One of the great gifts of having children is that it is impossible to wallow, whether in sorrow or anything else. One simply must get on with getting on. There are Easter baskets to fill, eggs to hide, games to play, meals to prepare and clothes to wash. I remember reading somewhere that immersion in activities is a good way to deal with grief, that doing so helps to remind of the life remaining to be lived and not missed in a haze of sadness. If this is true, then having kids is an excellent way to follow such advice.


So we're feeling a bit better today. I do reserve my right to have a meltdown on Tuesday, however. Despite the expected pleasure of seeing friends and long lost classmates, there will be nothing to distract us from the reality that we wouldn't be together at all if not for a monumental loss. There's a huge hole in our lives and, even if I'm cried out for the moment, I don't dare think that I'll remain dry eyed or serene as I say goodbye to someone I loved so much.


Yesterday the Boy Wonder asked me why I was sad. How do you explain this to a three year old? I told him that Miss J. has very bad owies and that the hospital couldn't make her better and that I wouldn't be able to see her or talk to her anymore and that I would miss her since she'll be living in heaven with the angels. And he said, "Mommy, why don't you eat some mango jam. I'm happy when I have mango jam." I smiled and started to cry (again) and he said, "Maybe Miss J. would like some mango jam, too, to share with her angels."


Today as my family celebrates rebirth, resurrection and salvation (both the big-S and little-S kind) and see all around us signs of spring, we remember all of our gifts. The gifts of pleasing those we love, of sharing our bounty and of having known a dear friend at all. It's not about having lost her, it's about having found her in the first place.