I love Christmas. Mostly.
I love lights, treat foods, music, the tree, the presents (to a degree…).
I love the preparations – cooking, and making, and visiting Christmas markets.
One of our biggest traditions is unpacking the tree and setting it up. We take out all the special ornaments and talk about where each one came from – these from Mommy’s Aunt for each of the boys’ first Christmas’s…this bell Mommy gave to Daddy…this was from Nanny and Poppy… each has a story and memory. This year it’s going to be melancholy. Over 20 years more than a few came from my mother-in-law. Telling those stories is going to be hard. I always want my boys to remember the joy and adoration she felt for them. But I know Ned at 4 will have no solid memories of her. Only shadow memories of the stories we’ve repeated so often he thinks he remembers. That hurts my heart in ways I can’t even articulate.
I thought this was going to be a cheerful post about the Christmas markets we went to this weekend and how we all loved it.
But apparently not.
Some of my clay came back, fortunately not too dark. The rest will hopefully go though the kiln this week.