'ello. I'm over here…

I am still around, kinda. This time of year brings out the deep down grief that boils beneath the surface most of the year. It’s not spouting out of my nostrils of anything, but it’s closer to the surface. I feel like I want to cry for no apparent reason. I mean, I know there’s a reason, it just washes over me whenever it wants to.

No, I am not sad because I hate Christmas. I love Christmas, as a matter of fact. I love to get the tree and lights out and keep them out for as long as James will let me. My favorite thing to do at night after the kids (and usually James) go to bed is turn everything off but the Christmas tree and just chill.

Six years ago, James and I were heading out to do our Christmas shopping. We had left it until the last-minute that year, waiting to see when he would get laid off for the winter (back when he had a job where he was laid off each winter). I hadn’t felt the baby move much, so we were going to stop at the hospital real quick to have a little listen and then hit Target.

We never made it to Target.

My dad bought all of Emma’s Christmas presents that year and we gave James’ brother & sister-in-law all of the diapers we had been stock piling. Merry Christmas.

I don’t remember much from that Christmas. I know I spent quite a bit of time in bed. I know I was downstairs to see Emma open her gifts. I remember it was odd that both of my parents were in the same room at the same time and I didn’t give a flying fark if anyone was uncomfortable by it.

Christmas is hard. I am able to keep myself busy and try to keep my mind off from it. Then suddenly it gets closer to December 20th and I feel guilty that I have been avoiding his birthday and then the anniversary of his death. What kind of mom am I?

This is not to say that I have moved on, I will never move on. There is a huge piece of my heart missing from my home. There are questions from his younger sisters that I still have trouble answering. Abby, at 4 and a half, is starting to say things like “I miss my brother” even though she wasn’t born when he was here. She thinks he lives at the cemetery and she’s confused as to how he can be her big brother when he will always be a baby.

Where is the manual for dealing with this?

Until I sort that out, I keep knitting. My hands and fingers are sore from the lack of knitting any other time of the year. Calluses are starting to form again on my fingertips where the yarn slides through. I stare at my camera and wish I was motivated to do Christmas cards. I swear I’ll get them done but sometimes it feels impossible physically and mentally. I can’t explain it.

Abby, I know you miss your brother because I miss him too. Every.single.day.

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