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It's Just a Blue Hat

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...BUT IT IS SO MUCH MORE! It's Robbie's blue hat, one of the few things I have of his. I wear it, and feel him with me when I need it most. I feel him watching over me, especially when I need it most. This morning, I readied to go out for chores, grabbed my quilted flannel shirt off the hook, and reached for the blue hat. I always hang it on the hook above the flannel. I grabbed for it without having to look, but no hat. Slight moment of panic, but this has happened before. It is exactly why I now ALWAYS hang it on the hook. Deep breath. Calm yourself, Kristine. My hand reaches into the deep front pocket of the flannel (second storage spot). Nothing. The other pocket is searched. Nada. Panic. "I can't find my blue hat!" Chad turns from where he is standing in the kitchen. He knows it is more than a knit cap that keeps my head warm in winter.  Frantic, I rush into our coatroom, searching the cubbies, the hanging jackets and coats, their pockets, even though I know
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ONLY ONE MORE DAY

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     It's only one more day. One more day without him. One more day without his smile, his laughter, his dirty socks in the couch cushions, empty Dorito bags in the bathroom (yes, the bathroom).      Eight years ago my world was changed for all eternity. My sweet son, Robbie, gone.      I remember the moment I knew something was wrong. It was in the air as I walked up the steps. It was goosebumps on my skin as I stood in the doorway. There are so many things I remember but don't want to, and so many things I don't that I wish I could have back.      So now I have a new normal. Dreams sometimes bless me with his presence, younger or 16 year old versions, but never older. Last night I cried while watching a show, flashing ahead to future views of the characters' lives, children, laughter, playing, together. I will never know what he could have become. I will never hold his babies in my arms, snuggle them, kiss away their boo-boos.          In the week leading up t
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Letting that Sh*t GO!

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Recently, a number of friends reached out to share a post written by a former friend and business acquaintance. Each person who brought it to my attention did so with the best of intentions. They were angry for me, wanting to protect me, and hoping to keep me aware in case of future, well, attacks is the best way to phrase it. Their love and caring was much appreciated. I should have simply left it there, but I made the mistake of reading the post anyway. As I read, my muscle memory brought me back into the feelings of sadness, betrayal, and disappointment that ultimately led me to disassociate from the author of the post. It would have been incredibly easy to fall back into a pit of negativity, to feed the desire to defend myself, or follow the urge to point out the falsehoods being revived. For a few minutes, I'll admit, these were all pulling my fingers toward the keys; but, as my heart raced and my blood pressure rose, I paused. Responding was not going to resolve the break or
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