Diary of a mum to 4 sons making shit up as she goes while trying to build a successful personal training business.

I’ve been battling the decision to as to whether to hold off talking about this, versus getting it out of the way. Harsh to put it that way, but I know that just writing some of this on paper is going to be difficult. It’s not something I struggle to talk about with those in our lives but in a public forum…. Different story.

But, no time like the present…

So, here goes.

Since June 21, 2013, my children have only had one parent. Their mum. Me. I’m not scared about what lies ahead in the future, because on that day I believe that I had to do the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do.

I had to tell my babies, aged 4, 6 and 8 that Daddy was never coming home. He was in heaven now.

No we can’t visit, no Daddy can’t call like when he’s at work, no it’s not Daddy’s fault.

Those are answers to some the questions our babies asked, trying to comprehend, yet never understanding why or how not seeing their Daddy again could be true.

Taken tragically and suddenly from us, not being able to say goodbye. It was impossible to explain  to my 4, 6 and 8 year old's that Daddy would have said goodbye if he could have, because I didn’t understand it either.

It was shit. Proper shit.

I’ve never been able to explain how we felt that day in any other way.

We aren’t a family that follows a religious faith, our new normal was try and establish our own beliefs. The only way we could reconcile his death was/is to believe that he’s somewhere up ‘there’ with our other loved ones lost. Guiding us during the tough times, cheering the boys from the sidelines, always with us no matter what. Spiritual or not, we've always taken comfort in this.

To our youngest, the brightest star in the sky.

The world lost one of the best that day. I’ve never met anyone that didn’t like him. A genuine good bloke. Loved by all that were lucky enough to know him. Everyone's Mate.

He was an incredible father to his three 3 mini’s.

However, he lives on his 3 sons in the most incredible of ways.

Our eldest is a spitting image, looks exactly like he did at the same age. This year, as the 10 year anniversary rolls around and our first born becomes an adult, I know that he has the same determination to forge his own path in this life as his Dad did.

Our second born, hilarious, charismatic and kind hearted to a fault, his father all over. They share an unwavering work ethic, and perhaps a dislike for school, bar the social aspect that is! He’s our boy that is happy to cuddle mum and tell her he loves her in private and in public. Just like Dad.

Our baby, our boy who has to work the hardest to retain the memories he has of his hero, has his Dad’s blue eyes and maths brain. I could never understand how he could just work things out in his head without ever needing pen or paper. Now his youngest son does it too. Nerds. (jealousy is of course a curse.)

They all three have their fathers natural sportsman ability. You know that annoying thing where they are good at anything they try? Yeah that. They get that from him too. One day, when we were just babies ourselves we were throwing a tennis ball to our dog in the backyard when he told me,

‘I swear, if our kids get their athletic ability from you, I’m never going to watch them play sport!’

I suck at throwing a tennis ball! What of it?

He was gone before any of them got to show him just who they get their athletic ability from…

Side Note: There will be much more on life with over achieving sportsmen and their over excited mum (yep, I’m one of those!) down the track.

For me, the first 5 years he was gone were a mixture of suppressed grief, anger and resentment.

People told me I had to be strong for the boys, keep my tears for private, get on with things, etc etc etc. Everyone always has an opinion right?

So I did. I didn’t get any help. I didn’t ask for any, I don’t know why, I just didn’t.

I was an angry, stressed out and at times exhausted shell of a person that burned the candle at every end. The boys saw it, they thought it was normal. I yelled at them over things that were ridiculously minor. I hated myself for it. I hated him for leaving us to fend for ourselves. I resented the hell out of having three very busy little boys 24/7 without a break. I was jealous of friends who had 50/50 custody arrangements with exes because at least they got a rest. I hated myself for that too. I hated that my boys would see me crying and then bring me a tissue and tell me not to be sad. I felt weak, because people told me not to let them see me cry. So I was failing, failing at parenting. Or that’s how I saw it at the time.

Little by little, bit by bit, I started to heal. My amazing, resilient, strong baby boys were growing into independent, kind, beautiful young men.

I did that.

I started to realise that it was ok to raise emotionally aware sons who feel compassion and empathy for others. In fact, I think that’s the thing I’m most proud of. I’m raising strong, respectful leaders who love and care about people. I’m raising young men who know they can chase after their dreams and be passionate about what they believe in.

I did that.

They taught me to see that I’m kicking arse as their mum. They teach me it’s ok to be me, they want me to chase my dreams. They encourage me to keep going, even when it feels hopeless. They validate the reason I am passionate about health and fitness each and every day. They are proud that mum wants to be the best version of herself. They are also amazing big brothers to their 14 month old baby brother.

Now when I yell, they look me square in the eye and say something like,

‘Why are you yelling at me, I’m right here. I can hear you!’

Or

‘Righto crazy, calm down, I’ll put my undies away, chill brah’

Yep, I think I did that too....