Sunday morning is quiet and dark.
It's the last one of the year and church is taking a day off. There was one major dog-related casualty in the night, the guts of a Buzz Lightyear pillow spilled out over the whole of the office. And the house is empty, minus two.
I think I'm fairly good at goodbyes now, and when they depart two hours before sunrise, I give long hugs and trade I love yous, stand at the door and wave through steamed glass. Then Christmas is over, I get back in bed with the children. We go back to real life and spend the afternoon by the sea. After 9 days with them, I'm full and contented. But a day or two after I miss everyone all over again, all the people who did not come. I long for my sisters, miss the company of my nephews, wish I could send the kids with their aunts and uncles into the snow.
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One week ago I sat here pouring out the angst and heartache of having to break my children's hearts at Christmas. We were saying no to a dog and I typed the grave injustice of it all...
Today this dog snores on our landlord's loveseat, nose pointed in the air, her name Cocoa.
I should apologize first to my friends and father, whom I bombarded with tearful texts and questions and frustrations. Our life is normal, but it's also not. And the bumper-stickered car next door - "A dog is for life, not just for Christmas" - haunts me still. I'm not accustomed to making decisions "for life." I can hardly make decisions "for Monday."
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I have a little helper sitting next to me. It's the big kids' homework time, so he and I are doing our "work" upstairs on his bed, pressed up against his window, a gray sky our backdrop. He's tracing lines on the LeapPad, working on his writing, practicing how to hold a pen.
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DAY 1
I watch for her, sweaty children in masks making their way from the clubhouse. Her pink backpack precedes her and I wait, anxious: Did she make it ok? Sid she stay dry? Did she love it? As she turns, her frown confirms my worst fears.
Slowly, she makes her way towards me, her arm juts out, middle finger upturned in my face.
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I've mentioned this before, how she sends us pictures.
We come home to a small white envelope, a letter detailing her parade outing (she was the grand marshall), the weather report (hot and dry), and pictures from my childhood. I cringe at the bangs, the perm bordering on child cruelty, my penchant for hats.
I think, no wonder she's sending these to me. Who would want to remember those dangling bow earrings?
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