable how things that used to drive me crazy back then speak to me in such a different way now. How I long for those days where listening to you and your friends, or you and your brothers, just simply laugh because you were having fun. Its true that in between the laughter there were negotiations and arguments on fair play and sometimes stoppage of play because one of you would get hit with the stick and have to rub your hands together while jumping up and down to shake off the pain. I also remember the same repeated question I’d get when I asked you to move the game downstairs… “awe, Mom. Why? We’re not wrecking anything and its “funner” here. The shots are more fun when they can go further.” When I’d respond with a more serious and stern voice that what I needed (wanted) was silence, then and only then, was there compliance.
Seeing that little blue ball now conjures up a different feeling. And with it the yearning that if only I could have those days back, relive those precious moments where the sound of boys laughing and giggling was what really mattered, I’d take them back in a heartbeat. I have no desire to retrieve that little ball from where it now sits because it is a reminder of you and that makes me smile. It took a long time before my tears turned into smiles upon seeing that little ball but somehow even through the tears I knew that I didn’t want to take it down, that in time it would become another sacred memory of you. And now that’s what it is.
From time to time (ok, once) I had to maneuver the long, awkward (and scary) extendible ladder into the house and get my butt up there to dust that ledge. That was a while ago and I’ll need to do it again soon, as the dust seemingly multiplies faster in the places where you can’t reach easily. Once up there I put the little blue ball in the pocket of my sweatshirt while I “swiffered” the dust onto the floor below. Before I carefully placed the ball in the exact same spot where it landed on that mini sticks game day, I cupped both my hands around it and brought it to my face. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and planted a kiss on it as if it were your cheek. That place is now home to that little blue ball. And I’m pretty sure it always will be.
Love you, little blue (hah!). More than a bus on top of a tall, hard to reach ledge.
Momxo
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December 22, 2018
Dear sweet boy,
In these final, few days before Christmas I am stopping to pause; to give myself permission to escape this busy bubble of hustle and bustle so I can spend a day uninterrupted with you. As the busy season unfolds I struggle more with losing you than I normally do. Every December feels like this. Perhaps it is because there is such a strong focus on family and for us, well, it is out of order and interrupted. We carry on as best as we can because we know you’d want us to spend Christmas doing and being and loving as we always did. And so we do. For you. And because of you.
Last night was a restless one for me. I tossed and turned, waking frequently with thoughts of you and Christmases past. Memories that would shake me awake followed by a sense of urgency to want to close my eyes and try to lull myself back to those very precious times. It was a bittersweet dance and after hours of going back and forth I decided that writing a letter to you while I sat in the early morning darkness amidst the lights on our Christmas tree would be time well spent. I always do feel better after a conversation with you.
As I sipped my hot tea I thought about the magic of Christmas and how you, being the youngest of the three boys, were the one who kept the Santa magic alive for all of us for many years. I laughed recalling some of the tactics Justin and Ben would use to keep you believing that without a doubt there really was a white bearded, chubby guy in a red suit that made and brought presents, but only if you were on the good kid list. They had explanations for every question and played along not wanting to ruin it for you (… probably because I threatened them and I’m quite sure the thought of no Santa gifts was a pretty strong deterrent). I did hear recently of a funny albeit brilliant story of a mom who told her two boys that the smoke alarms in the house were Santa cams and that when the green light was on (which, of course, is always on) it meant that Santa was watching. Everyday. All year long. I wonder how long that worked? Your brothers weren’t quite that menacing.
Mostly, Will, I remembered how much fun we had every Christmas and how important it was for all of us to be together. Never did I ever imagine that we’d have a Christmas without you and that “never” actually meant forever. The pain of losing a child is unimaginable and I believe wholeheartedly that the human spirit can only go to that kind of pain if it has no choice but to. Seven years into our grief journey I feel like we have come to a place now that we can find moments of joy again but it is because we have surrounded our Christmas with memories of you. You are our Santa and the angel atop of our tree. The last gift under the tree is always a jigsaw puzzle to us from you. You are the candle light on our Christmas table and as we toast the season and each other we toast you as well. I do feel your presence and know with my whole heart that you are with us and that you always will be.
This summer I photographed some of your journal writings from your grade 7 school year. Indubitably what we didn’t know then was that Christmas 2010 was your last Christmas with us on earth. I scrolled through my photos and found what you’d written about Christmas that year.
