Today is supposed to be a celebration.

Eleven years ago today, on Cinco de Mayo, Travis joined our family as a three-year-old. It’s his “Gotcha Day.”

There was never a question as to whether I would adopt again after Tanner. I never wanted an only child and my sweet baby boy needed a brother. It was a no-brainer.

I would like to say I picked well, but I get no credit. Just like Tanner’s path to me was paved by God, so was Travis’. I’ll take the credit only for listening to Him. That’s a story for another day though.

Of course, on this day I should be celebrating Travis and the incredible son he is, I’m having one of my worst days since Tanner’s death. His pending cremation is wrecking me. Wre-cking-me. There’s no way I would pass a sobriety test — and yet I’ve not had a single glass or pill.

Gotcha days are about family. It’s a celebration of being finally united, together. Tanner and Travis were brothers from the instant they met.

It was a rainy San Fransisco morning in 2006 when I grabbed Travis from his group home and threw him into the backseat of the rental car where his future brother was already buckled in. I did a quick dive into the front seat, folded my umbrella and looked back.

They had never met before but in that instant were already holding hands. It hadn’t been even one minute.

There is no question that God put these two together and they were better brothers to each other than most biological siblings ever are. They loved hard, played hard, wrestled hard, helped each other hard, and protected each other hard.

I don’t know how to approach today.

Travis wants a night out with just me. But we actually tried that on Wednesday and it was a bit of a disaster.

See, Trav and I rarely ever got out alone. It would have taken an act of God (or church summer camp) to find us without Tanner.

The three amigos.

Except not… because we never called ourselves that. But we were a threesome nonetheless. For the eleven years I’ve had Travis, it’s been me and my boys.

This past Wednesday, Travis asked for a night alone with mom. Our first night out just the two of us.

I’ll admit I was nervous. Trav was too.

As soon as Trav and I were in the car I think it hit us both. It just felt wrong. Neither of us could think of where we wanted to go. Nothing really sounded good. He was having a tough day and it showed across his face.

When we finally arrived at the chosen destination I glanced at Facebook and saw his post. My heart just sunk. He is sad and there’s no way for me to fix it.

Seems I suck at fixing things these days.

It’s horrific enough to lose one child, but to watch the spirit of the second suffer takes a huge toll.

And then, this happened…

Rudest. Hostess. Ever.

We ended up at The Counter and encountered what has to be the most inconsiderate hostess I’ve ever met. It was one of those moments where you just want to look at her and say: “Seriously? Did *that* just come out of your mouth? Would you like me to step out and come back in so you could try that one over?”

But I don’t think she cared. I don’t think she saw anything wrong with her words. She almost seemed to feel entitled to ask such a personal question.

I may never go back.

When I tell you what she said, I don’t think you’d blame me. It’s literally hard to write…

“Just the two of you?”

She went there.

Just the two of us.

Yes.

It’ll be just two.

Thank you for the reminder. It should be three, you’re right, but it’ll just be two.

Just two.

Just.

Because two is not enough. Two will never feel like enough.

I wanted to break down in tears right on the spot so it could really sink in how inconsiderate she was. She should feel as bad as I do. How does the whole world not know and care that my baby is gone?

Grieving moms should get to wear a shirt:

“My other baby is dead. Tread lightly. Choose your words carefully.”

It’s impossible to explain how surreal it is that the outside world continues to function while my little world is moving backwards in slow motion.

I politely answered her nasty question — even though it stung like daggers to the heart — with a simple “Two please.” Travis and I sat down and I watched him stare off into the distance.

I bribed him with an $8 milkshake and we sat across from each other, trying to find simple items to chat about and fill the air. It was a feeble attempt to pretend like we were okay. We talked a little of Tanner and our opposite reactions to the stress and food: after Tanner passed Travis ate everything he could get his hands on, I refused food and dropped eight pounds in half that many days.

I found myself searching for the right words to say to Trav.

I just wanted the meal to be over.

I long to know when “just two” will be okay.

I need to know there’s a light at the end of this long tunnel for Travis.

Please keep my “plus one” in your prayers as we adjust to the many times ahead we are “just two.”

And as for tonight, we will try again.

Trav is wanting to go to his favorite restaurant: Bubba Gump’s. It’s a special family place and my first thought is that I know I can special-order Tanner’s gluten-free food from there so it’s okay.

Today is a very hard day for him, an impossible day for me. Tanner will be cremated very soon and with it closes a chapter of his earthly body being with us. There is so much wrong with all of this.

Gotcha Day means something pretty different right now as we are clinging to each other for dear life.

I can barely stand on my own but Trav, my boy, we’ll make it through.

I gotcha.

I was living every mom’s dream.

