My Child’s Grief Gave Me Permission to Feel
My six-year-old daughter wouldn’t touch the food on her plate. I asked what was wrong, but she shook her head. After clearing the table, I asked her to follow me back to our bedroom.
Kindergarten can really wear her out, and I figured a few quiet moments of rest would make her feel better. We lay down on top of the covers, but she wouldn’t close her eyes.
I asked if she was excited about taking dance again after taking a year off. She nodded, but then she looked at me and asked why her cousin was moving.
We have known for quite a few months that my brother-in-law, sister-in-law, two nephews, and two nieces are moving out of state. They are also our neighbors, carpool partners, and friends.
I told my daughter that we would still see them a lot.
“How much is a lot?”
I thought about it a moment. “Maybe four times a year?”
She wailed, “That’s not a lot!” And then she started crying.
I wrapped my arms around my daughter. In all those months of knowing, I hadn’t really cried.
I guess a part of me hoped some great cosmic intervention would force them to stay. But now their moving was inevitable.
Soon, my tears fell along with hers.
Children grow so hot when they cry. I brushed sweaty hair back from her face.
I don’t remember what I said, if anything, but I do remember feeling so honored that my middle daughter—who is just learning to process emotion—was allowing me to participate in such a sacred space.
First word. First step. First tooth. First skinned knee. First grief is as much of a milestone as anything else.
Afterward, I helped her off the bed, and she returned to the kitchen to finish her supper.
I took the red scrap bucket from beneath the sink and my knit bag for the eggs and walked up the hill to tend the chickens.
My daughter’s catharsis had released a wellspring of emotion I hadn’t known I had capped. Now, it surged through me until my jaw ached with the pressure.
My eyes burned. The bucket was weighted down with scraps.
I wanted to wail. But though we live in the country, we still have neighbors.
I thought about visiting my parents-in-law, whose house is the closest to ours, for they were grieving, too, and yet the cars in their driveway showed they had visitors.
I kept on walking, my jaw throbbing with every step.
How many collective birthdays had we celebrated over the years?
How many granola bars had my youngest daughter pilfered from my sister-in-law’s pantry?
How many bowls of popcorn had we consumed at my in-law’s house on Sunday nights?
How many illnesses had we shared? (If one child came down with something, it was nearly impossible not to spread it.)
I remembered this past winter’s snow day, which we spent sledding on their hill and drinking hot chocolate.
I remembered stopping by on my walk to chat with my nieces and nephews, who would be playing outside, and then snatching a few raspberries that were still warm with sunshine.
Living so close to family can cause you to take them for granted.
You believe they will always be there, and yet the truth is that life changes as time goes by.
Life would soon change for all of us.
Crossing the road, I started walking up the hill to the coop when I heard footsteps pounding the pavement behind me.
Startled, I turned and saw my nephew running down the road. My niece was with him.
And then my sister-in-law appeared. She was carrying UPS packages.
The timing took my breath.
I felt both embarrassed and relieved because the person I had really wanted to see was her.
She looked at me across the road. We made small talk. But I have never been good at a poker face. I could taste salt as I swallowed back tears.
She tilted her head. “Have you been crying?”
I nodded.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” Swallowing, I put down the bucket. “I—I’m just going to miss you all so much.”
I opened my arms. As if that movement gave me full permission to feel, I started sobbing.
My sister-in-law hurried to put down her packages and embrace me as I came at her like a freight train. We laughed and wiped our tears.
My niece and nephew just watched us, completely non-plussed. They asked if they could run down the lane, and she told them to go on ahead.
“Thank you.” I sighed. “I feel much better.”
Crossing the road again, I picked up the scrap bucket and climbed the hill to the coop.
My six-year-old daughter’s grief had given me permission to feel.
Without her setting the example, I am not sure I would have properly grieved until my brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and their children had already moved away.
But because I had grieved while they were still here, that grief gave me the chance to communicate how much they are loved—even if that just meant hugging and sobbing on the side of the road while saying a messy goodbye so full of imperfection, it felt absolutely without fault.
Has a child ever led you by example? How did that make you feel?
