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Really hoping that 2010 is a year full of good things, a year with less pain and especially praying that a true, deep, feeling of joy will be restored in my life.
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The following is from a draft of a post that I wrote a long time ago. I listed ironies surrounding Joe's death, and there were a lot of them. I can't post the whole thing because it is simply just too painful for me. This irony in particular though is one that I have often thought back on:

There was a conversation Joe and I had a week before the accident in which I was worried that something might be wrong with my own health. One night I was just beside myself in worry. I told him that based on things that have happened in my life that have shown me that no one is safe, that we are all living in this temporary state, that at any moment things could change, and I felt like I was always waiting for the ball to drop. I was waiting, waiting for "it" to happen. He told me that I couldn't live like that. We talked about what would happen if worst case scenario occurred, and we thought the whole thing through and I made him tell me that he would take care of the kids if something were to happen to me. That he would go on without me. That he would be okay.

God, I still can't believe we had that conversation.

It's funny (or not) because when Joe died I had a realization that I would not be living in his shadow anymore. To some extent with whatever went on in our lives, people always attributed any sort of overt action or thing that was done to him. If the kids said something funny, surely it was because of him; if there was disco ball hanging in the living room, surely it was his idea to hang it there; if the pond got shoveled, must of been him that did it; if the house got painted, he must be working hard on the weekends. I let this stuff go with kind of a "whatever" attitude but truthfully it drove me nuts inside. And, I knew, the people who really know me- my parents, my sisters- know that truth about it all anyway. I was a person before I was ever with Joe, living a pretty great life and DOING lots of stuff.

So how all of a sudden did everything in my life start getting attributed to him?

Rationally I know that Joe had a big personality and he was happy being the center of attention under many circumstances. And this change happened somewhat slowly over the years, and I rarely "tooted my own horn" so to speak, because for the most part it seemed petty to me to correct people when they assumed wrong.

But then when he was gone, I thought, well at least I would be recognized for who I am again.

I thought people would remember me, ROBIN (waving my hand wildly in the air- here I am!!). But that hasn't entirely happened. Insanely enough, it hasn't happened. He is no longer here and still things in my life, actions that I've taken, projects that I've completed, work that I've done, STILL are somehow attributed to him. How is this possible? I actually had someone say to me that he is somehow working THROUGH me. Seriously? Gee, thanks.

I will always put my husband on a pedastal, ALWAYS. I will always talk about his strength and spirit and all the good things about him ALWAYS. When he was here, I believed in him, that anything was possible that he wanted to achieve and I let him know that, ALWAYS. I do not believe that a discouraging word has any place when a person is doing their best and that is how I treated him.

How is it that such good positive energy has the ability to backfire on me?

I have done a lot of really great things in my life. I have accomplished many things that I am proud of before, during and after I was married. I will continue to live as I always have. I just wish that my accomplishments would be seen as my own, and not as his.
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I cannot figure out if this is a societal issue (people assuming the "man" always gets stuff done while the woman stands by washing the dishes), if it is a personality issue (Joe's outgoing-in-all-situations personality as opposed to my laid back nature) or something else. What I do know is that it bugs me.

I have pretty much resorted to telling myself that as long as my children know the truth, no one else matters. And for the most part, my children do know because they live with me. They have seen my projects over the years, they know what I have done and that is important- not because I need glory or credit to boost my own ego, but for another very important reason- I want my kids to know what a woman is capable of. I do not want my kids to be the type of adults that assume the man does all the work while the woman does all things that are inconsequential. And more importantly, I don't want them to live as if the man does all of the work while the woman does all things that are inconsequential.

Here is a perfect example of what I am describing. And trust me, this is JUST ONE of many:

Recently my son asked me "why (everyone) always says it was Daddy that organized Jordyn's Ride" (Jordyn's Ride is a charity motorcycle ride that Joe and I worked on together). I pretty much knew what he was talking about but asked him what he meant. "Didn't YOU do Jordyn's Ride mommy?"

"Yes Luke, I did", I told him. "Daddy and I worked on it together".

Luke remembers all my work because I dragged him out doing errands for it constantly in the months leading up to it each year. He remembers me sitting at my computer working on emails and lists and the website and countless other things- the mail; the phone conversations, making signs; planning; organizing tshirts; talking with Joe about it, on and on. Luke remembers what I did. Thank God.

I have joked with myself that if I died tomorrow someone would write on my stone "Her husband did a lot of great things".

But my kids will know better.

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Joe and I went to Montreal many times while we were together. It was a reasonable distance from camp (about 3 hours) and we could leave the kids with my parents and go up for some fun. These pictures were taken the last time we went, on July 6, 2007.

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These pictures make me smile although they appear to be pretty boring at first glance I am sure. The story is this....we checked into a hotel one afternoon and and Joe left to go park the truck in the parking garage. This was a new truck by the way, (I am still paying on this thing and will be until 2012!) and that's kind of important to the story. Anyway, I stood in the lobby area of the hotel for a while waiting for Joe. He didn't come back and 15 or 20 minutes had passed so I sat down. I remember thinking "what the....where did he go?" but I was completely content sitting there. It was really busy and there were all sorts of characters to watch so I was in full people-watching mode.
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I sat there.....for OVER AN HOUR.
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Finally I saw Joe coming towards me, and I smiled and he smiled and we were both completely content in that moment. I expected him to be angry about something (whatever kept him so long) and he expected me to be mad for having to wait for so long. But neither of us were mad at all, we were just...............happy.

