29th April 2013
Cricket season, me doing dad-job season, least that's what it feels like. Watching all the dads stand and chat, then pick up/drop off their sons at cricket. I haven't felt this sad for the kids in a while, but it's times like this that it sinks in, the reality that dad can't do those things.
I pick Monty up, his face is not the smiling one I dropped off, happy to be reunited with cricket friends. In tears in the car he tells me he is not on the team, he doesn't have any boys around to help him practice (averting mentioning you). And my little man sobs. I choke, quite literally, as I try not to melt down wishing you were by his side, doing dad things, helping your son learn the overarm he is so frustrated he cannot do well. I know others can pitch in, I am sure there are people who can teach him. .. But that will never be the point, Monty doesn't want to replace you, have a stand-in, he wants you.
I see a little boy, big blue eyes, it's like looking into a child version of yours, and I see his tears fall, I catch his chest as it heaves in sobs, and I do all I can, kiss his head and hug him, until I have swallowed enough times back my own tears and I can speak. I don't want to cry now, it's his time for sadness, if I cry he will feel bad for upsetting me, and it's not about my pain right here and now-it's about our little boy and the fact he can't do overarm...the fact his dad isn't there for him like his friends' dads are.
I don't cry.
I gulp so much my throat still hurts.
I have our little man snuggled up fast asleep next to me on the sofa, not wanting to be on his own, needing to be close to me. He cuddles his bear and breathes sleep-full breaths.
You are back at the Care Home, I had to send you back today, our time ran out too quick. The weekend went too fast, and you're gone again.
Hoping Friday will come around quickly.