Peanut Butter and Grief

Katie is still looking for Cooper. Honestly, so am I.

Katie just looked up at me from her spot on the couch. She’s smushed up against the side of the sofa, but I don’t think she’s cold. I don’t know what she’s trying to say. But I know she’s not happy.

It’s been a tough morning for me and Katie. It’s been a week since we said goodbye to Cooper, and just when I think we are all adjusting to the new normal, she comes up to me looking kind of lost, like, what am I supposed to do right now?

In the mornings, they would sleep together on my bed. I’d sit at the kitchen table, and eventually Cooper would come over to tell me what he needed.

Usually peanut butter.

As if I’d forgotten.

So this morning, when Katie looked a little aimless, I said, “Should we have some peanut butter?” As if that could make it better.

She ate it. But I’m not convinced her day improved. Mine didn’t either.

So I came to sit with her and gave her some of my egg sandwich. Now she’s back to normal, looking out the window, patrolling the yard.

I do believe the Universe gives you what you need at the time you need it, even when the lessons are hard. So when I knew we were going to have to say goodbye to Cooper, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was somehow preparing me for what’s coming with Cora leaving home.

Getting used to the way the energy changes when someone isn’t there anymore.

The emptiness.

There’s more of that quiet looming with college around the corner.

This wasn’t the first time the Universe prepared me.

It feels like when you’re pregnant and suddenly have to get up in the middle of the night to pee five times. Your body is quietly preparing you for waking up with the baby later.

But the busy life of a family with a junior — and a senior in five more days — doesn’t stop for grief.

Last night, I was honored at the School Board meeting for my years of service to PTA in Carlsbad. Tonight is the broadcasting banquet. Tomorrow is the Speech and Debate banquet. The day after that is my birthday.

Life keeps moving.

I’m not really sure how to grieve Cooper. Sometimes it’s just sadness. Other times we’re busy. I can genuinely laugh and enjoy seeing people and still feel sad at the exact same time.

Katie doesn’t tell me when it’s bedtime, Cooper did. She doesn’t rush to wake up. She doesn’t even tell me when it’s peanut butter time.

Cooper was a part of so many little things.

I can eat my apples in peace now.

But maybe I liked sharing my apples.

If you’re in your own season of change, grief, launching kids, or figuring out who you are after loving someone deeply, thanks for being here.

This little corner of the internet has made me feel less alone lately.

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