He apologized for taking so long and he was telling me this story about how he couldn't understand the parking attendant (remember, people speak French in Montreal- many people speak English as well but they can have very thick accents) and for some reason he didn't ask the attendant to clarify what he said. So he started driving into the garage and he was looking for a spot. He had to go further and further in because the garage was so full. As he drove, the ceiling was getting lower and lower. Picture my husband in his new truck in a busy parking garage with a ceiling that is making his antenna rattle every 10 feet due to the ceiling of the parking structure closing in on him. Finally, he saw a spot, clearly marked that he should not park there. Right next to the spot was a big DANGER sign, signalling that he would not be able to take his truck any further due to the height of the ceiling.
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So he parked in that spot, and wiped the sweat off his brow I am sure. Then, not wanting to get towed, he ran back to the parking attendant and told him where he was parked. The parking attendant told him that he was supposed to park in a different area, that his truck would not fit in the area where he was trying to park (this is what the attendant originally told Joe that he did not understand). So Joe walks the parking attendant to his spot (the attendant was sure that Joe had gotten stuck or would not be able to get out). When they reached the spot, the attendant laughed and was amazed that the truck had fit under so many barriers on the way in. Joe laughed too. They both looked at the top of the truck, searching for scrapes. There were none. So the attendant told him to just stay there.
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I took the pictures on the way out the next day. You can't tell from them, but honestly, there were things hanging down in the garage-signs and pipes and stuff- that I too was amazed that Joe fit underneath them. The whole thing was like a big optical illusion. That parking guy is probably still talking about the crazy American that took his pick-up into the car only area of the parking garage.
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Was that just a really boring story? Well, I got on a roll and it still is funny to me for some reason. I really had another Montreal story in mind to tell.
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But before that one, I just want to say that I had way too much fun that night and woke up with the most excrutiating headache early early in the morning....like 5 or 6am. I seriously thought my head was going to explode and I had to push on the sides of it to make it feel better. I woke Joe up and told him how much it hurt. Without me asking, he got out of bed, got dressed and went to find me some Tylenol. The hotel store was not open yet so he pounded the streets of Montreal, no idea where he was going, to find someplace that was open. He walked half an hour before finding me some and coming back. He was so nice to me.
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Okay, so anyway, one time we were in a pub in Montreal. In case you don't know, Canadians LOVE THEIR HOCKEY. Seriously, hockey is big up there. And also in case you don't know, the arch rival of the Boston Bruins are the Montreal Canadiens. So there Joe and I sit in a giant room filled with tons of tables full of twenty-something male hockey fans drinking lots and lots of beer, and of course what was on TV? A Bruins-Canadiens hockey game. Every person in this place (except us) was rooting for the Canadiens and all eyes were on the big screens positioned all over the room.
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The Canadiens were doing pretty well and the crowd was happy. They hated the Bruins, you could tell by their comments and gestures every time there was a big hit or some play that they approved or disapproved of. It was a tough crowd. I had thoughts of "wow, I'm glad they don't know we're Bruins fans". Still, we were having tons of fun.
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Then, it happened.
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The Bruins scored.

Secretly of course I was happy to see the puck go in the net. But as the buzzer sounded what do I see out of the corner of my eye? MY HUSBAND, ON HIS FEET, ARMS IN THE AIR, CHEERING as loud as if he were in a Boston bar. Suddenly the place was quiet (except for Joe) and every head in there turned and looked at him and he just cheered louder. I think I slunk slightly in my chair, eyes wide and totally astonished that he had outed us in this bar full of the enemy. When he sat back down I told him I couldn't believe what he did, but of course we laughed and my heart was full of love for him. This was the man that I fell in love with, anywhere he went, never afraid to be himself. And passionate and fearless about anything that he loved, in this case, his Boston Bruins.
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In typical Joe fashion, by the time we left the bar he had 50 friends and they were glad to have someone to aim there comments at when the Bruins did something they didn't like (in fun, and vice-versa of course).
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On December 24th I was not sure how I was going to make it through the next two days. I'm not sure why, but the holidays seem to get harder. I was constantly on the verge....having a mental conversation in my head...to just keep going....don't think, just do......keep busy, keep planning, keep talking, keep moving, keep passing time, keep going. Anytime I started to have a quiet moment or really look around me at what was happening, I would just tell myself, "put it aside, think about it later". Finally it was December 26.

I love my kids so much, and I don't want to wish their special days away, but I am glad it's over for now. I hope when they grow up they have nothing but good memories of magical Christmases, and I hope they have not even an inkling of feeling that I wanted the time to pass quickly. It's all so complicated, the deep desire to fulfill my childrens wishes, and the deep sadness to see them fulfilled without Joe being here to see it too.

I am sad that this is the last year probably that Luke will believe in Santa- really sad. It's further evidence that time will indeed go on without Joe. My kids are going to grow up. This is how it's going to be.
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February 2005

January 2006

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My heart aches.
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As you know Joe was a big hockey fan. He played from the time he was a young boy, on ponds and in school and in adult leagues. He played hockey the night before he died.

If you know any hockey players, then you must realize, hockey is a commitment. It's expensive- lots of expensive equipment, and lots of money to join a league at any age. It's also a commitment in terms of time. Hockey players play whenever they can get ice time, and they travel far, wherever they need to travel. As an adult Joe would leave our house at 9:30 some weeknights for an 11PM game in a town an hour away. He wouldn't get home until 1:30 and of course he'd be wired. Happy as can be of course (he'd wake me up and sit on the side of the bed and try to tell me all kinds of goals he "almost" made, or ones that he did make, or other things that happened), but geesh it was late. He never complained about the timing, and I don't think any of the players do. If you love to play hockey, you just love to play hockey, and you don't care what time you do it.

Joe loved the Boston Bruins. He went to lots of games before I knew him, and he and I went to lots and lots of games together. To see my son love hockey so much now is bittersweet to say the least. I am so glad that he does, yet I can't help but to think constantly of how much Joe would be loving this time with Luke- to see him skate; to see him constantly absorbed with every stat of every player; to ask and ask and ask to stay up and watch every game; to have the schedule memorized; to be so excited to play on a team; to see him play floor hockey in the living room constantly; on and on.

I don't know what it will be like the first time I see Luke suited up and playing in a real hockey game. I am not sure I will be able to handle seeing that....it makes me so sad, yet so happy at the same time.

Anyway, on to my story.

Joe's favorite all time player was Cam Neely. The year I met Joe was the last year that Neely played and he was hurt a lot so I remember that he was frustrated with the whole thing. I don't really remember and didn't really witness his admiration for Cam Neely. HOWEVER, he did want to name our first born child Cameron. Which I was not in agreement with. Funny though, we were recently at a rink with little kids Luke's age playing hockey. All the fathers were yelling to their sons and they were all yelling "Cam!". I swear there were at least 5 Cams on the team. I guess lots of hockey-loving dads Joe's age had the same idea.

Joe was pretty intent on naming our baby after a hockey player (if it was a boy--we did not find out in advance). I remember that I resorted to actually paying attention to names while we watched hockey games to get ideas. Finally I found one that I liked.

We were sitting across from each other at the 103 restaurant...a place we liked to go together that was pretty closeby to our house. I remember the exact lighting in the room and the table where we sat and I remember exactly what Joe looked like. "How about Luke?" I said. "like.....Luc Robitaille" I added, trying to prove to him that Luke was indeed a hockey name. He sat for a minte and said "Yeah.....I could do Luke. BUT", he added "We HAVE to spell it the french way. L-U-C".

I looked at this guy like he was freaking nuts. "Absolutely not." I said, smiling. "You get your hockey name but we spell it my way" and I held out my hand. He looked at me for a minute and reached for my hand. We did what we alway did when we were going to seal a deal- write it in stone- we shook on it.

