Christmas is my favorite. While I am not the biggest fan of being cold, I love the sleepy atmosphere when all the trees and grass fall asleep under a blanket of snow. I love the bustle of people in the kitchen preparing food that could feed a small army. I love the excitement of finding the perfect gift for a difficult-to-buy-for family member. I love the giving nature people adopt and the smiles that are given so freely. The twinkling lights adorning homes and the smell of the fire and fir tree inside make me so content.
It’s not even a service they are selling. They’re selling dreams.
There’s a room in my house. Just down the hall from mine. There’s a room in my house. But it’s empty.
My last post held letters to my future “baby bee.” Those letters hold everything I want my child to know: that (s)he is loved, wanted, and prayed for. But there are things those letters lack: the anger, the pain, the struggle. Sure, they make mention of those, briefly. But they really don’t accurately represent the negative thoughts. And why should they? Eventually, when those letters are handed down, I don’t want the burden of the hardship I faced (am facing) to be felt by my son/daughter. So I leave them out. But if I were 100% honest, this is what the letters would look like:
Dear baby, You probably know by now I’m sentimental. You also probably know I love documentation, organization, and data. That’s why I write about everything “big” in life. You know I wrote your daddy “dear husband” letters dating back several years before we ever met? It’s because I wanted to believe he would be real someday, I wanted him to know I was thinking about him, even before I knew him. Well, baby, I’ve done the same for you. I’ve been writing letters to you since daddy and I decided we wanted a “you.” Here are a few of those letters.
I had a plan, you know. I was gonna graduate college, go to my dream college, get a degree in the sciences, find a great guy, get married, have kids, live happily ever after.