The Things I Miss

I miss having a reason to buy Golden Oreos.

The boys prefer Chips Ahoy, but not you, Addie. You couldn't stand chocolate (unless it was a Tootsie Roll, which, let's face it, isn't really chocolate at all). So it was Golden Oreos for you.

I miss hearing the sound of the package ripping open. I miss how you'd twist off the top of each one and lick the frosting.

That probably sounds silly, trivial actually. But it's something I think about quite often - along with a thousand and one other things I miss about you.

I miss our morning talks. We didn't have a lot of time, but the time we had was ours. Dad would leave with the boys and I'd have about 15 minutes before I needed to leave for school. There we'd sit, you reading the back of the cereal box. Me scrolling through Facebook and working on my peanut butter toast. So maybe not the talks so much. More just being there together.

I miss watching you put your hair up in a pony tail, smoothing out all the "bumps."

I miss seeing the lamp on in the window when I pull out of the driveway. Again, a simple thing. But a lamp on means you're sitting in the chair waiting for the bus.

I miss the homemade cards.

I miss that Ag Day t-shirt you always wore. Here I bought you the latest and greatest from the Gap and you opted to wear the free t-shirt you picked up in third grade.

I miss mozarella bites. The ones you always had me buy when the Schwan man visited. He gave us a bag after he heard you died. It sits unopened in the freezer and the Schwan man hasn't visited us in months. I suppose we weren't the best customers in the early days of our grief. We couldn't hardly make a decision and we certainly weren't in any shape to buy any frozen goods. And now, I just don't think I could place an order without the mozarella bites.

I miss how you'd yell "manners" when you saw a bright yellow car or truck tooling down the street. Isaac still does that every once in awhile.

I miss seeing you get off the bus and run up the driveway. I didn't get to see this too often, but when I did, you always had a smile on your face.

So carefree.

I miss Good Luck Charlie and Disney Channel and Nickelodeon. I hate to admit it, but your brothers have been deprived of some quality television because I don't know which number to plug into the remote.

I miss running my school projects by you. You know, the ones I was going to have my third-graders and fourth-graders do. You were always so good about that. Those kids are fifth-graders now. Almost ready for middle school.

I miss Marcel the Shell. Remember that video? Dad doesn't think it's nearly as funny as you and I do.

I miss shopping for you. Sometimes I'll torture myself by going through the girls section at Target. I try to figure out what you'd want. What you'd wear.

I miss hearing you ask me for a guinea pig and a hamster and a rabbit.

I miss hearing you read an ad for a guinea pig or a hamster or a rabbit verbatim off Craigslist.

I miss seeing you walk around in your faded pair of Nebraska flannel pants and polka-dotted robe (with the hood pulled up all thug-like).

I miss putting a towel down on your pillow so it wouldn't get all wet from your hair after a shower.

I miss signing your planner and your fold-ables.

I miss your friends.

I miss making waffles. In fact, we haven't had them since you died. That was a family thing. Everybody had their part. Eggs. Oil. Powder. And me pretending to beat on the pancakes like a drum.

I miss the extra laundry.

I miss having you there in the background. Just sitting there. On the computer. On the iPad. Chiming in with a comment (or a comeback if needed).

I miss calling you on the phone every day on my way home from school. I miss asking you about the favorite part of your day. I miss your answers.

I miss looking in the rearview mirror and seeing your face.

I miss hearing you yell at Isaac when he'd pull your hair.

I miss your patience. And I wish I had some of it.

I miss the schedule. The hustle. The bustle. The here. The there. We just don't have anywhere to be now.

I miss your laugh.

I miss the way you fit in my arms. Sometimes I sneak into your closet, take a shirt off a hanger and just hold it to remember how little you were.

I miss waking you up in the morning.

I miss tucking you in at night.

And a thousand and one things in-between.

I miss the good mornings, the goodbyes, the good nights and the I love yous.

But most of all, I miss you.