When you’re living through grief, or in the long road that leads up to it, the world doesn’t stop. It just keeps moving like nothing happened. I remember when Rob was sick and walking through Target with the weight of another surgery coming up, and fear sat like a stone in my stomach. People were pushing carts, shopping, and I remember thinking, “I wish this were just a normal day, I wonder what that would feel like”.
That’s what grief does: it makes you long for the ordinary.
A few months after Rob passed, I had to keep life moving for the kids. There was school, activities, lunches, homework, and there was no break from responsibilities. I couldn’t just stop and hand the baton to anyone. My kids needed me, and I wanted to do grief well for my kids. They were holding on to me, they were watching me, and they needed to know I was not going anywhere. I had us, and they didn’t need to worry.
One particular Saturday stands out. The kids had a swim meet, and we drove a long way to get there. It was indoors, and it was hot, crowded, and extremely loud. The sounds echoed off every wall, and the constant movement was overwhelming. Families filled the bleachers—dads and moms chatting and laughing, kids moving everywhere. And there we were—the three of us—missing one. Yes, we felt it everywhere we went.
Andrew was nine at the time. He had already completed two of his events, and there were still hours before his relay. Olivia sat next to me most of the day, worn out and tired. The noise, the movement, the reminders of Daddy, it was all around us. Life hurts when you’re grieving. Just doing the normal things takes more energy than people realize. And for kids, it’s even more so.
Andrew said he didn’t feel good. We walked out to Daddy’s truck, and I shut the doors. When the noise stopped, he started to cry. The kind of cry that comes from deep down. “I just want to go home.” I knew it wasn’t about the swim meet; it was much more.
When you’re a grieving parent, you become hyper-aware of your children’s pain and their tears. That’s good and bad, I suppose. Good because you can see it coming before it hits. Bad because you carry it too. You carry their heartbreak and your own, all at once.
I wanted to teach perseverance, to help Andrew finish what he started, but grief doesn’t work like that. It’s not a race you push through or a wall you climb over. It’s more like learning to walk with a wound that hasn’t healed yet. You have to move carefully, gently, at your own pace.
Parenting through that kind of pain is a balance between pushing and protecting. You’re constantly trying to figure out which moments build strength and which moments just add more hurt. When someone is in real pain, “just push through it” does not help. You can’t rush healing. You can’t force someone, especially a child, to do what their heart isn’t ready for.
So, now I had to tell the coach we were leaving. When I told the coach, she looked at me, confused, and asked, “You’re leaving?!”
I said, “It’s grief. Yes, we are leaving.” Then the other mothers started coming up to me, asking, “Why are you leaving?” That’s when I knew an explanation won’t work here.
Then the coach said something (I can still hear her voice today). What she said next felt so painfully normal, so out of touch with where we were. She said,
“But afterward, we’re going to my house to make watermelon baskets.”
Watermelon baskets.
It sounded harmless, but it landed heavily. Not because she meant anything wrong, but because she didn’t know. How could she? How could anyone?
I had tried everything to make our life feel normal again, but that day, sitting in Daddy’s truck with tears falling, I realized we weren’t ready for normal. What we needed wasn’t perseverance; it was compassion.
For widows in those early days, especially moms, please hear me: You are doing a great job. You’re learning how to hold your children’s hearts while yours is still breaking. Some days you’ll leave early. Some days you’ll just sit in the car. Some days you’ll cry too. It’s all ok. You are doing grief well for your kids just by being there every day.
As for the watermelon baskets, yes, in the middle of grief, the world will still talk about watermelon baskets. You will know if it’s time to go home. Or maybe one day, when you’re ready, you’ll stay and join the forces of “normal” again. Maybe even discover how to make watermelon baskets yourself.
