The Booster Seat

Jacob was ten when Cory died.  He was, and still is, small for his age.  My children have always been little.  The booster seat in the back seat of the car, at that time, was a necessary precaution, and no one thought twice about it.

In the last month or so, a couple of friends have ridden in my car and become completely mortified, on Jacob's behalf, to see the booster seat still occupying its accustomed space.  He is after all, twelve years old, and about to enter seventh grade.

"Nicole Edna Mansfield, what is that booster seat still doing in here?"  one of them asked.

"I know.  I know."  I mumbled, hanging my head in shame.

I've read that parents who lose a child often overcompensate with their remaining children, becoming overly permissive or overly restrictive.  I guess in some ways, I've been both.

Most of the time, I fall on the overly permissive side.  Some of it is instinctive.  Due to my unfortunate decision making around letting Cory walk to the store, I no longer trust my ability to keep Jacob safe, but other parents- whose kids walk around and breath freely-are okay with me.  I have no issues letting Jacob ride in other people's cars without a booster seat, spend the night at their houses, go on day trips, overnight trips, or even leave the state.  They are solid, trustworthy, responsible adults and I know that in their care, he will be safe

.My care?  Obviously, it's a crap shoot at best.

My gut feeling says, "Better keep that booster seat."  So I do.   I know that I can do everything I'm supposed to do and still end up with someone dead before I've finished cooking dinner, so maybe a little extra insurance is not a bad idea.

Some of the permissiveness is chosen.  I know what a dark hole this grief is.  I've done some regrettable things in mine, and I'm an adult.  I know Jake is in his own dark, cramped space, freaking out right along beside me.

 So yes, I've let him drink too much pop since his sister died.  And yes, I've let him escape through his video games without monitoring his screen time as carefully as I should.  It is only as I build healthier coping skills for myself that I can guide Jacob in using or developing healthier ones for himself.  Maybe we'll get there one of these days.  In the meantime, who wants a fountain Coke from MickeyDee's?

Jacob never used to beg...for anything.  He knew, before Cory died, that when I said no to five more minutes before bed time, candy, or a toy, I meant it, and no amount of begging would change my mind.  He now has tipped to the fact that I am exhausted most of the time, and out of my mind the rest.  Begging gets him everywhere.

But back to the booster seat:
 Jake and I talked about it just the other day.  I asked him if it bothered him, and he said it did a little.  He asked me why he needed it in my car, but not in grandpa's.  I turned the question back to him- could he think of any reason why I might want him to sit in the booster seat longer than he really needed to?

"Cause you love me.  And you don't want to lose me.  You're scared I'm gonna get hurt like Cory did."

Yeah.  We know each other well, him and I.

I admitted that it wasn't strictly necessary, but also told him I couldn't give it up yet.  We struck a compromise.  For the foreseeable future, the booster seat will ride in the trunk of the car, where it's handy in case it's needed.  Jacob nodded, satisfied.  He didn't point out that accidents take place in the blink of an eye, and it was absolutely illogical to house the booster in the trunk, thinking there would be time to pull over and re-seat it before disaster struck.

Jacob, who has been thirty five years old since the day he was born, knows this, I'm sure.  But he also knows the value of any comfort you can find in the aftermath of this type of loss.  He gave up carrying his stuffed animal after one school year, but he still carries a favorite blanket from room to room of the house during every waking hour.

 You do what you have to, and who cares what anyone thinks.