Today my game face slipped.
At the class party. Bad timing. The timing couldn’t have been worse. 90 children, and all I want to do is cry.
Because I love my son. Because he wants Rich back for Christmas so badly, that when the vicar was in, playing and singing Rudolf the RedNose Reindeer with the same gusto and enthusiasm that Rich used to, with hand actions, and Sam couldn’t manage that. He cried. His head ached, his mind overblew, and he melted, quietly, emotionally, miserably, exhaustedly into a puddle of sobbing child. He was sitting a few rows in front of me and every part of my mother heart wanted to go to him, but instead, I signed to his teacher that he was crying (got to love Makaton sign language) and she was able to relay that sign to a TA, who picked the AC up and guided him over to his teacher. She sat him on her lap, cuddled him, let him cry it out, then found him a job to do. He played the CD whilst the rest of them did pass the parcel. He was happier. My baby is too old in his heart for childish games some days.
I let go, just a little bit today, of the burden that I have held since Rich died. I let the boy go just a little. I realised that it wasn’t just me that could salve his heart, and that I could trust other people to care for my child in the same way that I would.
I love him. We are both still hurting so much, and it feels like it will never go away.
And yet, my resilient child is able to love again, as I am, but to love and to trust and to believe that J will always be there for him, the way he believed that Rich would always be there for him. In fact, the way he believes that Rich *will* always be there for him.
Time to adjust the sellotape around the edge of the game face, and go out again.