So it was done.

And on July 19, 2001 our baby boy was named Luke Joseph Chalifour.
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Last July (at 2 years) I wrote a post on LEFT about what I was still struggling with (here). The following was something that I wrote to balance myself after the two year mark....I did not post it on the blog, I think because I kept intending to add to it. But I didn't. So, it is what it is.....


2 years, I can:

Physically handle all aspects of logistically raising our children alone.

Maintain stability and respect in our home and although things are chaotic at times, the kids are generally happy; loving; not acting out in abnormal ways for their ages; and truthfully *great* kids. (in other words- read between the lines- none of us have “gone off the deep end” from the trauma of losing a father/husband)

Deal with the house and all the maintenance/upkeep issues that need to be addressed, either by doing them myself or finding the appropriate person to do them for me.

Drive by the place where you died, without taking the long way around, at least 50% of the time.

Sometimes, look at the kids “in the moment” and enjoy how beautiful they are or admire something they do or say, without simultaneously feeling sad that you are not here.

Sometimes, tell new people I meet or people I come in contact with, why I am a widow without shedding a tear. In other words, explain what happened without getting overly emotional.
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I don't think I will ever get over coming home that day.
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Seeing the accident scene, the drive home, the desperate yells to my husband when I rushed through the door. The feeling of the empty house. The absolute, by far, worst moments of my life.
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Sometimes when the kids are at school and I drive home....from wherever....Joe is heavy on my mind and I sit in the driveway and stare at the deck outside my front door. I see the whole scene play out....I imagine myself walking outside my door that day, phone in hand, talking to someone about what I feared, and then the hospital beeping in. I see myself standing there, hysterical, desperate, my whole world changing. I sit in my car and cry as I watch the whole thing unfold. Even the way I cry today is desperate and deeply sad when I think of this scene. And I think the same thing over and over. I ask my husband...
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"Did you see, Joe?
Did you see what happened to me that day?
Were you here then?"
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It's not easy for me to admit that I wonder those things, because it seems selfish when my husband just lost his life to be thinking of what it was like for me. But after so much time I know that the reason I feel that way is because Joe was the closest person in the world to me. I had this major life altering, insanely horrible thing happen, and it is only natural that I would need and want to go to him.
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Even when I ask the questions, I am partly hoping he could not see that scene unfold. Who would want to see someone they love in so much pain? Though I know that part of my struggle is that I was not with my husband during his life altering, insanely horrible event- his death.
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Both of us in these moments, were alone.
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It's not right.
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I can honestly say the Joe was a person who left his work at the door. We talked about his business when I brought it up, and I did ask him questions about it pretty often, but he was always optimistic and did not worry about the ups and downs. He was unbelievably great at that.

A week after our son was born, Joe left the company he had been with for years. This was a huge risk for us, new parents, shelling out some pretty big dollars to start this thing up, along with his friend and partner, Derek. I was not working at the time and Joe was leaving a company that paid him very well. We talked about this in advance. We weighed out the options and we had an escape plan if it didn't work. We knew we would have no paycheck for months. We had a set amount of time in mind to see if Joe and Derek could be successful with the venture.

The decision to be self-employed was not made based on money. The decision was based on the fact that Joe's spirit was one that wanted truly to soar, to be his own boss, to not deal with all the bs that you have to deal with sometimes when you are an employee at a company. The truth is that it was hard for me to accept him leaving his job, it felt scary for the reasons I stated above, and due to the fact that I am a planner, that does not always jive will with risk. But my worry about the business venture ended one day because of one conversation that lasted about 5 minutes.

Joe had been at work where he had just had something happen that sent him through the roof, and he left the office. He called me on the phone from his car and I kept yelling at him "Joe, pull over! Pull over!". I knew from his voice and the way he was screaming into the phone as he tried to tell me what happened that he was seeing red and I feared for his safety when he was like that. Not many people saw Joe when he was like that, but if you have, you know what I mean. He was such an even tempered, easy going kind of guy, but when he had enough, he could skyrocket to a place where his temper rivaled the worst tempers you know. When he finally was able to clearly tell me what the problem was, and this was one of a long recent string in which he felt he was being disrespected at work, I was 100% over my reservations and worries about him leaving his job to start up on his own. All the of worry and going back and forth and weighing the pros and cons didn't matter anymore and in that instant it was all CRYSTAL clear. What a gift those moments are. They honestly don't come every day. At least in my life they don't.

I knew and felt at that moment that my husband's integrity and happiness on a daily level were more important than a safe financial future. I knew that even if he "failed" in the sense that his business didn't fly, it would not be a failure. I knew that we could end up with no money, no job and a newborn to take care of.

However I also knew that we had options.I could go back to work and not stay home with Luke, and I could provide for our family if Joe was unable to. My income did not have the limitless short-term potential that Joe's did due to the nature of the two different industries we were in, but still, I would be able to make a respectable salary and get the bills paid. This would go against our chosen plan, but was a solution.

In the end, we never needed to employ a back-up plan.

Joe and Derek successfully started and grew their business with a main goal of making it a place where they wanted to go everyday. There were ups and downs for sure but generally speaking when things were not going right the two of them would reconvene and get things back on track. They worked hard. Joe provided very well for a family of 4 and generally speaking we lived a pretty great financial life. But more importantly, we lived and even greater life in terms of the man that walked through the door every night at 5- rarely late, always happy, not spending long hours at the office because he wanted to be home with us. Every night for years when he walked through the door, he yelled "Daddy's home!" and the kids came running. Every night.
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A friend of mine pointed out early on that the stories we all share with Luke and Alyssa are going to be a means by which they know their father. Luke has definite memories but he was barely 6 when Joe died, and Alyssa was 3. I know people who lost their dads at age 3 and largely they have no real memories of him. Alyssa definitely says she remembers Joe, she tells stories and talks about him all the time, but I am unsure if she really remembers him at this point or just remembers the stories. I just don't know. Last night I went to tuck her into bed and she was standing face to face with a picture of Joe holding her that's on a shelf in her room. She turned around with big watery tears in her eyes. "I miss daddy" she said. "I wish he didn't die."
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Ugh. Anyway.....
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Because of this reality, I will be posting stories and little tidbits and random facts about Joe on LEFT. I had been writing these stories and snippets privately (not on the blog) because I viewed this as something I was doing for my children, so they will know as best as I can provide about their father. However, I also know that many of you who love and miss him also enjoy these memories. In addition, I know that these things conjure up your own memories of him, and it would be much appreciated if you would write those things down in some form, for my kids. Consider it, please! It doesn't have to be long or perfectly written or anything, just get the memory down before you forget it. All the stories that I tell are from my own perspective, and it would be nice for Luke and Alyssa to hear about their dad from other perspectives too.

