A First Laugh

I laughed really hard for the first time since my dad died.

I was sitting in the kitchen doing some writing while Maisley was pretending to nap. Our part-time nanny and friend, Jordan, peered around the corner and whispered, “Oh you gotta see this.”

I got up to find Maisley standing in the hallway, butt naked, proud and smirking, anxiously awaiting my reaction. She had climbed out of bed, de-robed, de-diapered, and scaled the “safety gate”.

I couldn’t help myself; I lost it in full blown, slap-happy laughter. 

I laughed without holding back. I laughed mindlessly, deep in the present moment. I felt something new inside of me, sparked in that moment of joy.

Motherhood and grief is a wild collaboration. On one hand, it helps me to have these tiny distractions of blissful naivety. On the other, it’s hard to feel everything I want to, when I want to, with obligations that come first; like keeping both kids alive while Maisley has Coura two inches up, off the ground by the ankles.

I’m so happy my girls got to meet my dad, but my heart aches for future memories we will never make and dreams, unfulfilled.

Some days I wake up in hope and positivity. Others in sorrow and angst. After every tidal wave of grief – weak, tired and with tear stained cheeks – a gentle, but firm voice speaks very clearly in my mind: Get up. Keep going.

I have to get up everyday for those girls. I have to keep moving.

It feels good to smile and see the light through the cracks.