The Hours

Last month, I wrote about how much being (on holiday) in the south of France made me miss Mike. The essence of him seemed to be everywhere: the amazing architecture, the history, excellent food and even better coffee. It was really moving to see the picture that Sarah posted, a few days later, from a trip that the two of them had taken to France a some years back, of Mike standing in front of a beautiful old French house. Mike would have loved living here.

This month however, our holidays are over, and a new chapter has just begun in our lives here, one which is makings me think a lot about Sarah, and life without Mike.

Last weekend, my family & I have moved into a house in Ferney-Voltaire, just on the French side of the border from Geneva, Switzerland, where we'll be working for the next few years. It's a big change for us; we've spent the last many hectic years working in places like Sri Lanka, Uganda and Sudan; very far from family and beloved friends, but generally speaking, still having lots of support. The kind of support (nannies, housekeeper etc) that, despite being two full-time working parents, with the cost of living in Geneva/environs, we suddenly cannot afford any more. My husband Ali has already started working full-time, I start the week after next; all of this to say that....

I suddenly, albeit temporarily, find myself alone and, at moments, overwhelmed in literally foreign territory with two kids: an uber-active-non-stop 3 year-old who having spent essentially his entire life to date in above-mentioned locales is completely unaccustomed to huge grocery stores (read: he's a bolter), sidewalks (idem) and parks (same goes); and a precipitously-and- just -barely-toddling 1 year-old with a penchant for seeking out all things verboten in a house not yet fully baby-proofed (open electrical sockets, plunging staircases, moving boxes full of breakables), the stroller hasn't yet arrived in the trunks... It is pure mayhem, with plenty of laundry, frantic cooking, endless diapers, and unpacking about a thousand and one boxes during rarely-coordinated naps.

In the midst of this, the other night I found myself being fairly naggy and passive-agressive sulky (not one of my finer moments) with a husband who walked in the door late after a particularly frenetic day at the office: I had had to cook, do bathtime, put both kids to bed all by myself, he hadn't seen the kids (and we hadn't seen him) all day, it wasn't easy being alone like that....blah, blah, blah. It took me a few minutes to see the trees from the forest, and what helped me to do so was thinking about Sarah.

Every day, every single day, Sarah does it all: taking care of the lovely (and still very very young) Lucas & Emily, managing a household, working, doing the grocery shopping, the laundry, the errands, the everything. With the support and love of an amazing (on both sides) family and friends, but still: without Mike. And grieving.

I felt quite ashamed of myself for thinking that a few days of doing it all mostly alone was hard. It's not: these are the moments, the minutes, the hours, the days to cherish: when the kids are young, when we have friends & family, including our parents, with us, and when we have someone to love.

The love that Mike & Sarah built and lived together is, to me, and I know to many of us, a monumental example of how good two people can be together.

I'm not sure how to convey how much I am awed by Sarah's strength and grace and dignity, and by her commitment to put one foot in front of the other, to do the best, every day, for the kids. I'm not sure that any of us who can say that we know what Sarah is truly going through, or how it feels. But I am really grateful to have this space, this way, for any one of us to share whatever we would like about Mike.

Sarah, I'm also glad that you are also sharing with us, through this blog and otherwise, how hard it can be just to get through (to paraphrase the title of the book) 'the hours', without Mike. As Mike always said, Lucas & Emily are really lucky to have you as their Mom.