Also, when I hear things from others about Joe, it often brings a smile to my face. I love it that he can still put a smile to my face even so long after he's gone.

Please keep in mind that I am writing these stories for my kids, to give them insight to their father in terms of his character and personality, at whatever age or point in life they may searching. You likely will not have an interest in every topic I write about.

I know that there are widows that read LEFT that don't know me in real life, and these stories may not be interesting since they are off the topic of grief. However, I have found that writing these stories are as healing as anything in the process. Early on I could not have written these things, it was too painful. But in time, it came and was something that I wanted and want to do.
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I am half-way through my daily LEFT blog-a-thon. I thought I would post a little update on how it's going.

Well, it's going. I'll admit that I have to force myself to get something on here some days, not because I don't have stuff to write about, or because I don't have time, but because it's an emotional commitment for me to actually write a post, and some days I don't feel like making an emotional commitment. I have also often asked myself, WHY OH WHY did I decide to do this in December??, a busy and rough month filled with so much emotion in itself due to Christmas. I don't have an answer to that one. I am a crazy person I guess. I can't not do it though, I would feel like a loser if I gave up. Even if no one else reads this stuff, the purpose of it is to heal my own mind, and I keep that in focus.

In addition, I have a huge non-bloggable subject that is on my mind all the time, which is my niece Jordyn. So it's kind of hard to take my mind off her and refocus on Joe. But again, I'm trying to stay focused.

I have had some realizations in the past two weeks. One is that I am absolutely 100% not ready to face Joe in video. I cannot do it. I mean, I will do it if a video presents itself, especially in front of my kids, and I will smile and comment and look okay from the outside. But on the inside I will be screaming, on my knees, dying. I know this because I specifically looked for a video one night last week for a post. It was a video of Joe skating on our pond on Christmas morning. I remember the video so clearly and I can still hear his skates gliding on the ice, his pace alternating between fast strides around the ice to quick, cutting stops. But I can't find the damn thing anywhere.

My searching caused me to view several 8mm video tapes along with footage from my digital camera. It was painful, awful, terrible to see him alive. I know, that's just wrong isn't it? I don't know why I feel that way. But I can tell you that it hurts me so much to see him there, alive, talking, walking, being Joe. It's a pain that cuts me as sharp as anything I have ever felt. I don't know why there is no comfort in it for me.

That whole video-search put me in an awful mood (understatement). Luckily this happened in the evening and my kids were going to bed soon so my short-tempered demeanor and impatience with them didn't drag on too long. But it was still there, and I am sorry to my kids for every moment when I can't deal with myself and don't give them the attention they deserve. It's not so much that I take out my frustrations with them arbitrarily, it's more that when they need or want something from me (could be anything-an actual physical object, time, they want to show me something, they are misbehaving and need to be stopped, etc) my fuse is short and I can't find it in myself to be patient and put myself on hold to give them attention. I am a serious work in progress to be a patient parent.

So the whole video topic is one realization and I am thinking about that and trying to figure out if I should just do it (make myself watch video after video) and maybe that will help me to get over that hurdle, or just wait and at some point a natural healing progression may kick in and I'll be okay with it. Not sure on that, but since my mood is so dramatically altered by watching, I think that it might be better for all three of us to put that on hold for a while.

Anyway, another realization I have had is the importance of writing stuff down so I can refer back to it at some point. I rarely go back and read my LEFT posts, and never just because I want to. I don't want to. I have looked back here and there if I am searching for something, but overall it is just too painful to read for me (and it often causes me to wonder, why the heck anyone else would want to read this stuff???). However, at some point I am hoping that I don't feel that pain, and what I see a progression in my grief, even in the little stuff. The little stuff is what matters.

For example, at some point in my life I will read this post and remember how hard it was for me to watch videos of Joe. It will be a memory. I know it will be.
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You know the story of Carlie if you read yesterday's post.
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When I made the decision to get a new dog I was open to many breeds. Truthfully my first choice was another Great Dane, but I was not ready to make peace yet with the short life span. I have always loved big blocky headed english labs. I went back and forth many times between yellow and chocolate. I read about them, researched them, talked to people who had them, etc and ultimately decided on a chocolate.
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Enter: Jack.
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We got Jack in June of 2008. He was much anticipated and planned for, yet none of the three of us had any inkling of what we were in for. If you read our family blog you have a tiny idea of what it has been like for me to be Jack's owner.
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This dog has been a serious commitment for me in many, many ways. At times I thought he was going to end me. There were a few times when I am embarrassed to say that he actually brought me to tears in my frustration with him; times when I didn't think I'd be able to keep him; that I was sacrificing the safety of my children in owning him; that I made a mistake in getting a dog; that he was put on this earth to make me miserable. He has been a serious challenge in ways that unless you have owned a difficult, bull-headed, raging male wanna-be-alpha-dog, you cannot relate to. I did not know or understand the trials of a difficult dog until Jack.
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I could write pages about Jack in terms of the awful stuff he has done; the thousands of dollars that he cost me in vet bills alone in his first year of life, not to mention the hefty price I paid for him (many times I felt like someone should have paid me to take this dog) and the boot camp I sent him to; the fact that the first and I mean FIRST time he sat long enough to pat him was at the age of 10 months and the kids and I looked at each other thinking he must be desperately sick or something because.......WHY WAS HE JUST SITTING THERE??!!...we'd never seen it before; the fact that he has an unknown environmental allergy to some sort of grass or plant (hello, he's a dog, can you imagine what this is like?); his chronic ear infections; his pica problem- pica is the act of eating unnatural things- in Jack's case his weakness is rocks; on and on people, on and on. Jack has been a challenging animal.
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But this story has a happy resolution- Jack and I are friends now. He has grown leaps and bounds in terms of his bad behavior. He is still a constant handful. He is rough and tumble and in need of constant supervision. If he was a person he'd be.....a Mike Tyson sort of guy, complete with the ear-biting tendencies. But I love him now. And that's saying a lot. Jack and I have come a long way and our story is one that gives me little bits of satisfaction...pebbles....and confidence that someday he will actually be the constant easy-going companion that I had hoped for. We are on our way.
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I am actually telling you about Jack for a reason that pertains to the topic of this blog.
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About a month ago I was searching for something in my bedside table. I came across a book that I had long forgotten about. When I saw the cover I felt that familiar twinge of sadness that strikes often and out of the blue. This is the book I found:

