Birthdays and Anniversaries

Seven years ago today, on June 28th, 2015, I married the woman of my dreams. It was a beautiful, sunny day on the shores of Lake Michigan. Just our immediate families were there, standing on a little bluff about four feet above us. Danielle's childhood pastor performed the ceremony while we said our own vows, waves lapping at our feet.

We had met a little under two years before that day; the nearly nine years (8 ¾ if you want to be specific - between ⅕ and ¼ of my life) I had with Danielle were undoubtedly the best years of my life. I don't often think about the raw numbers like this. But on our anniversary, a day celebrating such numbers, it's hard not too.

People ask me how I'm doing, and my usual answer is "okay". It's true enough, I suppose, in aggregate. Most days, I keep busy and go through the motions. I might even have some fun, whether personally or vicariously through Torin. I can think and talk about Danielle calmly.

Sometimes, though, I crumble. It happens without warning or pattern. The other week, I was getting ready to take Torin to a pool party at a friend's house. I was trying to find a particular mesh beach bag - something Danielle and I had brought on our mini vacation to the west side of the state last September. I realized that I didn't know where half the stuff in our house is; Danielle was by far the more organized of the two of us, so I would normally just ask her. But I can't. She's not here to ask, and she never will be. This, coupled with rummaging through several closets full of her clothes and coats, sent me over the edge. When my parents came by to drop Torin off, they found me cradling and sobbing into Danielle's big, poofy winter coat. The one that, if you run your fingernails across it, makes a satisfying "swishing" noise. Whenever she wore it, from our first winter together onward, I would make a point to "swish" her arm or back.

That was an edge case, though; the meltdowns are usually much less intense and shorter-lived. Most of the times that it does happen, I manage to keep it together until Torin is in bed. Though the bedtime ritual itself often brings tears.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, Danielle had recorded herself singing "You Are My Sunshine" to Torin. I had promised to play it for him every night, but it took a while before I could watch it without sobbing. Nowadays, I don't play it every single night, but I do more often than not as I rock him to sleep. Torin often blows kisses at my phone while the video plays, as it begins and ends with Danielle blowing kisses to Torin. One of the first times I played it, he said, "Bye bye, Mama" after it ended.

This was always her song for Torin, and if I ever started singing it, Danielle asked me not to. I very recently found a compromise, though, and this is is now what I sing to Torin:

You're Mama's sunshine,

Her only sunshine.

You make her happy

When skies are gray.

You'll never know, dear

How much she loves you.

Please don't take

Mama's sunshine away

Torin is growing up so fast now, it seems. His speech and vocabulary have exploded over the last few months. It's all the more striking given how behind he was; Danielle took him to speech therapy for a good portion of last year. It's heartbreaking how close Danielle was to witnessing this growth, though I'm thankful that she saw the beginnings - letters, numbers, animal noises, Mama, Dada.

Early this year, Danielle told me that, while she hoped to live through the summer, what she really wanted was to see Torin's second birthday. It wasn't the same, without her, but we still made sure Torin had a special day. To celebrate, we took him to the Detroit Zoo. All in all, there were thirteen adults chasing him around all day. We had taken him last summer, but he was able to appreciate it more this time around.

I've started having more solo parenting time. Other than Thursdays and Fridays when I need to work and Torin's not at daycare ("playschool"), we've gone through every other day of the week (though not consecutively) with just him and me. A few Saturdays ago, I took Torin to downtown Ann Arbor for his first time. We went to the Hands On Museum, and he had a blast. Then we walked down Main Street and had lunch at Conor O'Neill's, one of my college haunts. It was a really good father-son experience.

One of my fraternity brothers, whom I hadn't spoken to since college, reached out to me on Facebook a little while after Danielle passed. She had lost her husband - father of her daughters - several years ago. Just from seeing her Facebook posts over these last couple months, I can tell that he's still a part of their lives. It has been a little inspiring; like seeing a possible future for Torin and me, one I will do my best to help come to pass.