A few weeks ago, Carlene started “talking.” When she sits in my lap, she taps my face with her hands and says, “Mum mum mum,” and I am both proud and petrified. When I try to get her to say, “da da,” she always looks confused. “Who’s da da?” I imagine she asks. “He’s the guy we’re both growing up without,” I tell her.
When I feel the griefs, I’ve learned to acknowledge, (“I see you, Grief.”) and allow it (“Here’s some tea, now go sit over there.”) and get about my business, which I did. It’s never easy, but I did it.