I’ve read and re-read your words not only for what you said but loving how your writing looked and how I remembered it to be. Your message reflects the true essence of Christmas. Simple and thoughtful. It really is not so much about the receiving part and so much more about the giving. Just like you wrote. That you felt like that at 12 years old makes me a proud mom.
Our tree this year is full of our ski passes as usual and new this year I filled it with fuzzy, soft snowballs. They remind me so much of you. And your brothers, too. I hope it makes you smile as you look down on it. Yup, your Santa hat is still at the top as our angel.
As the morning dawns I think about my list… all the things I need to do… the last minute shopping, the wrapping, the cleaning. And then I looked at your face on your last Fernie ski pass and decided to go make myself another cup of tea. I grabbed a blanket and returned to where I last sat in front of our tree. There is no rush. It will all get done. It always does. More important, today is about you and me.
I miss you so much, sweet Will. More than words can describe.
And, I love you. Like a bus. Full of Christmas love, snowballs, candlelight, childhood memories and everything that is you at Christmas. Sigh…
Momxo
Joni,
I love all your letters, but this one touches me especially. I love the timelessness of that little blue ball, and the daily reminder of Will in your home. But more than anything, I love the way you’ve expressed what is so often in my heart – the longing to go back to a time that was so simple and precious, and not always appreciated for what it was. I’m glad you can still hear the giggles of your little boys in your heart.
Thank you for sharing your letters to Will. Know that they resonate with those of us who are also missing a child.
With gratitude and love,
Carol
Carol,
Thank you so much for sending along your note. My heart smiled as a read it knowing that it resonated with you as well. Of course, it did. The “missing/pining/” part of losing a child is so paralyzing isn’t it? I think of you often and have sent you silent prayers and hugs frequently. You were the first mom that I sent pajamas to and each time I bundle up a pair and enclose a letter I think of you. I send you hugs and love and hope for days where there are more smiles than tears. Again, thank you, Carol!
What a beautiful story Joni. I can imagine that now, years later that noise that comes from “boys having fun” would be welcomed once again. I know that “mini sticks was a big deal at our house too! I remember injuries and marks on the wall!!
With my second about to graduate I even miss those days and lately have done a lot if reminiscing about how in the the last few years I wish I could have “saved” those fleeting, busy, hectic, but normal parts of their lives and filed them somewhere to be “relived” at any time. Funny how when we look back we really can appreciate and really miss what was then just a “normal” day in the life of our kids. Glad the little blue ball can make you smile thinking of all the fun it created!
Hi Cheryl! So nice to find your comment in my inbox last night. I enjoy your words so much. Mini sticks seems to be a universal “boy” thing no matter where one lives! It is funny to look back and remember the fun little sticks and little balls could bring to a home with boys (even with injuries and marks on the wall). And you are so right about the “normal” days and how much they are missed. I read a really great book a few years back that changed the way I parented, the way I saw life. It is called, The Gift of an Ordinary Day by Katrina Kenison. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it. It is one every mom should read. Hope you are well, Cheryl, and thanks again for taking those few minutes to drop me a note. It means so much.
Thank you for the much needed reminder to cherish the small moments that really do mean so much. We have a little orange ball instead of a little blue ball in our house. I think I will go a little easier on them when the mini sticks come out tomorrow. Love you J. *Hugs*
Oh Kaylie, I laughed when I read your comment. I can envision that little orange ball and know that it landed where it is with the same thoughts I had those years ago. Go easy, yes. And when you need a little peace and quiet head to the basement with a book and a glass of wine! Love you back, sweet mom! xo
Beautiful and touching Joni! I hope that you and your family are well. What a wonderful gift you have in writing, and a beautiful tribute to your son! How is Finn?
Thanks Ina! So nice to see your name here and to read your kind words. Finn is great… the best brown dog in the land, if you ask me. He is medicine in my world. He just helps me find a reason to smile. Hope you are well?
What a beautiful story. I will refrain from yelling at my girls to clean up their room. Hugs.
Hey Mark! When you can’t find your girls amongst all the stuff that may have found its place on their bedroom floor then you probably have to give them a “loving” yell. In my unimaginable grief and the empty part of my heart, I am touched that my letter to my sweet Will might shed a different perspective on what really matters and what is just the little stuff. Little reminders of how precious our children are to us is an intentional part of my writing. Thanks for taking the time to read my letter and to comment.