Last night, I was sitting in front of the fire, Christmas gifts spread out before me waiting to be wrapped, and I hit my breaking point. Weariness, utter, utter weariness welled up in me. It was not the constant lack of sleep or the extra bustle of the holidays, suddenly, immediately I felt I could hardly hold my head up, sit up right and I began to weep. And what I hated most was I couldn't say why. I always like to pinpoint a trigger or a moment or an event, but here I was past the dreaded 17, past the sometimes more exhausting day after.
"Is it because it's the 22nd?" Brian asked. I didn't even realize it was the 22nd, the day we buried him, but that may very well been it. December is sneaky. Just when I think I've powered through, it sucker punches me.
And yet, from that sprung a conversation that needed to happen about this life we live with two little people running around and one nestled in our hearts, about how the people we've reconstructed from our brokenness fit together and how we even try to figure that out between diapers and drop offs and pickups and bedtime and why,why,why, and work. Perhaps I needed to break last night, but, oh, I'm ready to be done with December.