What Matters Most

(Death of a parent - not by suicide)

The boys are already fighting over cleats in the front hallway, and I haven't even finished my first cup of coffee. Michael swears someone stole his left shoe, and Ezra is yelling back "it's not stealing if you leave it in the car for three days." I just shake my head and laugh, because somehow this is the rhythm of our mornings now: chaos, noises, and the exact kind of mess that we are here and in it together. Fall is coming fast and I can already feel the buzz of the season. Between soccer games, football practices, and marching band my calendar is a rainbow of Sharpie scribbles. I wouldn't trade it for the world; this is my favorite time of the year.

My husband, Tyler, keeps trying to teach Michael how to fake an injury well enough to earn a penalty kick (nothing too dramatic just a subtle limp and a well-timed groan). It's probably terrible parenting to find that hilarious, but it's also the funniest thing I've seen this week. They rehearse it like it's theater. One plays the ref while the others flops. I record, of course.

Then there's the marching band drama. Ezra broke a reed mid-rehearsal and threw such a fit I'm surprised the sousaphone section didn't implode from secondhand embarrassment. But that's Ezra. All in. Big energy, big love, big reactions. I swear he's got more personality in one eyeroll than most kids have in their whole bodies. And when he plays? It's like the field hushes to listen. I can't wait to see him perform under the stadium lights.

Sometimes I sit on the back porch and just listen. To the shouting, the music, the clatter of cleats across the deck. It's so much noise. So much life. I sip my drink and think: I am the luckiest person alive.

The other night, Ezra came downstairs in the middle of the night because he thought her heard a coyote outside. He had his clarinet in one hand and a flashlight in the other like he was going to fight the coyote with his music. I couldn't stop laughing long enough to send him back to bed. Tyler had to step in, gently take the clarinet away, and tell him we don't challenge nature to battle after midnight.

Michael has started wearing his football cleats around the house because, in his words, "you never know when greatness will call." I caught him practicing his touchdown dance in the hallway mirror, whispering commentary under his breath like he was already in the NFL. I didn't interrupt, I just watched with a smile on my face.

Dinner lately is a mix of spaghetti stains, knock-knock jokes, and one too many spilled drinks. Tyler always pretends to be annoyed, but I catch him smiling when the boys aren't looking. Together, we've built a life full of noise, and I wouldn't trade one second of it.

Some mornings, when everything feels just right, I let them sleep in a little bit longer. I stand in the doorway and just watch them. Hair sticking out in every direction, limbs sprawled like they fought a battle in their dreams. Even in sleep, they're chaotic. Even in sleep, they're mine.

Sundays are sacred in our house, but not for the reason one may think. We do not rest or go to church, but we have pancake wars. Tyler insists on making them from scratch, but the boys have declared it a contest. Whoever's pancakes have the weirdest toppings, wins. One week, Michael added pickles. The next, Ezra put gummy worms in his. It was disgusting. It was beautiful.

Tyler is the type of dad who shows up to every game. He comes prepared with his camera in one hand and a sports drink in the other. Whether win or lose, he cheers them on like it's the Super Bowl. He may be the loudest on the sidelines, but he's the softest at bedtime. He may burn their grilled cheese more often than not, but they still it eat it anyway because it's made by dad. He doesn't always get it perfect, but he always gives it everything. And in this house, that's what love looks like: burnt edges and all.

Oh, and the car rides? They're a symphony of snack wrappers, off-key singing, and debates about which superhero would win in a fight. We never settle it. We never want to. The journey is louder than the destination, and that's what makes it ours.

I keep all of their art projects. Every scribbled dinosaur. Every crooked heart with "MOM" scrawled in the middle. I have a drawer full of construction paper love, and I add to it like it's a sacred treasure. Because it is.

They don't know it but I've been secretly planning little notes to sneak into lunchboxes on the first day of school. Nothing too dramatic, just things like "you've got this" or "proud of you always." I want them to feel it, even when they think I'm not paying attention. I am. I always am.

They drive me crazy, of course. The sticky counters. The endless socks without matches. The way they can't ever remember to close the fridge. But then one of them will randomly say, "I love you mom" and it's like my heart forgets how to be annoyed.

They all think I'm the one holding everything together, but the truth is, they're what's held me together all along.

I constantly watch them laugh and argue and throw footballs into bushes, and all I can think is "this is it". That this is what matters, this is everything.

They are loud. Messy. Wild. Beautiful. They are mine.

Too bad I'll never get to see any of it.

Not really. Not anymore.

Because I died last Spring. Quietly. Unexpectedly. One moment I was there, and then I wasn't. Now I just... remember. Love. Watch. Hope. But never again from the bleachers.

Never again from the porch.

Never again in the front hallway with their cleats.

Never again will I taste that burnt toast.