I didn't think Christmas was going to bother me much. I know some people have been dreading it for months already, while I was still feeling pretty okay. Christmas? Piece of cake. I have a lot to be excited about. But I am starting to feel a few new twinges of grief as well, and it kind of sucks.
I miss my babies, in the dull, aching way which I have learned precedes the hole-in-my-chest, can't-remember-how-to-breathe kind of way. When it happens, it is like stepping distractedly into the street, experiencing a sudden sense of unease, and then glancing up to find myself face to face with a city bus. I am not looking forward to this feeling, and am trying to figure out a way to prevent it, if I can. But I'm not really sure that I can.
I really want some kind of gift this year that acknowledges that I'm a mom, though I don't know if anyone will think to give me one. And I want to buy presents for my kiddos. I know it's crazy, but it is a kind of crazy that I'm okay with. I will buy them stuff if I want to. Even though they will never use it, I hope that someday, a child of mine will. I like to think of these items as hand-me-downs. It makes me happy to think that a little brother or little sister will have a few things that were passed down to them; that's how it should be, in a family. Things that were gathered with hope, and infused with love. Things with a little bit of history, even if not as much as I would have liked.
I wish I could wrap up the gifts though, and that they would be torn open on Christmas morning by eager little hands. Lissie would have been old enough to really get it this year, and I can just imagine her noisy excitement and her generous spirit and contagious joy. After it was all over, I would have put sticky red and green bows on Noah's fuzzy little head, and taken pictures of them together, still in their jammies, amongst the piles of shredded wrapping paper.
Oh. Oh, my heart.