I once saw an anonymous quote that read, “Wednesday – it’s almost, sorta, kind of close to, just about, nearly the weekend. Wohoo!” and I believe many people would agree. There’s nothing too special about a day in the middle of a week, except that you can see the weekend peeking over the horizon, but for me, Wednesdays are special.
For seven or eight glorious hours every Wednesday, I watch my grandkids. Colt was my first and only grandchild in September 2014. I tried to make the drop off each Wednesday morning as easy as possible for my son and daughter-in-law. I had a bedroom dedicated to him, fully equipped with a crib, rocking chair, diapers, extra play clothes, and toys galore. There was a highchair in the kitchen, bath toys in the bathroom, a car seat in my car, and a stroller in the garage. All they had to do was walk in my front door and hand him over.
His sweet, little, innocent face with arms open wide toddling through my front door was a welcomed breath of fresh air. We were equally excited to see each other and eager for his Mom or Dad to slip out the door so we could start our playdate. This was our time – free from cell phones, iPads, laptops or any other distraction. Just me, Colt, nursery rhymes, storybooks, and lots of hugs and kisses.
Don’t get me wrong, watching a toddler all day is not easy work, especially at my age. The only time he was not in direct eye shot of me was when he was napping, and then I was diligently watching him as he slept. I was constantly monitoring his every move, often redirecting him from sharped edged coffee tables, toys he could trip on, or furniture he could fall off. I had my share of sore muscles at the end of those days from lifting and bending over to pick him up or set him down. To be completely honest, I was ready for his Mom or Dad to pick him up at the end of the day. I was happy to relinquish the responsibility of coaxing a toddler to eat his dinner, wrangle him up for bath time followed by reading the same book five times before bedtime.
The magic of Wednesdays wasn’t just about watching this adorable little boy—although that time was priceless. On Wednesdays, my grief took a time out. I could breathe and just be myself. No one was watching my every move or trying to analyze everything I said. No one was asking me if I was okay or when I ate last. I could mute the constant conversation in my head that continued to play every day since my husband died by suicide.
At sixteen months, my grandson didn’t know my life had drastically and tragically changed. To him I was the same grandma on the Wednesday, August 6, 2014, as I was on Wednesday, August 20, 2014. I was still the grandma who spoiled him, played with him, rocked and hugged him for all those fun-filled hours. Nothing different for him except the lunchtime menu and afternoon snacks.
Because he didn’t know everything familiar to me had gone missing, I could breathe. I could relax. I could disappear into his innocent eyes, infectious laughter, and warm tender cuddles while ignoring the horrible nightmare I was living. Seven glorious hours every Wednesday playing make believe.
Fast forward five years. My grandson is now in elementary school and I’m watching my eighteen-month-old granddaughter, Kaylee, when my second husband of only eight months dies by suicide. That’s right. Déjà vu.
Wednesdays.
Life-saving Wednesdays.
Seven magical and nourishing hours.
Submerged in the innocence of a child.
Laughing. Learning. Loving.
Time moves forward.
Pain has no recall.
Worry, fear, and grief are nowhere to be found.
Because Grief has taken a time-out.