Solo Mom Jealousy

Jealousy is one of the few negative feelings not frequently discussed in the grieving process, but it’s there. It’s in the life I thought I’d have, or would have, with my husband and together with our kids.

Going to a soccer game for the kids, both with new teams this fall, makes me feel more disconnected with my recent loss. I have lost the co-parent security blanket. Someone to turn and talk to without needing to insert myself in conversations in other groups of parents who already know each other. Parents who are friends and share other social connections outside of these teams; connections I don’t have.

As I stand on the sidelines of my daughters came, I am hyper aware of all of the caring gestures parents give one another. A husband’s arm wrapped around his wife. A coffee bought and brought to share the warmth on a cold day. Matching chairs, purchased together.

But I also miss the simplicity of a life view that allows me to just be happy in the moment. That isn’t constantly aware of the sadness lurking just past the last thought, never knowing when or how it will surface. Yesterday, it bubbled to the top, raw emotions. The little security I had with other parents I knew was gone, the family away for the long weekend to enjoy their vacation home in the mountains. It had been raining and I had a large black umbrella, ironically with a colorful interior of colored glass. A purchase Andy made while visiting the Glass Museum in Seattle. Due to COVID rules, I had a mask on, a black flowered cotton mask, and a long grey raincoat. I was in a Seattle disguise, protected from the view of others on the sidelines. But the reality is, I was completely unnoticed by anyone. I faded into the background. Who knew or cared that I was there besides Natalie?

The sadness of this shattered life I now led, my invisibility to the world as a new widow and suicide survivor, and weight of being a solo parent hit me hard. I began to cry. Over the last few months, I’ve developed a new skill – I know how to cry differently depending on my mood, environment, and company. During a walk with a friend I can limit it to being verklempt, or maybe a couple of tears. In the car, its sometimes a tearless sob or series of sobs. With the kids, it ranges. A silent cry with tears while driving, often due to a song that brings memories or reminders of loss and heartbreak. Rarely, a longer, more controllable cry. In the privacy of my room, closet, bathroom or car – the floodgates are released and the emotion spills out in the raw, organic way I need it too. A momentary sob. Or a sad slow release of tears, flowing quietly. Or an all-out gut-wrenching, broken hearted sob. Otherwise known as the ugly cry.

On the field that day, this was it. I felt the tears slide down my cheek and pool in my mask. I felt the sadness, for myself, owning the realization that this was my life. I was a solo parenting; there wouldn’t be and arm put around shoulders offering comfort and warmth. I also felt sad for what Andy’s missing. He will never see his daughter try on being an athlete. He will miss her growing up. He won’t be there to watch her grow-u, become a teenager, or woman. He also won’t be there to help me on my journey. I felt the losses compounded, and I let them hit me until the end of the first half of the game. I let myself indulge in momentary weakness. I allowed myself to not be strong, hold back, even though I was in public, but I did so discretely. Completely unnoticed.

The moment passed, the emotional release ran its course. The tears stopped flowing. The sun came out, shimmering rays on the wet, green turf. The warmth seeping through he layers of clothing and sinking into my skin. The skies became blue again. I pulled down the umbrella and I just watched her. Fluffy pink crunchy in her hair, black uniform with a bright pink unicorn decal, running around the field and chasing the ball wherever it went. I was present, in that moment. Time slowed down and I just saw her. I am her witness. I have the privilege of being her mom. Yes, doing the work alone, but also reaping the rewards. Seeing her come into her own, defining herself. Watching her struggle, but also sharing in her laugher, her joy, her comfort.

On the way home from her game, Natalie said she didn’t want to have kids. She said it hurt too much. She of course was referring to childbirth, as that’s the only pain she could imagine experiencing as a mother. We talked for a while about what it’s really like; how women’s bodies are made for childbirth, the pain can be managed with medications and that different people experience pain differently. The human body also has a form of amnesia that allows you to not recall the experience of pain in the future with the same intensity as it was experienced at the time. I told her that within minutes of having Colin I thought, “that wasn’t too bad, I could do that again”, and how that is an important evolutionary trait we’ve developed to prepare us to birth again and have more children.

Reflecting back on this conversation with Natalie I can now say that I agree with her that having kids, being a parent, can hurt. But I stand by what I told her that day a we merged onto I-5 just a few miles from home: I wouldn’t trade being her and Colin’s mom for anything in the world. They are my greatest gifts. They are so much more work than I’d ever imagined, but also life-saving. I believe their presence in Andy’s life saved him multiple times over, helped him fight hard to live for another day. His motto, Best Self = Best Dad, was something that motivated him.

Now I see that they will also save me. They are rowing the boat for me, moving with purpose and direction through the grief and towards life. Towards being present. Towards happiness. Right now I’m along for the ride, letting the momentum carry me each day. I live for them. They deserve to have a mother engaged in life. Someday I’ll take the oars again and do this for myself. I’ll live a full and beautiful life where grief lives, but in the backseat. Far in the backseat, 3rd row seating. Grief will be present, but not front and center, audible but not screaming. Until then I’ll take the gift the kids offer me. I’ll indulge in the parenting and the distractions it offers, the nudge to keep going that I won’t ignore despite the pull to get sucked into grief. It is a gift; one that I will open and accept with gratitude. Their gift of love and light.

At the end of the day, it’s enough.