My first action this morning — the last day of 2012 — was to curl tighter in bed and attempt to win the daily game of Pretend-to-be-Sleeping-Until-Andy-Feeds-the-Cats.
I lost. He feeds them about 80% of the time, so I can’t complain.
Before I accepted defeat, Ruby’s tiny mews got louder and more desperate. Quarter notes turned whole. Whole notes crescendoed. I thought, if she were human, I’d be arrested for neglect. Then I thought, oh, my baby is hungry, and I rushed to open the cans of food.
It’s so fucking strange the way wishes come true. Not so long ago, I told Andy it would be nice if we had family dinners — that even though there are only two of us, I’d like to sit around the table and share meals. Along came Ruby and Ellie. As it turns out, we have to supervise their feedings or Ellie would go hungry watching Ruby devour all the food in sight.
I’m re-reading this with an attempt at editor’s eyes and I’m wondering — why say “fucking” at the start of the last paragraph? Rather than this meta note here, wouldn’t it be better to either remove the word or justify it? Yes. But anyway, here I am. I’ll just keep going. I used the word “fucking” because sometimes I’ve spoken things that have later come true (by coincidence, surely) and it hasn’t been as delightful as gaining quality time with my family — it hasn’t been delightful at all, in fact, the subsequent events have been the fucking opposite of fucking delightful.
Yes. I’m angry. I have to figure out how to work through it without hurting anyone. That’s an annoying new year’s resolution. Here are a few more: I want to be a better parent to the cats, and a better partner to Andy, and a smarter, more dedicated writer. Can one get smarter? I don’t know. I don’t really want to think about self-improvement right now.
It’s a holiday after all.
What’s a happier thought? The cats. We sit on the floor next to them every day at 6am and 6pm. It only takes one of us, but often times Andy and I both gather — ten minutes of together time. As much as it feels like a chore, I’m aware it’s much easier than feeding children. I love it — my little family.
Today, after I fed the girls, I put on my big puffy down (sadly, not vegan) coat and stood on our deck (another wish come true) for a while watching the sun come up. I took a bad photo on the off chance that it might be good.
I’m feeling sort of new-yearsie, whatever that means. It’s more like an unidentified itch than anything else. Kind of auld lang synie, I guess.
G died in January 2011. And even though it was unexpected, the weeks leading up to — it — were painful. And it itself . . . remains my daily sadness.
I don’t know if this time of year will ever feel like whole holiday goodness ever again. I guess that’s what inevitable loss does to all of us.
This morning when I stood looking at the red horizon — the moon still bright over my right shoulder behind me — I tried to savor it, all of it. I tried to take in the celestial and feel it. I wanted to feel that wonder again that I used to feel years ago — but wonder is more rare than ever. And savoring is so much harder now.
It makes me sad.
I’m getting used to it.
I’m punchy, but not cheerful. Semi-motivated, but not excited. Restless, but not particularly energetic. Grateful, but not exactly happy.
Not unhappy either, really.
One of my favorite Instagramers is on holiday in New Zealand. You know all mentions of the Southern Hemisphere make me smile. He posted a photo of 2013 fireworks. His caption was simple — and just what I needed to read this morning, “The New Year begins”.
It does, doesn’t it?
Happy New Year, readers and friends.
Thank you for coming by.
I wish you and your families good health, laughter, meaningful companionship and happiness in 2013.