You Called Him Charlie Bear

Dear Rob,

Do you remember when I was pregnant with Charlie?

I remember how excited you were.

I was nervous. I had just started at LifeSource, and there was so much uncertainty swirling around me. But you? You were excited. You were so excited to have another boy.

I have such beautiful memories of that time. Us moving into our home while I was pregnant with Charlie. Building our life. Bringing our baby boy home.

And I will never forget the first time I watched you look at him.

He was so plumpy for a newborn. So handsome. Our beautiful baby boy.

You looked at Charlie, then looked at me and said,

“We are going to call him Charlie Bear.”

And that was it.

From that moment on, he was Charlie Bear.

Eventually, of course, he got older and decided he had had enough of that name. He asked us not to call him Charlie Bear anymore. And definitely not Chucky.

Although I think we earned Chucky.

That little boy had a habit of waking up in the middle of the night and going into full “Chucky mode” on us. We would be exhausted, and somehow you and I would still laugh about it.

Today was a busy soccer day.

Charlie had morning practice, and Vivian had an afternoon practice. Unlike most Saturdays, the fields weren’t far from one another, so we spent the day doing what our family has done so many times before.

Soccer.

Our kids.

Us.

Except today, you weren’t there.

Before Charlie got out of the car for practice, we talked about last night. Our little fight.

I was being the tough parent.

You know me.

But one thing I’ve always tried to do with the kids is explain the why. Why I’m upset. Why something matters. Why I have to be the tough parent sometimes. And I think they appreciate that. I think they need that.

So I hugged Charlie.

I told him how smart he is.

How creative he is.

How naturally athletic he is.

How he is, at his core, just a really good kid.

I reminded him that even when we fight, even when we disagree, nothing changes how much I love him.

Nothing.

I told him he will always be my baby.

That I will love him no matter what.

That he matters.

And then I told him something else.

Something that has been sitting heavy on my heart.

I told him that I feel like he has changed when it comes to sports.

Before you died, our Charlie was driven.

Everyone saw it.

Everyone knew it.

He wanted to win. He wanted to try everything. He wanted to get better. He gave everything he had.

He was the kid who would chase the ball until his legs couldn’t take another step.

And since you died…

I don’t know how else to say it.

From the outside, sometimes it feels like he’s just getting by.

And I feel terrible even saying that out loud.

Because I know he is only thirteen.

Thirteen.

A thirteen-year-old boy shouldn’t have to figure out how to carry grief and growing up at the same time.

So I told him that he is an amazing athlete. That I want to see him give his best. Not because he has to prove anything to anyone.

But because I want him to find that joy again.

I want him to have fun.

I want him to feel like himself.

He gave me that look.

You know the one.

And then he got out of the car, shut the door, and yelled,

“Love you, Mom!”

And Rob…

I watched our boy play.

The sport he loves.

The sport you loved.

And I thought about you the entire time.

I love watching Charlie play because he is so completely in his element.

He laughs with his friends.

He cheers for them.

He scores.

He makes great plays.

For those moments, he is just a kid.

And I wish you could see him.

I wish you could see how much he’s grown.

I wish you could see the teenager standing on that field instead of the little boy you once called Charlie Bear.

I thought about the year you coached him and his teammates.

Two of those boys are still on his team.

You would be so proud of them.

Their growth.

Their friendship.

The way they still know each other.

When you coached, you cared so deeply about those boys.

You didn’t just coach soccer.

You believed in them.

You created a team of boys who genuinely enjoyed being together. They wanted to hang out on the field. They wanted to hang out off the field.

And you made sure every single one of them played every position.

I remember the kids saying,

“I’m not good at that position.”

And you would give them that firm coach voice and say,

“Well, today’s the day that you realize how good you are at that position.”

You believed in every one of them.

I think Charlie misses that.

Even if he doesn’t say it.

I think he misses his dad believing in him.

He misses the father who smiled so big when he scored.

The father who hugged him after every game.

The father who would look at him and say,

“Good job, Chucky.”

I sat there at Lucy today, in a place where we shared so many memories as a family, and I thought about you.

I thought about our little boy.

The little boy who lost his father at twelve years old.

And now has to face this world without you.

That part makes me so angry.

Because of all the things you talked to me about when you were here, family was always at the top of the list.

You talked about how important family was.

You talked about how important a father is in his children’s lives.

You understood it.

You knew it.

And you were right.

You were one hundred percent right.

And that is what makes this so damn unfair.

You knew how much your kids needed you.

