December 3, 2008 by Marj Hatzell
I’m in a funk. Don’t feel like doing a darn thing.
Can you tell?
I’ve barely showered, barely cleaned, barely cooked and barely blogged in weeks. Yes, it was me that you smelled. Sorry ’bout that.
See, the thing is? This time of year is normally magical and exciting for me. Last year I lost a little of the feeling, this year I feel even less. And I know what it is. And what it isn’t.
It isn’t because I’m depressed (although, I admit, I am treated for depression).
It isn’t the insomnia (but it doesn’t help).
It isn’t the lack of sleep from Bugaboo (doesn’t help, either).
It isn’t lack of exercise (though, I admit, I could use more).
It isn’t Christmas Stress (I am very organized, really!).
It isnt’ the lack of money (we have what we need).
It does have everything to do with Bugaboo.
See, Bugaboo will be six a few days after Christmas. A time when most kids are having trouble sleeping because they are so excited (and so coked up on sugar). A time when most folks bounce from relative’s home to relative’s home, visiting cousins and aunts and grandmas. A time when little boys are learning to write their first list, circle the whole toy catalogue and leave cookies out for Santa, “Just in case he’s real.” When Bugaboo was born, I pictured two boys, ages eight and six, in their footies, sound asleep and nestled in their bunk beds. I pictured trying to decide who got which truck or car and who got which book, since they both requested the same one. I pictured taking pictures of my boys, each with a drumstick in their chubby hands. I pictured their greasy hands pulling a the wishbone. I pictured them jumping on Momma’s bed in their underwear. I pictured gap-toothed smiles and off-key singing of Holiday tunes (and all the wrong words).
I didn’t picure my eighth year of diapers.
I didn’t picture yet another year without hearing his voice.
I didn’t picture therapies, doctors and appointments.
I didn’t picture a child who hides under tables because of the noisy crowd at dinner.
I didn’t picture a kid who climbs into fireplaces when the coals are still hot.
I didn’t picture jumping for joy because the kid ate something besides cheerios or rice crackers (aka cardboard).
Don’t get me wrong, I am not disappointed. I would still rather live my life ten times over than have another. I still thank G-d ever single day for my little blessings, they make me whole. But it ain’t easy. I still mourn. I still wish. I still hope. I still cry. And today I am crying quite a bit. Please, do not feel sorry for me. I really don’t need pity. What I need is to process, grow and move on. I need to feel it and learn from it. I need it.
Sounds funny to admit you need to feel pain to feel better, doesn’t it?
And yet, it is what it is. Here it is, in all its raw glory. I am in pain. I hurt. I cry. I mourn. I love. I love that little boy with all my heart. Everyday I love him more. Every smile I see every morning when he pulls the covers back up over his Huge melon little head makes me appreciate having him, thanking my lucky stars and my creator for having the change to be his momma. I’m HIS MOMMA. How many people are this lucky? Not many. Just me. And we’ll make memories. And we’ll find new things to picture. And we’ll still love our life. Heck, I’ll be fine in about an hour, really. Sometimes I just need to cry. It’s a very good cleanse, you know?
Great for the skin, these saline tears.