The Widower’s Rant: The Terrible Twos

Over the past several months, when people kindly ask how I’m doing, my default answer has been: 95% of the time, I’m the happiest clam in the sea. The other 5% is a bit tougher. But reflecting on the past month, I think it’s time to revisit that figure. The balance has shifted. Lately, I’m 90% the happiest clam in the sea. The other 10%…well, I’m floating somewhere deeper.

This was unexpected. Maybe my optimism bleeds through. As the first anniversary of a day—and a moment—I’d give anything to undo passed, I naively thought the old maxim “time heals all wounds” might finally work its magic. Fifty-seven weeks later (still counting), I’m finding more wistful moments, more hours of meh, and a whole new set of triggers. Grief is an asshole. I think that’s what I’ll call the book, should I ever write it.

The lows aren’t as low. The highs aren’t quite as high. The set point is just a bit lower. The first year brings so many firsts. In the second, the reality of the change settles in—irreparably permanent, like an unwanted renter you can never evict. More learned people have told me this is typical. Year two is harder, they say. I’ve been railing against typical, which makes it feel even more insulting.

Mother’s Day was hard. I don’t remember much about it in 2024. May was a bit of a blur. This year, I was busy closing out the ski season, running a fun errand with Curtis to the Geyserville house. But when I finally caught my breath and remembered that Mother’s Day was coming, it broke something in me—not for myself, but for our kids.

What tore me apart was knowing that this day was an in-your-face reminder to celebrate mothers everywhere. And their mother wasn’t there. Not where she’s supposed to be. Here.

Neither of us saw this coming. We were young and a little stupid. We never really talked about kids. One day, it just seemed like the right thing to do. Beth was career-focused and driven. The transition to motherhood was hardly a foregone conclusion. But boy, did it ever work out. Singing lullabies to her babies, walking them to school, reading Richard Scarry’s Cars and Trucks and Things That Go so many times to Curtis she knew every page—he called himself Goldbug, volunteering in their classrooms, offering a warm shoulder through the traumas of adolescence, chauffeuring Lauren to endless gym practices and meets. Beth was amazing for our kids.

The stereotypical mom is organized, makes sure the kids follow the rules, stay clean, and do their chores. They carry tissues in their purse. The stereotypical dad is the opposite: loud, messy, breaking the rules. In those stereotypes, we were flipped. Beth carried a backpack, not a purse—and never a tissue in sight. Well before it was in vogue, she’d pull the kids out of school for a mental health day and take them to Disneyland. She taught them to Boogie board at the beach. Want the pots and bowls to make mud pies in the backyard? Go right ahead. Dessert before dinner? I’ll get the spoons. Let’s go back to the beach! Slip and slide in the front yard? Go get the hose! I was the boring, rule-enforcing parent. Everyone was happier when Dad was on a business trip. Beth lived to Be At Play, and playing with her kids was what she did best of all.

I’m reminded of a time when Curtis was in middle school. My aunts from Japan were visiting my mom in the Bay Area, and they planned to come down to Irvine for a day to see us. But wildfires in the LA area in 2003 affected flights to SoCal. We agreed that the risk of their return flight being delayed on the way back to Japan was too high. That was the sensible thing to do. I quickly resigned myself to missing them.

Beth didn’t.

She said, “You have a fun car. Take Curtis out of school and take a road trip up to see them.” I was stunned. Take Curtis out of school? Is that even a thing? That’s against the rules, right? Beth just handed me a note and packed a bag with his clothes. Off I went to the school. We had a great road trip up PCH through Big Sur. I’m sure we both remember that drive infinitely more than whatever Curtis missed at school, or whatever meetings I missed at work.

What a great mom.

It’s so fucking unfair she’s not here on Mother’s Day to see how great her kids are doing. She was at her happiest and proudest being their mom. She’s the reason they’ve grown into such incredible people. She was the fun one, the one so deeply connected to her kids. There are times I fear the wrong parent is still here. Especially on Mother’s Day.

But let’s be honest: Mother’s Day is absurd.

It’s performative. It’s commercial. It’s a well-meaning but overcooked holiday built on $6 greeting cards and overpriced brunch menus. It reduces an entire identity to a single day of acknowledgment, when the work of real mothering happens in a thousand small, unphotographed, unpaid, and unseen moments.

Beth didn’t need a day. She lived it. Every day. She was the kind of mom who said yes to mud pies and mental health days. Who let her kids skip school and slip and slide on the front lawn. Who remembered which page Goldbug was hiding on and who never had a tissue in her backpack, but always knew how to make everything better.

So yeah, the ceremony of Mother’s Day feels kind of empty now. Like a performance staged in a theater where the lead actor is gone. Except that the audience is our kids. And they don’t need a reminder to celebrate their mom. They just miss her.

Beth’s nature rubbed off on me over time. I made a fake ID for Curtis to get into the Porsche Factory Tour in Stuttgart. We couldn’t risk them actually enforcing the 18-and-over rule. We took two road trips to pick up a car in Chicago and drive it back to California. Lauren and I saw Broadway shows together in New York and San Francisco. I’m a better dad—and a better man—because of Beth.

Spring is arriving in the mountains in fits and starts. Two weeks ago, I was backcountry skiing. On Saturday, I wore shorts and flip-flops. For the last two days, it’s been snowing off and on. The change of season is unpredictable. So is adjusting to this new life. Becoming a widower was a moment; living with it comes in fits and starts.

Today, I had lunch with a group of young startup founders—their energy is infectious. Tonight, I sit alone, and her absence is crushing. The swing from buoyant and engaged to quiet and aching is as unpredictable as the shift in the weather from winter to spring in the mountains.

Curtis was the first infant I held, the first toddler I watched take his first steps. Other parents warned us about the Terrible Twos. Living through that year—and the next—I came to believe the Terrible Twos are just there to build endurance so you can survive the “Threenager.”

Now, I need someone to reassure me that my Terrible Twos aren’t going to get worse. Or maybe that’s the point—to build endurance, to strengthen the resilience I’ll need for the journey today, and for whatever comes next.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald