I had a lousy day today.
Started out coughing like Doc Holliday.
Took cold meds so I could get through work. Supposed to be 12-hour time-release. They made me disoriented and shaky for the first 2-3 hours and wore off about 10 hours (which was, of course, before I was home).
I did 3 tattoos today, not one of which I was entirely happy with. That alone is depressing.
The kids and I started wrapping presents when I got home, and for the first time in about 10 years, ran out of wrapping paper. You gotta be kidding me.
Five more sleeps until Christmas. I am not done knitting.
I got a sinking feeling on the way home tonight that somehow I’ve failed my kids for Christmas. Like the gifts won’t be what they need or won’t be enough or there’s just not enough we’ve gotten done as a family. This is the first time since before B was born that I’ve been working full-time going into Christmas. And this will be the first year EVER that I won’t have my kids with me on Christmas.
Growing up, Christmas was a difficult time. My birth family ALWAYS* fights over something at Christmas (* by always I really mean ALWAYS), and I also suspect (though my memory is cloudy at best about it, having shut out more than half my childhood) that there was a LOT of abuse that happened to me at Christmas time, when of course the other adults are all distracted by, well, everything.
I’ve spent my adult life and motherhood career (at 26 Christmases and counting, it IS a career) trying to make this a cheerful, fun, meaningful, non-materialistic, spiritual time for my family. Every year I feel that once again, somehow, I’ve failed.
Maybe that IS my Christmas tradition.