Moms, you know that magical age around three or four where your children are potty-trained but amazed by everything, enamored and in awe with characters they don’t realize are costumed, get their breath taken away with every sports car zooming by, will wave at people passing by without abandon, will hold your hand in public and run to hug you every time you walk into a room… even if you only walked out two minutes earlier carrying a bin of laundry?

It took three weeks.

But on this three-week anniversary we finally figured out why Tanner had to die: God took Tanner’s life to punish his little brother.

You see, Travis hasn’t always been the perfect kid he is today. He’s had his ups and downs. Often he would yell to me from down the hall: “Tanner punched me!” To which I would yell back: “Did you deserve it?”

Pause.

“Yes.”

Oh, and once in a while Travis lies.

So this must be his punishment. God decided he was a bad kid and to teach him a lesson took away his big brother and very best friend. This is what he believes.

I can tell him it’s not true. This is not his fault. He’s not being punished. Tanner did not die for Travis’ sins.

But I get it.

It’s nearly impossible to not seek the “why.” There has to be a reason. For the love of God and Tanner, there HAS to be a reason my baby was taken from us.

I’ve spent hours, sobbing, scared to death God took my son because I didn’t love him enough, because I wasn’t worthy to be his mom.

I would think about the Biblical parable of the man who was given one talent and squandered it so God took it back. Did I squander this perfect gift God gave me? I have, quite literally, shed ridiculous amounts of tears for not setting up his own webpage years ago: maybe Tanner was a gift I was supposed to share with the world, and I squandered him and kept him to myself, so God took him home.

A webpage. Tears. Zero logic.

There are so many moments I realize I could have hugged him longer, kissed him more, giggled with him louder, read with him another book, baked a better pie, encouraged him stronger… maybe I didn’t deserve something as pure and beautiful and joyful and perfect as him so he was taken back.

And as the tears begin to slow, I realize: maybe it’s not that I didn’t love him enough, maybe I loved him too much. Had I made an idol out of my son? Instead of seeking joy in the Lord, was I content to just find joy in this precious child He had given me? God took him because I loved him too much.

Yes, in any waking moment I can convince myself I both didn’t love him enough and that I loved him too much.

My rational mind knows there is as much truth to these ideas as the notion that God took him home to punish Travis for lying about his lunch money.

But grief doesn’t seek truth, this I’ve learned.

It’s also insanely irrational.

And horribly unkind.

For some reason, someone has to be to blame. In our humanness, there has to be fault to point to. The “it was his time” or “God needed an angel” doesn’t make a child feel better about losing a best friend and brother. It doesn’t make a mom feel better about losing her baby.

Even if it’s totally true, sometimes it makes us want to punch you in the face.

I’m throwing a temper tantrum tonight. A full-blown, I-want-my-baby-back temper tantrum. Cursing. Lots of crying. I don’t want his brother to hurt. I don’t want to have to find the strength to walk a child through this pain when some days (many days) I can’t see my own way through.

Tonight I feel lost.

I don’t have any great God wisdom in this tantrum of mine either. Except to say, that tantrums aside, I know He can handle it and will still love me tomorrow.

And tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

Today is my appointment at the mortuary to visit my precious son.

Tanner, I’m coming to see you baby boy. Have those arms open wide.

And so I begin what feels like the most impossible of all journeys.

#MothersLove
#HeartMoment
#SeekingGodsMercy
#ISomehowLoveYouMoreTodayThanYesterday

I asked, and God said no.

Today I spent the morning with my baby.

I kissed his sweet face about a million times, I held his hand not wanting to let go, I helped dress him in his favorite Power Ranger shirt, comfy pants and special cape from his “Aunt Doolie.” I told him how very, very, very, very, VERY much I loved him. I cried some, smiled over memories more, and prayed a lot.

Sometimes in prayer, God says yes and we get our heart’s desire. Sometimes in prayer, He tells us to patiently wait on Him.

Sometimes in prayer, God tells us no.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever gotten a no before. I’ve had a million prayers unanswered, but just figured they’d floated off into the great unknown. Maybe He was busy that day. Maybe there were a lot more important prayers going up. Maybe I’m asking too much and He’s not going to repeat Himself and say no every single time.

But today, as I sat holding my baby’s hand for the very last time, and daring to pray for the most extreme of all miracles, God said no.

As crazy as it may sound, it’s impossible to deny that little voice in the back of your head that says “It could still happen. He could still come back. My baby will be the miracle God uses to reach the masses.” Unless you’ve lost a child, you can not fathom the depths your mind will go to convince you there is still hope.

Being a Christian makes it worse. Because the God I love, and the God that I know loves me and loves Tanner, has the ability to bring him back. He is the great physician, the great healer. Even when the rational brain knows your baby is gone forever, there is still that hint on the edge of the sparkle from the sliver of belief that your baby will get the miracle you’ve begged for.