And you were supposed to be here.

You were supposed to be here for this.

You were supposed to watch Charlie become a teenager.

You were supposed to watch his voice change and his face mature and his shoulders get broader.

You were supposed to watch him grow into the young man he is becoming.

You were supposed to embarrass him.

You were supposed to tease him.

You were supposed to coach him.

You were supposed to yell from the sidelines.

You were supposed to give him that hug after the game.

You were supposed to say,

“Good job, Chucky.”

And you missed it.

You missed your Charlie Bear growing up.

And I hate that for you.

I hate that for him.

I hate that for all of us.

Because he is still the sweetest boy.

He has the biggest heart.

He is sensitive and thoughtful and kind.

He feels things deeply.

He has such a beautiful soul.

He is so much like you.

Sometimes that makes me smile.

And sometimes it breaks my heart.

Today Vivian played soccer with Charlie’s team.

She wanted to show Charlie “how it’s done.”

How to run.

How to score.

You would have laughed.

She actually did pretty well.

That little girl can run.

And I could almost hear you saying the things you always said to the boys:

“Hustle!”

“Run!”

“Make the play!”

And, of course,

“Move your feet!”

Then, as Charlie and Vivian were playing, a monarch butterfly flew right in front of me and the kids.

And I know what some people might say.

But I don’t believe it was just a butterfly.

I choose to believe that for just a moment, you found a way to come sit beside us.

Maybe you were watching Charlie play.

Maybe you were watching Vivian run.

Maybe you were watching me watch them.

And maybe, just maybe, you were looking at your boy and feeling that same pride you felt all those years ago.

I hope you were.

Because I needed that today.

Do you remember how we were the living room family?

There were so many nights when all of us would just sit in that living room together.

Sometimes we weren’t doing anything special.

We were just together.

If Anders wanted to go downstairs and be alone, you would tell him to come back upstairs.

You figured out that if we watched soccer together, everyone would happily stay in the living room.

So that’s what we did.

We watched soccer.

Together.

And whenever a player scored, I would joke that I could make that shot.

I would tell everyone our babies were athletic because of me.

And everyone would laugh.

Those ordinary moments weren’t ordinary at all.

I didn’t know then how much I would miss them.

I didn’t know that someday I would give anything to have one more night in that living room.

One more soccer game.

One more ridiculous argument about who was the better athlete.

One more laugh.

One more night with all of us together.

Today, Charlie and I cheered for Vivian.

And I have to tell you, Rob…

I loved having him beside me.

I love seeing him smile.

Especially when that dimple shows.

I love his laugh.

I love hearing him cheer.

I love watching him be happy.

Because he has been through more than any thirteen-year-old should ever have to experience.

And I am trying, Rob.

God, I am trying.

I am trying to be the parent you would have been if you were still here.

And I am trying to be the mom who advocates for him.

The mom who holds him when he’s hurting.

The mom who pushes him when he needs pushing.

The mom who tells him the truth.

The mom who reminds him of who he is when he forgets.

The mom who will love him to the moon and the stars and beyond.

But I wish you were here to help me.

I wish you were here to watch him grow.

I wish you could see the boy he is becoming.

I wish you could see that Charlie Bear is thirteen now.

Thirteen.

How did that happen?

How did our plumpy little baby become this tall, funny, sensitive, athletic, beautiful-hearted boy?

I wish you could see him.

I wish you could hear him laugh.

I wish you could see that dimple.

I wish you could watch him score.

I wish you could put your arm around him after a game.

I wish you could tell him you’re proud.

But you were supposed to be here.

That is the part I can’t make peace with.

You weren’t supposed to become a memory.

You were supposed to be his dad.

You were supposed to watch him become a teenager, embarrass him, coach him, tease him, and stand beside me as we watched him become a man.

Instead, I am watching it happen without you.

And sometimes I am so proud I could burst.

And sometimes I want to scream because you should be here seeing it too.

I will keep telling Charlie how much you loved him. I will tell him about the father who believed in him, coached him, cheered for him, hugged him, and called him Chucky.

I will make sure he never doubts that he was loved.

But Rob…

Charlie doesn’t need another story about how much his dad loved him.

He needs his dad.

And I need my husband.

I wish you were here.

I wish you could watch your boy.

I wish you could see the man he’s going to become.

I wish you could stand beside me one more time and look at him the way you did when he was a newborn.

I wish I could hear you say it again:

“We are going to call him Charlie Bear.”

Because I would give anything for one more Saturday.