Christmas 2015 is over. Part of me wants to scream, "Thank God!" Part of me realizes that this Christmas-different and unperfect as it was-will live in my memory forever.
Christmas this year was far from normal. The girls and I only read a handful of our Christmas books. We didn't watch all of the Christmas movies. Not all of the decorations were dragged out of the closet.
Our literary tree-the real tree-was smaller than in years past. But Betsy and I carried it in the front door and placed it in the tree holder ourselves. Yes, it leaned a touch to the right. But oh, how proud the two of us were.
The lights on the artificial tree-the big one in the family room-they only go up as high as I could reach. Which is nowhere near the top. But I did it, myself. And that imperfect tree is a reminder of that.
The girls have left now for a week at their dad's. The weight of how lonely I am is almost too much to bear. But they need this time with him. So badly. They need to see Star Wars this week and have that memory be forever connected to their dad. Much as I wanted to take them. It's something special that they connect with him, and I have to just push myself aside and let that be.
I have plans for this week. I'm going to the movies with my sister tonight. I am planning to have dinner with a friend sometime this week. I'm getting my hair done. I'm working. I'm cleaning. I have a stack of books to start.
And I'm writing. Some of it here. Some of it in my journal. Some of it completely navel gazing, self consumed drivel, surely. Some of it hopefully having nothing whatever to do with my personal life. But all of it as my outlet, as my connection to Joy Elizabeth and who she is, and who she was, and who she will be moving forward.
Lucky me. I always get to start the new year with a new age. Let's hope that 37 is going to be an amazing year of growth.
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