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"Great" I thought, "Do I want to look at this?" I wondered if I was brave enough to read what I had written inside, knowing the words in there were from a different Robin- one that did not know the destruction and pain and loss that lay ahead of her. I am often (painfully) captivated by pictures or videos or writings that were "pre-accident". I look at my face in pictures and I wish I could warn that girl that I see what was going to happen. I look at other people pictured with Joe and I think of how none of us knew what lay ahead. It's a weird feeling. If we could only have those moments back. If we had known then what we know now.
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I sat and looked at the cover of the book and remembered when Joe gave it to me. I felt the same way I always do when I come across stuff like this- intensely and deeply sad. I pulled open the cover and an envelope was tucked between the pages.
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Princess Robin. A name semi-mockingly given to me by my father that was carried on by my husband. Princess Robin.......the name of the girl in the pictures pre-July 25, 2007.
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I opened the envelope and pulled out the card that was inside. I was instantly struck by the irony of what I was holding: A cut-out card in the exact shape of my current puppy.
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Joe and I did not talk about having a chocolate lab. He gave me this book and card after returning home from a trip. I can't remember where he went or for what reason.

I opened the card and read his words to me.

I know that when Joe gave me this book I loved it. I don't care if he searched it out or picked it up at the airport on his way home. What matters to me is the words he took the time to write. I remember what specific goal he is speaking of, but the fact that he encompassed not just that goal but all that I wanted in life is such a gift- it was back then, and it is now.

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Some of my posts are written mostly with my kids in mind- to document things for them....so they know about their parents' life together. More on this later, but the following is such a post. It's long.....so read at your own risk.
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Today is December 15th, my first dog, Carlie's, birthday. She was born on December 15, 1999. She died on June 16, 2007.
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One day I was out for a walk with a friend. We were on a remote country road and we met up with a lady walking this beautiful, HUGE, black Great Dane. From the minute I saw this dog, I knew that I would have one. His blocky head and floppy ears and clunky demeanor made him adorable. I called Joe on my way home from that walk, and I told him about the dog I had seen and how I fell in love with him. From that moment on I was constantly researching and daydreaming about having a Great Dane.
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This time period was a lot of fun for Joe and I. We were single (though engaged), working hard during the day to be successful career-wise, and having lots and lots of fun at night and on the weekends. I look back on those years so fondly....I would not change the lifestyle I had in my twenties for anything.
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Around the time when I saw the Great Dane, Joe and I were looking to buy a house. In November of 1999 we found one that was perfect for us....a two bedroom post and beam cape on a great piece of land in a small town. After the agreement was made to buy, we packed up everything we owned, which all fit into a UHaul and drove it to the closing. We laughed about how we would be in trouble if the deal fell through. I still remember the pride and fullness we both felt after closing on our house. We both worked hard, and we were starting our life together. It was one of the best days of my life, and one of the best feelings of my life.
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Joe and I unpacked our UHaul by ourselves and moved everything into our new house. Just the two of us.
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Of course after we moved in I was constantly talking about getting a dog. But I was also busy settling in, working during the day and unpacking, organizing, decorating, cleaning and living in our new house in my free time.
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Little did I know, in that first month after we moved into the house, Joe was busy researching dog breeders and locating new litters of black Great Danes so that he could give me one as a Christmas present. It's not an easy task to find a good breeder of a giant size dog, where temperament is so important, along with many other health factors, AND on top of that find one that will have a litter of black pups in a certain time period. But Joe did it.
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For me.
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So fast-forward a few weeks....Joe and I had plans to get out of work early and go and do something, I think go Christmas shopping, one day. The plan was that I would meet him at his work and we'd leave from there. Joe got into my Durango, holding a box.
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"What's that?" I asked.
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"We need to go and drop this off somewhere first....in Massachusetts" he said.
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Um. Okay." (Thinking WHAT?! Is he crazy, we're driving an hour away when we're supposed to be going Christmas shopping??!!). I moved over to the passenger seat so he could drive wherever it was that he needed to go.
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As time wore on, I realized that something was up. The box was tossed in the back and obviously not the reason for our mid-day excursion. We kept driving and driving and driving. I kept asking him where we were going and he kept telling me "You'll see". I was intrigued, but at the same time getting impatient as the hours passed by, seriously thinking...whoah...this better be good.
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FOUR HOURS LATER we were in Connecticut, pulling up to a house with a visible wire fence around the back. From my seat I could see dog after dog.....Great Dane after Great Dane!!!
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We went in the house and met a new week-old litter of puppies. They were the cutest puppies I had ever seen! Along with the pups, seven of the breeder's own Great Danes roamed the house. I was in serious dog heaven. The only downfall...we were just visiting. The little guys were too small to take away from their mama. So we left empty handed.
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We visited the litter two more times before we could take a dog home. The breeder's house was near Foxwoods Casino and we would make a weekend of it....visit the dogs and then stay at Foxwoods. Those were great times.
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Finally the day came when we were able to pick our puppy and take her home. From the first moment I knelt down at the breeder's house, Carlie came over to me and was persistent that she wanted to go home with us. I held her on my lap the whole 4+ hour ride home. Carlie was the sweetest puppy ever, and she grew up to be the best dog ever. Joe and I loved her. We were both out the door for work by 7:45am and not back home until 6pm, so we felt terrible for leaving her so long during the day. We hired a dog walker to walk her twice a day! She grew fast, from 13 pounds when we brought her home to about 120 pounds as an adult. We taught Carlie never to jump on anyone and she was really good about it. The only person she jumped on was Joe...and that's only when she was invited. He would look at her and tap his chest and up she would go. They looked at each other eye to eye....and danced. Luke and Alyssa thought is was so funny when daddy and Carlie danced.
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Before I had kids, Carlie was my baby. She slept with me until Joe came to bed and only got off the bed under protest (and I was sad to see her go!) I couldn't imagine loving anyone or anything more (other than Joe of course). I secretly wondered if I would love my kids as much as I loved my dog- okay maybe that wasn't a big secret- I think that I said that out loud a few times.
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When I started staying home with Luke, Carlie and I spent lots and lots of time together. When Joe came home she would meet him at the door every night, and often she was the first "hello" that Joe gave when he came in the door ("Hi Carlie Marlie!"). She was always gentle with both kids, and I never worried about anything other than her sheer size in hurting them. She put up with a lot of stuff from Alyssa when she was a toddler.... crawling on her, pulling her ears and poking her eyes. Carlie took it all in stride. She never made an aggressive move toward her.
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The average age of a Dane is 8 years. Her health deteriorated in the last year as did her quality of life. Joe and I went back and forth about what we should do and finally ended up deciding we had to have her put to sleep. I cancelled the appointment several times before we actually went through with it. We both cried a lot that day....in the animal hospital, before, after and for days after. Joe missed Carlie a lot. He missed her being at the door greeting him when he got home. He missed her riding to camp with him on Friday nights. It was hard.

