I normally write a Christmas letter every year. I usually take the Kid out somewhere and we take a special picture to put in with the letter. I've even bought the special poinsettia laser printer paper and envelopes. I would spend hours, nay, days, on the letter, the addresses, the stamping. I would muse on life, tell about vacations, events, etc.
But what do you do when your Christmas letter would more likely read like Officer Krupke than Yes, Virginia? I tried writing a letter, but it kept coming out very Eeyore.
This year was tough, which is why I think I'm having a hard time not only with a Christmas letter, but with Christmas in general this year. Christmas comes during the longest nights, shortest days, and a time when my body just wants to hibernate. I want to do nothing but sleep.
2005 is a year I will be glad to be done with. But I'm trying really hard not to concentrate on the bad. Sure, my gramma died, I spent more time in psychiatrists and psychologists offices and school meetings than ever before, The Kid was diagnosed as bipolar in 2005, but I've also confirmed and reconfirmed throughout the year how much I really love That Kid. I mean, I love him so much I just look at him and want to consume him. Like I mean I want to EAT him. Whoa, that sounds psycho, but I think parents and people in love every where say, "Yeah, I know what that means." Lovers and madmen, and all that.
I can't forget, as well, that we had a fantastic summer. My best friend and truly, my soulmate (if only I swung that way!), Jaci decided early in the summer that she was going to move home to Chicago at the end of August. The entire summer, then, was devoted to spending time with her. The Kid and her have an extremely special bond, like they just like to hang out without me around. 2005 will go down as the year in which Sunday Sundae was invented. It is also the year in which Jaci met Anton Newcombe (also look here). Ha.
There has been a lot of good times with the tough times this year. That's life. And I love it.