I sad because my legs no work so good. I no run fast like Parker. My legs no work.
It’s the heavy silence that follows the bomb dropping, where all you can hear is the sound of your own heartbeat pounding out its instantly accelerated rhythm in your ears, followed by the air slowly leaving your body – the breath you’ve been holding since he said it.
Someone should say something. Someone should tell him it’s okay, that he’s perfect, that we knew things would be tough and that they likely always will be but that we will get by. Together.
Isn’t someone going to say something? Because I am doing all that I can just to hold back from letting out this sob that is building up in the back of my throat in the seconds since those words came out of his beautiful rosebud mouth just dripping with sadness.
But it is only me in the car with him. And Parker. And I am supposed to be the one to soothe him, to tell him…what on Earth am I supposed to tell him? That it will be fine? That it sucks? That I’m sorry?
I thought we had more time.
I thought that we wouldn’t be here yet, that at four years old, this boy – my beautiful boy that finally definitively learned last week that he is a boy, that can remember that my name is “Jamie” but still can’t consistently recall his father’s name, that thinks that the thing he poops out of is called his “tushie” and the thing he pees out of is also called his “tushie” – well, I thought we had more time.