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I sat my kids down when we came home from the vet that day and told them that Carlie had died. Never in my wildest dreams would I ever imagine that one month and 11 days later I would be sitting them down again to tell them that their father died.

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We had Carlie cremated and we received her ashes early in July. They were in a wooden box in our bedroom. We were planning to have a little ceremony with the kids and bury the box in the yard. That didn't happen.

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Carlie's ashes are in Joe's grave with him. They are together. I can't say I get much comfort from that....I guess maybe a tiny bit.

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Carlie was a great, great dog. Early on I started calling her my baboon....my Carlie baboon. I have no idea why except that's what rolled off my tongue when I looked at her. Her "real" full name on her AKC registration is "Carlie Isis Piper Vegas". Isis, Piper and Vegas are all names that I wanted to name her and Joe didn't like. I got them in there anyway ;-)

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She was truly a gentle giant and a wonderful member of our family. She never learned to fetch (she would run after the ball and NEVER bring it back!) and she had her quirks as well. She drove me crazy sometimes when she would follow me around constantly throughout any given day. She was a BIG DOG to be at your feet all day.

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She didn't steal food or beg- with a couple exceptions- she liked Annie's noodles and chocolate chip cookies. Since she never was interested in people food I was not careful about leaving it where she could get it. One time I was making cookies and she stole some off the island where they were cooling. I thought it was funny. The kids dropped food on the floor all the time as toddlers do and she would leave it there. But the cookies brought out the devil in her.

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What makes Carlie even more special to me is how I received her, as a gift from my husband. Through his hard work and searching he gave me exactly what I wanted. He was good to me. And Carlie was good to all of us.

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People don't often understand that although we are over 2 years into our "new" life, death is a common subject on my children's minds. Not in a morbid and dark way, but more in a way that signifies that my kids have experienced something traumatic that their brains are trying to make sense of still. Time does not make the thoughts fade, at least not yet. Often it is only when the three of us are alone that my kids will mention death or feel comfortable enough to ask a question or make comments about death.

When Alyssa plays with her ponies, or polly pockets or stuffies etc, if you listen to her made-up stories, one of them usually dies, or has died. The rest of the ponies, polly pockets or stuffies are dealing with it sadly but matter-of-factly. Sometimes it's not even sad. It's just a fact.

I never interrupt her, and trust me some of the things she says would/could be considered crude or violent under "normal" circumstances. I know whatever is going through her mind is important for her to act out. I listen and try to pick up clues about what is going on in her head, and I might ask her a question later. I also deal with my own pain to hear my daughter talk about such things.

The conversation comes up every few months about what would happen if I were to die. They know logistically what would happen and can tell you exactly how they would be taken care of. But still there is the looming question of what it would be like to not have me. Obviously my kids know I cannot tell them with certainty that I am not going to die. I just tell them that no one knows when anyone will die, but that most people die when they are old and I expect to live a long time. We talk about this stuff at dinner. If you were a fly on the wall you might be surprised by the tone of these conversations. They are not sad per se, they are factual, informational. We talk about death like a lot of people talk about their day at work or school. These conversations were hard at first, years ago. I remember having to take long pauses to hold my composure to finish my sentences without crying. But now it's all different. My kids know the answers to their questions, yet they still feel the need to have the conversations again and again.

We talk about other people dying. They talk about the actual death in a factual way, but they get upset to think of how others would react to the death.

We talk about the accident. They often say little snippets here and there about parts of the accident that are on their minds. We may be acting silly or normal and for whatever reason a word comes up....that jogs their memory about their father...and they throw out some random thought and just as quickly move on to another subject. For example.....think..... (out of Alyssa's mouth) "My finger hurts......" followed by "daddy didn't have any pain when he died" followed by "I'm going to sit with Riley on the bus tomorrow!" A random reference to Joe, stuck in between two topics which are completely unrelated. No mention of him before or after, just a comment floating in her head that needed to come out.

They have many, many questions about heaven and where their father is now. Almost all of them I answer with "I don't know for sure because I have never been to heaven, but I think....." Recently Alyssa asked me if, when Jack goes to heaven, will he still be our dog when we get there or will someone "steal" him? Heaven is a mix of confused emotions for kids and adults. "If daddy is happy and at peace and there is no sadness in heaven, then does that mean he doesn't miss us?" I could write a long list of difficult questions we ponder. I don't want to.

My kids regularly deal with situations at school or with their friends in which they are reminded of and forced to comment on their father's death. "Does your dad like hockey"...."Yes...but....my dad died"; "Your dad's name is Joe?"...."Yes, but.....he died"; "Draw a picture of your family"...."Hmmm should I include daddy?" on and on and on and on.

Last week my kids got little video email messages from Santa Claus. They thought they were pretty cool....Santa spoke to them by name, said specifically what they wanted for Christmas, and even had a picture of them in his "Nice" book. Both were pretty mystified by the whole thing. I watched Luke as he looked at the computer screen with all the wonder and excitement of Christmas in his face. He was watching Santa talk to him. Then suddenly the light in his face dimmed and he turned to me. "Is Santa going to die"?

Yes, my friends, we still live it. Even with the happiest moments, over two years later, every piece of happiness comes with a twinge of fear that it can be lost in an instant.

I am raising two children who think about and face some very challenging life questions and realities at the ages of 5 and 8, and they've been doing it for over two years. I don't know if their hardest days coping with their loss are ahead of them or behind them. Like me, they have learned how to maneuver the day-to-day changes, but the thoughts are never far away of what is missing. The most heart-wrenching part for me in terms of my kids is to know that they possess knowledge that stole away the innocence that (**I thought**) is supposed to be part of being a kid. Life can be hard, cruel and difficult, and they learned it way too early.

I write these things knowing that the majority of the kids in the world do not have lives as great as Luke and Alyssa. They do not face issues that millions of kids face....addiction, abuse, hunger, extreme poverty, poor health, absense of a parent by their own choice, on and on. It may seem like I babble on so about what my kids don't have and the hardships they face on this blog, but this is not so in real life. I am conscious every day of all that they have, and truly thankful and grateful for it. They are aware to the degree that they can be at their ages that they are very lucky kids in most areas of life. Though they have had to face a huge loss, they have the love and devotion of so many people around them. They live in a comfortable house, eat healthy meals every day, sleep in warm beds and get to go to school. They have a mother who loves them completely and unconditionally.

