When son got home from his midterm on Friday morning, he thought he’d play in the snow. He sorted through the snow clothes and realized that most of them were too small. He still feels like a little kid.
Later, he wondered if he’d fit into his dad’s boots, so he pulled them out of the box-of-things-to-be-donated. Without any ado, he wore them and played with his sister.
He’s so mad at his dad, but he’s not bitter. And now he fills his shoes.
The kids played outside while I made dinner. I went out to the balcony to plug in the Christmas lights daughter had hung. I thought it would be nice for her to see all her lights lit up from the yard.
I powered up those lights, even though I hate this Christmas.
While I was there, I watched her snowboard down the hill.
I didn’t know she could snowboard.
We’re all trying. We’re all changing.
Daughter had a meltdown after dinner. The reason doesn’t matter. Our simple annual rituals dug up the pain, I think. Afterward, we lit candles and read their children’s book about the Solstice, about ancient people who huddled in the darkness, hoping for the light.
The symbolism was not lost on us.
She spent the night in bed with me.
We’re all trying. Trying is hard.