She ran home from school, excited, reaching up to check the mailbox outside the front door, this exuberant eight-year-old. She burst into the house, announcing that she was expecting an invitation to a party, having heard other girls talking about the event. “Did it come,” she asked?
I knew. Somehow, I knew that her invitation did not exist. My heart cried for her. Forty years later, as I write this, my heart cries. As a young mother, recovering from a major move and major illness, I did not know how to react. Despite many disappointments thoughout life, I still don’t know how to handle a child’s grief.
Mowgli turns 15 this coming week. Although he is a fun, smart kid, ADD hinders easy friendships. ED does a remarkable job of helping him maintain strong ties with his few close friends. Together they planned a weekend of activities with his best friend to celebrate the upcoming milestone. Then, the drop of the axe: Covid struck Best Friend.
Heartbroken, is Mowgli. When I heard, my heart cried. Any plans I try to make will be met with derision until he climbs out of the mire of disappointment.
Living with the family this closely means that we are all aware of each other’s joys, yes, but also all the sorrows. At this point in life, is it wrong of me to want to maximize the joys and minimize the sorrows?
Alternative plans have been made. In addition, the family will honor his birth on the anniversary date. I will order the ice cream pie. He will be stronger, learning to handle disappointment. Learning to be flexible.
Still, I hate reliving the heartaches.