This week has been emotionally eventful. It began with a powerful urge to decorate my home for the holidays, as if the Christmas spirit herself had possessed my body and made me snort glitter—all was aglow with seasonal bliss.
We got crafty and made messes.
Hung snowflakes from the ceiling.
And then somewhere between hanging snowflakes and putting out the nativity, Spunk hijacked the camera and took some festive pictures of his own. Like this (Spunk, thinking to myself, the camera, the camera, I’ve got the camera). Blurry and creepy all at the same time.
|Look at the nostrils on that kid!|
And this, which is unnerving because somehow those appendages look more leg-ish than arm-ish to me.
And this, which is an actual picture of his legs.
And this, a block fortress constructed, apparently, to house his SpiderBear.And this, which is, oddly enough, his spoils from Christmases past.
Okay, so back to decorating. We got out the nativity.
And placed the stocking hangers on the mantle.
The kids even posed for a picture in front of the fireplace.I thought, So this is what it feels like to get excited about Christmas again. The world was instantaneously filled with ambient light and a Gaussian blur applied. In that moment, the Hareld Angels just may have been singing.
For years I haven’t mustered much enthusiasm for the holidays. The year after the divorce my ex and I shared an awkward Christmas with the kids at his place, and the year after that, last year, the kids spend the day with their dad. This is the third Christmas following the big D, and if what some counselors claim is correct—that it takes one year to recover for every three you were married—I’m right on track. Can I get a hallelujah shout? Or even a little hollah?
Merry Christmas to me! And you too, of course.