Losing My Mommyness

Hello my little sweetheart,

I just was thinking about how when you where here you were my alarm clock. You woke me in the morning, let me know when it was time to eat all meals, you let me know when it was getting close to naptime, when we were suppose to take a bath and head off to bed. You basically dictated my life and time.

When you died, I went thought this phase of losing my mommyness. I know that isn’t a real word and I know I was still a mom, but losing you meant losing a part of my mommyness. Let me explain.

My body was set to your clock. I still woke up and still had your schedule, just no you. My ears were still geared for your cry, but no cry would come. My heart was still in need to hug you and kiss you, hold you, read to you, play with you, snuggle with you, but there was no you here. I lost a part of being a mom when you died. I lost my last born, my baby. You were learning to talk, I miss hearing your little voice as you said things like “mote” and your version of bubble guppies, I miss hearing you say Mommy and daddy, and call your sisters. I lost a part of my Mommyness.

I felt physical changes in the first few months. In the beginning I could hear a cry or a little voice like yours and it was soul crushing. Tears would flood my eyes and my heart would once again be shattered into a trillion pieces. I would ache for you and it was a raw pain that is undescribed, then one day, my ears stopped. They didn’t hear the sounds of little people anymore. I was no longer in that mode of mommyness. The ringing that would occur for your call, your voice, your moving around, just stopped. That was the worse feeling of all. My body was adjusting to you no longer needing me. How could you no longer need your mommy? How could you no longer need my body that was designed perfectly to care for you? I walked around for months feeling like I was forgetting something. I forgot to eat, I forgot to get out of bed, I forgot to take a shower, I forgot to live because all I wanted to do was die. I was not forgetting anything at all, it was in those moments that it was painfully real that your were gone.

I can’t believe that I just had my second Thanksgiving without you. To be real about things, I don’t really remember last year. I look back today and wonder how on earth I made it last year. How did we still have family over for dinner? How did I get two Christmas trees up and host a Christmas Eve family function? What on earth did I get your brothers and sisters for Christmas? I guess Santa still came. I have found things as I was getting decorations out that I have no idea where they came from . Last year it is one giant fog and at the same time a very painful process. It was a time where I was dying a very slow and agonizing death. I was losing some of my mommy-ness. I became sensitive to the post that say “well my kids are still alive, parental success today”. I became sensitive to seeing other people children’s pics sleeping. I was realizing that I am an empty shell and a mom of a child in heaven. Christmas was right there and I missed it all. I was physically present and totally crushed. Empty arms, empty smile, and I think there were a lot of tears. I can’t remember. The only thing I know for sure is that you were gone and a part of my mommyness was too.

I still struggle to believe that this has happened to us. Wade and I are the picture of marriage done right. We love so deeply, we are respectful, caring and humble. We are the people that deserve to be happy. We deserve to get to have our children. We wanted you. We would have scarified everything for you and your brothers and sisters. All I ever wanted to be, growing up, was the best mom on the earth. I wanted to love with all my might, care and guide. To be a success on this earth meant to me, that I would have a joyful marriage with wonderful, healthy, happy kids. When you died, my life long goal of being the best mom on earth died too. My mommyness died. I am not who I wanted to be, not even close. I am in a joyful marriage with wonderful, healthy, happy kids and one who is dead from a corded window blind that was hanging in my home.

Colton, a part of me can not accept this as my truth. It seems so stupid and so outlandish. It feels like something that I “made up” in my mind. How can that be true? How can the words I type be real? No one dies in a window blind, no one walks this path. It is absurd.

How can my life long dream be destroyed because you wanted to look at a truck though the window? How could you die in less than a minute while I was making you a snack? In less time than it takes to pop a bag of microwave popcorn, your life ended. It is absurd. I know now that it happens, and happens often. No one told me that until it was too late.

My sweet son, I do my very best to live my life for us both now. Some days I feel like I am successful, others I struggle with the questions above. I live in a world where I can only focus on today. God said that He would give me grace for today. I can’t think about what Christmas will look like in the next 25 days. I have been forced to live one day at a time. This is a long letter to you, I know. If I were to tell you everything that I am learning and feeling this post may not end. A part of my new mommy role is bereaved. I hate that truth. My truth is hard. My mommyness hasn’t fully returned and I don’t think it ever will. I give your hugs, kisses, and snuggles to Stan, Jon, Lauren and Mattie. I don’t waste them. I will always save some for the time when we are reunited. Maybe on that day, I will feel complete again, a feeling I haven’t had since October 17,2013 at 1:32 pm. Three minutes later you were gone and so was the person I had always wanted to be. I love you Colton. I miss you and still ache for you every day of my life. You my son are the grand finale of my life. I will never ever forget you. I will never ever be the same because I got the chance to love you. I will forever be grateful that I was your mommy. My life will always be a reflection of the love that you gave me in your short life.

Please find a way to help support Parents for Window Blind Safety and the US CPSC with the mandatory standard. Don’t let another mom lose her mommyness over a corded window covering. Thank you for reading this long post. Remember us as we and all the other mom’s and dad’, brothers and sisters, grandparents and families who lost children this way this holiday season. Pray for the CPSC as they work tirelessly to stop window covering deaths and injuries. Pray for God to restore the broken hearts and lives of all who have had to bury children because of window blind accidents.

This post was written by Erin Shero, Mother of Colton Shero who died in 2013 from a window covering cord. We felt it was blog worthy to share. Please visit https://www.facebook.com/coltonsheromemorial to learn more about the life of Colton Shero and his mother Erin.