People tell me that Luke and Alyssa will be stronger individuals because of what they have been through. Though I don't dispute what they say, I don't understand it. For some reason I can't wrap my mind around that idea. What I do believe and hope for however, is that my children appreciate more because of what they have been through. I hope as adults they appreciate genuine kindness and love and time and success and never take any of those things for granted. If they can do that, then death has offered them one avenue of experiencing life more richly. Though it comes at a high price, they have the opportunity to live in a more fulfilling way because of it.

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Today we went to Santa's Village.

One of the last places we went together.

Our kids are so much bigger now.

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We always went to a tree farm and cut our Christmas tree down when Joe was here.

In 2007 my sister JoAnn went with Luke, Alyssa and I to get our tree. We picked it out of a lot.

In 2008 Joe's brother Jeff went with Luke, Alyssa and I to get our tree. We picked it out of a lot.

This year it was just the three of us and we picked it out of a lot. I felt like that was....bearable....realistic.....and just how it is. It is sad for me to do this stuff. The memories of years past are right at the front of my mind. The pictures of my kids running through the tree farms, picking out our trees, Joe cutting them down, the whole thing....they are all etched still so clearly in my mind. I knew then, while it was happening, that at these were perfect moments for our family. All happy, all working together, all perfect. Now, all gone.

I realize that the sadness of the tree tradition is not the same for Luke and Alyssa as it is for me. Obviously they were too small to remember going to get Christmas trees in a backpack as babies or even as toddlers and young kids. I think Luke might remember getting a tree with Joe, but probably not Alyssa (insert heart break). And of course they are not forward thinking in the way adults are. Joe and I were consciously building traditions for our family, the sadness of those traditions being stopped in their tracks is mine alone. I hate knowing that the days and years with my little children are slipping by and I won't get this time back....what if I look back and wish I kept a tradition going?

I can hear some of you saying "But you'll build new traditions". And we have. And "At least you have people who love you in your lives". And we all know we do. But at the same time I need to acknowledge what has been lost. As a wife, my entire present and future life was intertwined with Joe. I am trying to untangle that and make sense of it. I have had no choice but to figure out the present, as we live day to day. I have to be realistic and this blog is where I write the hard stuff that sits in my head. My actual life, the one that I live each day with my kids is not dreary and sad and miserable. We don't mope around. We don't dwell on the intensely sad stuff. When the three of us talk about stuff that we miss, we acknowledge that we feel sad about it, we take time feel that, and then we move on.
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Life will never be the same. What the future brings is unknown, but for certain, it will never be the same.

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When I first met Joe he would often pretend he was someone else on the phone when he called me just to be silly. It was funny for a while because it was part of who he was, always this wacky, happy guy.

Then he kept doing it.

For years.

And years.

And years.

And years!

He seriously did this for as long as I knew him. He'd call and obviously I always knew it was him (we were way, way, WAY past him being able to fool me and he had stopped trying really.) He would use the same crazy voice and way of talking EVERY TIME. Sometimes I'd just let him babble on about whatever nutty thing he was in the mood to talk about...pretend he was the phone company guy....pretend he was selling paper....pretend he was looking to buy bird food....whatever. I'd hold the phone and barely pay attention until he was done and we could get onto our normal conversation. Other times I'd tell him to stop and we'd resume normal conversation faster. I'd say to him "Joe, you've been doing this for YEARS. Doesn't it get old for you?" but of course it never did.

I swear if he could call me from wherever he is now, he'd pretend he was someone else, probably claiming he saw me steal his pet rooster or some crazy thing like that.
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His first words to me during our last phone conversation were "It's a beautiful day out there!" He meant it and he said it with excitement and pleasure in his voice. This was common for him.

How many people do you talk to in a day that start their conversations with such positivity and zest for life?

Lots of people don't even notice a beautiful day. They let all the days blend together, or only voice an opinion or affirmation of the dreary ones.

When you actually take the time to notice, there are lots and lots of beautiful days.

I know that because I take the time to consciously look outside and notice now, pretty much every day.

I say it out loud to my kids. And you know what? When it is a beautiful day, it makes the day feel even a little more beautiful just by saying it.

In the past I may have noticed and felt a beautiful day, but not said it out loud. Of course a common theme on this blog is voicing how you feel, and this is another example of how it can make life brighter.

While we are on the beautiful day topic......

One day, a looooooong time ago, Joe brought home a U2 cd. This was out of the ordinary for him because although he didn't dislike U2, he also didn't have any of their other cds and it was a different genre than his normal music. He unwrapped it as he was walking into the house and put it in the stereo. He clicked to the song for which he bought the cd and turned it up. I smiled then to hear it, just as it makes me smile now. Guess what it was?

Beautiful Day

A beautiful, upbeat song by the way. It's about a man that has lost "everything" but finds joy in what he still has. It is a song that I've never had a hard time listening to since Joe died, in fact, I like it. I think its kind of funny that he liked the song...probably the most pop-ish type song I ever knew him to actually purchase....that's what makes it special....it was the song's message that he was drawn to.

It's a song that I would definitely consider if I were going to make a soundtrack of his life. The feel of it fits his personality to a tee. Though of course, Joe never lost everything. In life that is. He was a successful soul in so many areas.

And it's no accident that successful people notice the beautiful days.

Next time you hear that song, think of my husband.

"It's a beautiful day, don't let it get away...."
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Mom and Dad I just want to tell you that I love you so much. I feel so lucky to have both of you as my parents...for many reasons....and also for loving me through the most difficult time of my life.

As an adult I thought I was "done" leaning on my parents.........although it was never a conscious thought, somewhere in my adult brain I thought I had all I needed to get through life- my husband, my own family and a great life. As all that crumbled, you emerged with a presence for me that was perfect. I don't know any other way to describe it. It's not necessarily anything that you did or said that was earth shattering. It is the fact that you were grounded and guided by love for me in its purest sense. You put me first. You listened to me. You stayed with me. You kept things calm. You thought about me. You never judged any thought or action I took. You held me high, and respected every decision I made, knowing well that I was doing the best I could.

I guess that last sentence means the most to me. I know I am not perfect, but you know that I am doing my best, and you treat me that way. It means so much to me.

In a world full of- all types of people- how did I end up with these two parents? I am counting my lucky stars. I am aware of the power of love a parent has for a child, both in the way I love my own children, and in the way that I am loved by my parents.
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I feel like it should make me feel better....

but all it does is make my heart break more.

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"One death reminds us of all death."

