I have been sitting here in front of a blank page for...I don't know (a half hour? an hour?), trying to think of something to write. Trying to find that little spark of thought, of creativity. That little spark that has been hiding from me lately, dancing around my mind while I fumble and pant and try to catch it. I've got nothing.
I journal regularly right now, but writing for an audience I just feel stuck or empty. My words and thoughts don't feel elegant and flowy, they feel chopped and random, if they come out at all. Do I write about my day? What I've been doing with the girls? Do I write a funny anecdote? Do I have a funny anecdote?
In some ways I feel like I must not be noticing my life as much if I can't find things to write about. Am I just going through the motions completely unaware of what's really going on? But then, I don't know that's true because in other ways I feel like I am living a LOT more consciously lately, over-aware of how I'm interacting with people, especially my children.
On Sunday we colored together. Usually when they're drawing or cutting or playdoughing and they want me around I just sit at the table and watch, but Sunday afternoon I took a page from a Christmas coloring book, surrounded myself with crayons and starting coloring. I think it took the girls by surprise (myself too). Mommy, you're coloring!? Hope asked. She immediately found a page from the same Christmas book and settled in next to me, and then Paige was not far behind her. We mulled over colors, compared the characters on our pages (Hope had a reindeer, I had a reindeer and elves, and Paige had the jackpot with a reindeer, elves, and Santa), and filled those pages until our fingers were stiff. It was one of my favorite parts of the weekend.
I love the holiday season. I love the twinkly lights, the carrying on and tweaking of traditions, the family chaos, the holiday after holiday, the magic of snow. I love it. I love it. I love it. But this year I am approaching it with a little less excitement and a lot more dread.
Last week after we marked Calvin's due date, I realized that I am not ready for the holidays. And not because it's-coming-so-fast and let's-get-to-Thanksgiving-before-we-think-about-Christmas. No, I am not ready for this holiday season because I am not ready to celebrate these big moments minus one. I don't want it to be Thanksgiving Without Calvin and Christmas Without Calvin.
I don't know how it is that I can be dreading the next couple of months while eagerly anticipating the radio station playing Christmas music. I'm not ready for all the holiday cheer, and yet I can't help but be excited for this time of year. I want it to be a joyful time. I want it to be happy and fun and full of magic. And it will. I know it will. But it also won't. And I guess I'm just not ready for that, mostly because I don't know what "that" will look like.
And now my previously blank page has words and my slightly-less fuzzy brain is again fuzzy. (Which I'm pretty sure means it's time for bed.)