Sometimes the hoping, the waiting, the standing at the window watching, the anticipation of a call that may never come…. sometimes that is the hardest part.

Today, God made it clear.

There will not be a miracle for my Tanner.

There will not be a miracle for Tanner because Tanner *was* the miracle.

In that moment, I was able to close the door on the hope for my plan and accept that Tanner — all of this — was God’s plan.

A part of Tanner’s adoption story came up today in talking with my mom, as she asked about his biological siblings. And there, in that moment, we realized that it was Tanner’s heart that brought him to me all along.

Tanner is Laotian Cambodian and was born to two immigrants in Long Beach, CA. He was the youngest of seven children to all have been removed from their mother. His social worker shared with me the rarity of finding Cambodian children in the foster care system as it is a very tight community that takes care of their own. Sure enough, each of his six older siblings had been taken in by relatives. But when it came to Tanner, his medical needs were too burdensome for extended family to take on and they let him go.

If not for his heart, I would have never had the chance to be his mom.

Tanner and every aspect of his life was a miracle.

All the little wheels God put into motion to open my heart to him: a miracle.

Every step that led him to be my son: a miracle.

The opportunity to experience pure unconditional love: a miracle.

The joy he brought to hundreds, if not thousands of people in his short life: a miracle.

The way he taught me that I could love to depths I never dreamed possible: a miracle.

Every single “mom” from his precious lips, grin from his sweet face, and hold of his soft hand: a miracle.

I got my miracle. His name is Tanner.

God is good all the time.

And all the time, God is good.

It is impossible to curse God for the pain and praise him for the gift at the same time.

So I am choosing to praise.

I am thankful.

I am thankful for this quiet moment at home, where, in this moment, I am at peace.

I am thankful for every single moment I had with my precious Tanner.

I am thankful that I was chosen to be his mom.

I am thankful for the light he lit in my heart.

I am thankful he taught me how to laugh.

I am thankful for the family, friends and strangers who have shown me such unending love in the middle of my darkest hour.

I am thankful for the HiCaliber team who have carried the rescue through this time.

I am thankful for my faith, for Christ who died for me and Tanner, as I can not imagine the pain of losing child where hope and Heaven do not exist.

After a night at the Irvine Spectrum and tears that flowed with every glance and memory of him, I am thankful that I can see him in everything.

I am thankful that, even in the midst of unfathomable grief, God is giving me the ability to see Him and the way He is working through this loss.

I am thankful to be loved by a good and beautiful God who is carrying me through this very difficult hour.

Mommy. Tanner. Alone.

It’s been a few days since I’ve written. Words have been impossible. In a moment of strength, I’ll sit to write of God’s grace only to be flattened by a memory and reduced to sobs. A message of heartache over Tanner’s loss quickly becomes one of joy as I glance at a grinning photo and am transported to another time.

How do I explain the process of living in such vastly extreme worlds without words?

The heart.

I see a heart and I see true love. The kind of love that only a mother can have for her child. The kind of pure love that would trade my life for his if I would have ever been given the chance. And I’ve begged. Dear God… I. Have. Begged. My heart is where I hold him.

I see a heart and I see the very thing that killed my child, that took his life, that failed our love.

One heart. Two feels. No words.

Yesterday was one of my strongest days. I functioned. I cleaned up dog poop. I finally went to the mortuary to discuss my son, my child. I reviewed his Certificate of Death. I met new friends. I held it together.

But it wasn’t strength that allowed me to survive the day; it was denial.

Sheer, utter denial.

For one day I allowed myself to live in this alternate universe where my son isn’t dead and his name isn’t listed as “decedent.” I let myself go through the motions without believing them to be true.

I still can’t believe it.

“Mommy. Tanner. Alone.”

It was one of his very favorite phrases and his very favorite thing in the entire world: Mommy and Tanner alone time. It didn’t matter what we were doing — Disney, dinner or laundry — if it was just him and me he was happy. There was nothing better for a quintessential mama’s boy than time with his mama. And who am I kidding, I loved it more than he did.

He was my kid before I was his mom.

He was my date before there was Darrell.

He was my joy, my laughter and my love.

Mommy. Tanner. Alone.

One of my last alone times is coming. I will be taking Tanner his resting outfit and spending alone time with him. And here’s the thing: I’m excited in a way that reduces me to utter heartbroken tears. I’m supposed to go on Monday but I’m not sure if I can wait that long.

I get to pick what he’s wearing.

I get to dress my baby.

This will be one of the very last things I get to do for him as his mother. I get to do something for my baby. I am so genuinely happy to get the privilege of doing something — anything — for my Tanner. In the same breath, I know that this will be one of the very last things I ever do for him.

A mother’s perfect love. Unmeasurable pain. And all in the same breath.

Mommy. Tanner. Alone.