It's the end of another Christmas and the familiar bittersweet tears tug at me. I won't let them fall - in part because I'd have to explain them, but I'm not feeling true sorrow either. It's a strange mixture... satisfaction at pulling off another successful event, joy at watching Melody play and celebrate, grief for Dad still, even after so many years, a comfortable pleasure after spending the day with my siblings and families.
Grace made it though another day, another milestone. That was part of the bittersweetness, watching Melody and Grace together. I wish I could guarantee success for them. I still carry residue of that childhood dream that Christmas should equal perfection. But it doesn't.
This year was so much better than most. But not everyone was blissfully happy every second. Grace was fluctuated between boredom and silliness. But she was present. And hubby's new viewpoint on the idolatry of Christmas hurts too. I hope someday I can let go of that burden of responsibility for other's happiness. For now I take comfort in recognizing I am gaining ground and better than I was.
Perhaps Christmas just is bittersweet for middle-aged women. I know I'll never again experience that 'perfect' day that I knew as a child; the mounting excitement that crescendos into the frenzy of discovery beneath the wrapping paper. I grew up with wonderful traditions that I have not been able to carry forward and I miss not being able to walk through them each year.
But mostly I miss my dad on days like this; his voice, his hug, how he could always make me feel safe and secure even when things are so very insecure. That's the piece of Christmas I miss most. That's where the tears are...
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