It’s the little things…

So often, it’s the little things that get me.

I’ll be going about my day, thinking I’m doing alright, and then — WHAM! Out of nowhere I’ll remember some random, tiny little thing that will bring on such a rush of pain it’s like someone punched me in the gut and I’m sucking for air.

In the ICU the other day, they served my mom noodles for lunch. As I mixed the butter and salt into the rotini, I felt myself wilt and the tears started pouring. Libby freaking loved noodles. Like, it’s all she ever wanted to eat besides M&M yogurt. It was a running joke in our house that she was going to turn into a noodle (and with how weirdly bendable she was, it made the joke extra funny). I broke down over noodles.

I ordered new candles and when they arrived, I absolutely loved them. My first instinct was to call Libby down from her room to look at them, because she’d always get so excited about little things like candles. In fact, she got excited about pretty much everything. That’s just how she was. But there it was again— the punch in the gut.

She’s not there. She’s never going to be there.

In the morning when I’m getting ready for work, she won’t be there sitting on the toilet talking my ear off. I won’t hear her chatter while we pack our lunches. I won’t get my big squeezie hug and “I love you” before I walk out the door.

I won’t have her smiling face greeting me at my classroom door every workday. I won’t get to hear her stories about 5th grade drama and spelling tests as we drive home from school. I won’t hear her yelling “WHERE ARE MY PINK TIGHTS???” as she rushes to get ready for ballet.

I won’t see her blow me a kiss as she closes the car door and runs into her dance studio. I won’t see her smiling face running towards my car after practice, or hear her telling me all about the new part she just learned, or what lift she gets to do, or how the older girls are so cool.

I won’t get to hear the laughter coming from her room as she chats with her friends on her iPad after dinner. I won’t get to see her eye rolls when I tell her it’s time to get off said iPad and go to bed. I won’t get to pull up her covers, give her a huge hug and kiss on the forehead, and sing “our song” — Goodnight My Angel, by Billy Joel.

And I will never, ever, get to hear the words I’ve heard almost every single night I can remember since she was old enough to talk:

“Goodnight, Libber-beans. Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet Dreams! BEST…MAMA… EVER!!!”

“BEST…DAUGHTER…EVER! I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”