My mom is dead. My mom died. My mom passed away.

I am trying to find the way that it feels right coming out of my mouth.  There isn't one.  It feels awkward and wrong no matter what words I use.  It doesnt seem real. The words are bitter and sharp no matter how I say them.  I watch my babies mourn and it takes my breath away.  People who know me know that I don't do crying babies.  I comfort.  I jostle.  I distract.  I find myself back in that place from when they were infants.  Trying to find the right combo of it all to take their minds off of their current pain.  Kaity has made herself physically ill from sobbing.  She has wept silently when she thought we were all asleep.  I don't know which is more heartbreaking.  Joshypot is angry.  So. very. angry.  He is frustrated at the mourning.  He is annoyed with the crying.  Until he can't hold it any longer.  Then as he pushes the tears across his face with his grubby little boychild hands as my heart aches.  I remember angry.  I felt angry when my dad died.  I was angry for years.  I don't want my boychild to be angry for years. 
I feel like I can't breathe.  My chest aches, my heart is heavy, my stomach is twisted.  It makes me want to insulate myself.  To not love anybody. To not feel this hurt ever again.  And then I remember how she laughed.  How she built crutches for those she loved to excuse our stupidity. our youth.  our delivery when our intention wasn't realized.  How her hands felt when she hugged us tight or massaged away the worry from my neck.  Then I realize how lucky I am to have had a champion, a cheerleader, a friend, a confidant, a prayer warrior, and encourager. How her love was what made her those things.  Her willingness to be real and raw and invested.  I do want to love.  I do want to care.  I already do.  How can you not when you spend your life being loved and cared about?