I heard this statement one day no too long ago when flipping tv channels. I don't even know if I have the exact wording correct, but the way I remember it above makes so much sense to me.

Maybe the quote seems simple, like stating the obvious to some people, I don't know.

For me, it allows an understanding of some of the emotions that I've felt in the past few years (and even before that) that I could not make sense of. It gives me permission to feel whatever emotion a new death evokes, as these emotions are from unresolved grief that still needs attention somewhere deep within.

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In my last actual conversation with Joe, voice to voice on the phone, I was not loving towards him. I was actually frustrated with him because he forgot something that was important to me that he remember (this had nothing to do with our anniversary by the way........I just want to make that clear since I was coming home from camp to be with him for our anniversary). What I was frustrated about was just an everyday life sort of thing that doesn't mean anything in the scheme of things. We all get frustrated with people we love and live with. It just sucks that it was our last conversation on the phone though.

Joe had this way of talking to me when I was being unreasonable or short with him for my own reasons. He didn't act like a jerk (which he would have been justified for in some cases), instead he took on the attitude of "hey, what is up with you...you're going to talk to me whether you like it or not" mixed together with a slight twinge of playfulness. It's so hard to describe, but I guess the underlying sentiment of it is that he didn't take life so seriously, definitely not as seriously as me. And he knew me well enough to to know lots of times my moods were all about me and rarely about him.

That was his tone with me during our last conversation by phone.

We did email each other when I got home that day and all was normal and fine (no frustrations between us). His last email to me at 4pm was about how much fun we were going to have together that night, July 25, 2007. Ironic, since of course it turned out to be the most horrifyingly awful night of my life.

Although I wish our last conversation by phone were different, I honestly have never lingered too long on it or felt it in any way as a deep regret. The reason for that is that Joe and I had many, many loving and meaningful exchanges and they made up the majority of our life together. For every time I was an unreasonable bi#$ch to him, there are a hundred times when I did or said something nice and loving and uplifting to him/for him.

One of the most comforting feelings that I have is that I do not look back and wish I said X or Y or Z in terms of our love. I loved him, and he knew it. He loved me. And I knew it. We were specific with each other on the reasons why, and that made all the difference. Voicing the specifics is what changes "love" from a feeling to a fact. And when someone is not alive anymore, we are forced to deal in facts.

That is not to say I don't wish that I didn't do some things differently.
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I still sleep with the tv on most every night.
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I hate getting into a cold bed. Hate it. I like lots and lots of blankets piled up like a weight that moves in one big heap when I move. I wish they made a blanket that was as heavy as one of those lead vest thingies you have to put over your body at the dentist when you have x-rays. I would definitely buy that.

When I was married, sometimes I would get into a cold bed and didn't want to wait for it to warm up. I'd lay there for a minute and then go to the top of the stairs and tell Joe he had to come up because I was cold and he needed to warm up the bed. I was kind of half kidding---okay 10% kidding- but I was always surprised after I got back in bed and I'd hear him turn off the tv and the lights and walk up the stairs. It seemed like kind of an absurd request of someone- but he did it for me anyway.

Sometimes, on different occasions, if he was getting into bed before me I'd ask him to lay on my side of the bed first to warm it up for me. He did that too. Then I'd get in and push him over to his cold side. Damn, two cold spots in one night. He really must of loved me.

And sometimes, if I was laying there in the middle of the night and couldn't fall asleep, I'd look at him (sleeping) and think.........hmmmm........how can I mess with this guy? (oh please..... don't act like you've never done the same). It didn't seem quite fair that I couldn't sleep and there he was, drenched in dreamville. My favorite thing to do was nudge him forcefully (but not meanly of course) until he woke up and say "Joe, you're SNORING! Stop snoring!" and act all perturbed with him. Of course he believed me (which is funny in itself because he never snored) and he'd apologize and I'd turn over and laugh to myself about how funny I am (he'd be back asleep in about 20 seconds). I crack myself up.

I miss that stuff. I miss him.
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Sometimes I feel guilty for bringing such pain to the lives of my sisters' children- Jesse, Heather, Joshua, Kristyn and Jenny. It is not rational, I know. I didn't cause what happened. But I brought Joe into my family and had I not done that, they would not know the pain that they do in losing him.

It brings me to tears to think of these "kids" that I have known since they were babies to know such pain. To be old enough (unlike my own children) to fully understand the depth of the loss. When I think about it I just want to say I am sorry a thousand times, so my sweet nieces and nephews, here's one:

I am sorry.

I know you loved him and he loved all of you too. Really loved all of you. He saw you as kids and felt protective over you, just as any good uncle would. There is an exception to that- Joshua. For obvious reasons (being the oldest and actually being a young adult) Joe saw Josh in a different way....one that he and I argued about. Joe treated Josh more as an "equal"...as a friend.....just different. Although I do believe, looking back, that this was the right relationship for the two of them, I didn't always like it. Josh was our family's first collective baby. He will (probably) always be a kid to me.

I just hope that all of you remember Joe and take all the good parts with you. Joe would still want you to have lots of fun, to do good in school, to act silly and crazy sometimes, to appreciate your family, to have goals and work hard, to act respectfully and to show your love to the people who are important to you. He was a great uncle and although you had him in your lives for too short of a time, there a lessons to learn from him if you choose to look for them.

Don't let the pain of what happened overshadow how you think of the world, of life, or how you think of him.

Let him live on, in you. Just as he will in his own children.
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One of the most terrible-feeling things I do everyday is locking the front door a 4 o'clock when my kids and I walk in from the school bus. As the deadbolt loudly clicks into place I know that we're all here, no one else is coming through the door. I can't explain the emptiness in that sound.
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I long to see Joe hug our children as they are now.

When I look at pictures of Luke and Alyssa at their current ages of 8 and 5, I realize how much older they are than when Joe died. It's painful to think of him missing all of this. I feel a simultaneous sense of urgency and helplessness to change it. Obviously that's not going to happen.

I particularly find myself daydreaming of what it would be like to see Joe hug and play with Alyssa. Maybe it's because she was so little and she has changed so much, grown up so much, between the ages of 3 and 5 1/2. Sometimes when I hug her I pretend my arms are her father's and somehow he can feel what it is like to hug her through me. Crazy, I know. I just wish he could experience the joy of holding our growing children.

I know if he was still here he would be savoring these moments. Joe was very good at living in the moment and he valued time with his children. Being a father was one of his favorite things to be and he found a lot of genuine joy and fun in that role. He was never the the type to just go through the motions of life, or rather be somewhere else.

I hate to think of what my kids, and I, have missed by not having him here.
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