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A few weeks ago, I decided to get my children a trampoline. Since it arrived, they’ve been bouncing with joy every single day. Between fits of laughter and gasping for breath, they often wonder why I didn’t get one for them sooner—like back at the start of the pandemic when they first started asking for it. I share the honest reason: their father, Alex, wasn’t keen on the idea of a trampoline ruining the lawn.
They accept my explanation and dive back into their joyful leaps, cherishing the memory of him taking pride in his garden. Little do they know the internal struggle I faced when deciding to buy that trampoline. Alex passed away three years ago, and agreeing to something he would have opposed feels like a betrayal.
When Alex died, I lost much more than just him. I lost my partner, my best friend, and my co-parent. I lost a fellow decision-maker, the one who could offer a different perspective or advocate for a choice I hadn’t considered. I lost someone whose values aligned perfectly with mine, especially regarding our children. I lost the person who would share the responsibility for our decisions, whether they were right or wrong. That second opinion is irreplaceable.
Now, I find myself making every choice—from the trivial to the monumental. I determine what cereal the kids eat, which doctor they see when they’re unwell, and what family values we emphasize. And yet, every decision I make is tinged with thoughts of Alex. What would he have done? What would he have said?
Often, the answers come easily, and honoring his preferences is straightforward. For instance, sending the kids to sleepaway camp is one choice where I know his wishes clearly. Although I never attended sleepaway camp, it was something he prioritized for our future children. The idea of them going stirs anxiety within me, yet I know it’s what he would have wanted.
Conversely, there are moments when I understand his wishes but choose to disregard them because they stem from a world that vanished with his passing. The trampoline is a prime example. It was easy for him to decline the trampoline in a two-parent household without a pandemic limiting playdates and other activities. The “no” becomes harder for me alone as I juggle work and strive to keep the kids engaged. The trampoline’s benefits during this time as a solo parent outweigh the potential damage to the lawn; the grass will regrow eventually. I can honor his preferences while still making a different decision.
The most challenging moments arise when I ponder “what would Alex do,” and I find myself at a loss. I genuinely want to respect his wishes, but sometimes, I can’t discern what they would be. My daughter is about to enter middle school and has the option to take honors math or opt for a regular class. In a standard math course, she will undoubtedly thrive and build confidence. In honors math, she may struggle, but it would set her up for an advanced curriculum throughout middle school. When I contemplate Alex’s possible stance, I can hear him encouraging her to take on challenges for personal growth, yet I can also hear him emphasizing the importance of confidence.
Similarly, my son no longer wishes to attend religious school. Religion wasn’t a significant part of our lives as a family, and I have no compelling reason to encourage him to continue, except that it was a tradition for his father. Again, when I consider what Alex might say, I’m uncertain. He might have said, “let him quit,” or he might have insisted that religious education is important.
I don’t have the answers. However, I suspect that understanding precisely what he would want is less crucial than making space for his memory and wishes. Though he is no longer here, his voice still resonates in my mind. His desires deserve the same attention they would have received if he were still with us.
As our children grow and I encounter more situations that Alex and I never faced together, I find myself making educated guesses about his thoughts and feelings. I blend these reflections with my instincts, all while holding onto the belief that what Alex would want most is for me and our children to be happy.
Ultimately, I’m sure that’s what he truly wanted—for us to find joy, even if it means sacrificing the well-manicured lawn.
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In summary, navigating parenting alone after loss is a profound journey. I constantly strive to honor my late partner’s wishes while making decisions that reflect the reality of our lives. It’s a delicate balance of remembering, honoring, and choosing joy for my children.