Better in Time?

I tolerated my birthday better this year.  Before the legion of people who have, in fact, not lost a child yet say it gets better with time leans back, nodding with satisfaction, let me say it again:  I tolerated my birthday better this year.  It was...okay.

It wasn't particularly joyous, and although it was nice to eat some yummy seafood I didn't have to cook across from my two handsome boys, I was still overwhelmingly sad and lonely.  I watched Jake laugh up into Tim's face, and Tim laugh down into his.  Those two are mirror images.  I love watching them, and it kills me at the same time.

 Tim works nights, and time with him is precious to Jake.  I get that.  I watched them so in tune with each other, as they joked and bantered.  At one point, Jake reached up casually and swiped his hand across Tim's whiskers, just to feel them.   Tim looked surprised and bewildered, but Jake kept up the chatter, never missing a beat.  I reached out and rested my palm on the empty space in the booth next to me.   It's hard not to seethe with jealousy, even towards my own husband and son.  This pain can turn a person into someone he or she doesn't want to be, someone that's hard to like.

We all got a slice of cheesecake to go- even Tim can tell when the party of three has become too much for me to handle.  Once home, I retreated to my bed with my new journal and pen in hand.  After some bitter journaling (not bullet journaling, mind you,  bitter journaling), I pulled out my planner to wrap up my day, and smiled the tiniest bit to see the note I'd placed there.  I'd run across it a dozen times in the course of my day.  It said, "Happy Birthday, Mommy!"  Heart, Cory.

Such a small thing, really.  But somehow she'd been included in the day.  I had given her a voice, imagined what she'd tell me if I was ready to hear it, and put it somewhere I'd see it often.  It helped more than I'd ever thought.  I must have smiled five or six times that day.
 Last year, I smiled none.
Progress.