A few weeks back, I got my children a trampoline. Since it arrived, they’ve jumped on it every single day, their laughter echoing throughout our yard. In between bursts of giggles and catching their breath, they often ask me why I didn’t get it for them sooner—especially during the early days of the pandemic when they first started begging for one. I tell them the honest truth: their dad didn’t want a trampoline to spoil the grass.
They accept my answer, bouncing back to their fun—delighted to have the trampoline, cherishing memories of their father tending to the yard, unaware of the internal struggle I faced in deciding to buy it. My husband, Alex, passed away three years ago, and agreeing to something he would have opposed feels like a betrayal.
When Alex died, I lost more than just him; I lost my best friend, my soulmate, and the person who shared in every decision. I lost the individual who could challenge my thoughts, bring a different perspective, and align with me on parenting. With him gone, every decision—big or small—now falls solely on my shoulders. I decide what cereal the kids eat, which doctor they see when they’re unwell, and what values I want to instill in them. Yet, I’m constantly thinking of Alex. What would Alex do? What would he say?
In many cases, I know the answer, and honoring his wishes becomes straightforward. For instance, the choice to enroll my daughter in a sleepaway camp was easy. Though I never attended one myself, it was profoundly important to Alex. He had often expressed his wish for our kids to experience it. Despite my anxieties about sending her, I know it’s what he would have wanted.
Conversely, there are times when I understand his preferences but choose differently because his wishes were based on a reality that no longer exists. The trampoline is a prime example. In a two-parent home, saying “no” would have been simpler for him, especially without the constraints of a pandemic. Now, as a solo parent, the advantages of the trampoline outweigh the potential harm to the grass. I can still honor his wishes while making my own choice.
The tougher moments arise when I ponder, “What would Alex do?” and I find myself at a loss. My daughter is heading into middle school, and she has the option to take honors math or stick with regular classes. While she would likely thrive in the regular class, the honors track might challenge her. I can almost hear Alex encouraging me to push her forward, but I can also envision him urging me to prioritize her confidence.
Similarly, my son wishes to stop attending religious school. Religion wasn’t a significant aspect of our lives, and I struggle to find a reason for him to continue other than it being a tradition from his father’s upbringing. When I think about what Alex would have said, I’m again unsure. He might have encouraged him to quit or insisted that it’s an essential rite of passage.
Ultimately, I suspect that understanding his exact wishes matters less than making space for his memory. Though he’s no longer here, he still has a voice in my decisions. As our children grow and present new challenges that we never faced together, I often find myself guessing what would have been in his heart. I combine these reflections with my own instincts, knowing that above all, Alex would want us to be happy.
Because in the end, I’m certain that’s what he’d wish for us: to find joy, even when it means sacrificing his precious grass.
For more insights, check out this post on the importance of family decisions and how to navigate them. You can also find valuable information on this topic at Intracervical Insemination, or explore resources like Resolve for comprehensive guidance on family building.