A Red Dress

I miss looking pretty.

Don't misread that... it's not a dramatic expression of self deprecation, a begging plea for affirmation. It's not.

I just miss having someone to dress up for.

A reason to get dolled up.

I loved dating Robb; we had some really fun times together. And I really liked prettying myself, giving him my presented self, doing all my best tricks to bring his admiration from across the table.

Because you can never be married too long to long for a longing look.

I recently watched an episode of Parenthood, the series which I believe to be the best drama TV has to offer. Julia and Joel were planning a date for their anniversary; with her hair up, she wore a stunning red dress.

And I realized I don't have a reason to wear a red dress.

A night out with the girls can go a long way to lift my spirits, and there's nothing like an evening adventure with a group of sisters who really want to make me laugh, lift me up, remind me that there is life, within me and without. And such a night calls for its own wardrobe selection: sassy, confident, ready to embrace a good time.

But it doesn't call for a sexy red dress.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I just want to wear the red dress.

Sensitive Questions

As we walked out of Costco today, I handed my receipt to the kind man at the door: The one who checks to make sure I haven't stolen any items in bulk, draws a line through the list of items on the front of the slip, and doodles a happy face on the back.

It's the standard exit procedure.

This time, Tucker said, "Why do you not have any hair on your head?"

Oh, dear. This could go one of two ways.

Either the man is sensitive about his baldness, and we've just crossed a delicate line and into awkward territory.

Or he's prepared to answer a curious little boy with innocent (albeit personal) questions.

As he handed me my receipt, he made direct eye contact with Tuck. He said, "I'll tell you what, kiddo. When you're in the shower, just be sure the bottle says Shampoo. Not Nair."

He winked at me. Adult humor in the presence of preschoolers.

Well played, kind man. You impress me.

(And bless me.)

At Some Point

"Mommy, I really have to go potty," says the tall one who is nearly ready for kindergarten.

The shorter one, with downy red hair and a spirit all his own, is playing quite contentedly in the restaurant playground. He shall not be moved.

And yet the tall one must go. Must. Go.

I debate in my mind. Do I take Tyler away from his concentrated imagining, demand his compliance, and traipse him to the bathroom?

Do I ask Tucker to please, please just wait a few minutes? We'll go, all of us, in just a while?

Tucker says, "Hey, I have an idea. How about if I just go by myself? I promise to be so careful, to wash my hands, and to come right back. Okay, Mommy?"

The truth is, I would have been confronted with this dilemma even if Robb were alive. But his absence seems so vast in moments like these. A boy cannot always go to the bathroom with his mom. And he's four short months away from turning six. At some point... at some point...

At some point.

"Okay, kiddo. Come right back."

I watch him walk with confidence, navigating tables, trash cans, and people until he makes it to the boys bathroom in the back of the restaurant.

And my mind begins to race with the stories I've heard of things that happen to unaccompanied children in seemingly safe places.

I watch Tyler climb and play.

I pray for Tucker.

"God, be the Defender of the weak. Be the Father to the fatherless. Give me wisdom with the one I can see, and protect the one who is out of my sight."

Really, that's what I pray every single day. Begging the words again and again, even when my mind has stopped hearing the words. My heart still breathes them.

Minutes passed. More minutes. Too many.

Or maybe not an inordinate amount. But too many for my comfort.

And he came back. In one piece. Undisturbed, untouched.

"Mommy? Want to smell my hands? All clean."

(Who in their right mind wants to smell a little boy's hands when he has returned from the bathroom? Well, I do. They know I'll ask, so they always use soap. A risk, I know. But it has only backfired a couple of times.)

"Way to go, sweet boy." I ruffle his hair as he runs to join his brother.

We did it.

One more first.

Best Surprise

I planned a great afternoon for the boys. Lunch at their favorite spot, then an afternoon jumping on inflatables, followed by milkshakes. Lots of face time. Lots of fun, laughter, and us.

I put on my game face. I told myself, no sadness today. Put it behind you. Show them your joy so they can find theirs. Joy. Claim it. It's yours.

Happy Mom. Come on, Tricia. No sadness today.

I picked them up from preschool with a spring in my step, eager for our fun afternoon of rejuvenating togetherness.

I said, "Guys! I have the very best surprise for you!"

Tucker's face lit up.

"Oh, Mommy! Is my Daddy alive again?"

Oh. Oh, my. My stomach fell; my chest ached.

"No, sugar. But that would sure be a great surprise."

And suddenly, my plans for us mattered not. Because it wasn't Daddy.

I get that, my little guys.

It's hard to make it matter, when it just isn't Daddy.