Hinges

So we put up our Christmas tree on Friday.  Usually we don't get it up until sometime the first week/weekend of December, but we jumped the gun a bit this year.  The tree is all decorated and we've got our wreath on the front door.  I still need to put the lights and garland on the banister and the kids will be doing various crafts the next couple of weeks to supplement our decorations (paper garland, footprint/handprint reindeer, paper bag gingerbread men, etc).  Its so nice to have the glow of Christmas lights in the house.  We've barely opened the blinds or turned on the lights all week (not that it would've made much difference to open the blinds, anyway--its been rainy and overcast everyday).

It was Doug's idea to go get one the day after Thanksgiving--and that fit perfectly with my must-get-things-done-baby-is-coming-impatience.  I've been trying to figure out why I'm so antsy about getting things done this time around, and I kept just blaming it on nesting (which some of it undoubtedly is).  Then it occurred to me that both of the previous times I had babies, I was rushing to get as much done before the baby arrived as possible because 2 weeks after giving birth, we would be rearranging our whole lives again.  I don't have to worry about all the boxes I don't have packed.  I don't have to worry about keeping enough clothing out that we can get dressed everyday while waiting to get our own space again.  This time, I will have a baby, come home to my house and quietly settle in for Christmas--no urgent move hundreds or thousands of miles away hanging over my head.  Everyone will have plenty of space to sleep, in our own beds.  If laundry doesn't get done, its OK, because the rest of our clothes won't be packed away.  We can do normal grocery shopping and eat normal meals, not worry about having perishable food left in the house when its time to leave.  

I've known this all along, of course, and have repeatedly said how nice it will be to have a baby and then not move, but I don't think it really sunk in until today.  If I get tired or worn out or crash, like I did after my difficult first delivery--if for example, my baby won't latch on to nurse, won't sleep, but will scream at me all the time while I'm exhausted and not recovering physically--it won't matter nearly as much, because there are so many more options available for help.  If I get a nasty mastitis infection like I did after my second baby, the fever, severe nausea, chills and exhaustion won't matter so much, because I'll just be able to take my baby up to my own bed with me and relax, instead of being miserably ill trying to sleep on a hide-a-bed mattress on someone else's floor in the middle of all their stuff and activities.  For the first time, after I have my baby I will be home.

Home.  That's something I think about a lot this time of year.  The definition of the word has changed somewhat for me over the years.  It was a very definite, concrete thing for me growing up in my parent's house.  In college, it was memories of warm days tromping up the creek and watching the Hawaii rain wistfully thinking about snow.  Now, more often than not, the word conjures up images of just that: babies--my babies.  My long-haired, scruffy-faced husband and my strawberry blonde tots are home to me.  But that has not erased my longing for the world and people of my childhood, especially this month. 

As we've prepared to welcome our little girl home, I've been so grateful that my mom is able to make it down for the birth again, and that its happening so close to Christmas.  Even though she won't be here for the actual holiday, having her here so soon before will erase some of the horrible homesickness I usually feel this time of year.  A lot of it is swallowed up in the joy of spending Christmas with my kids--for some reason, most adults never let me in on the secret that, as wonderful as it is to be a child at Christmas, it is even better to have small children at Christmas.

I still miss Montana.  I miss snow.  I miss Christmas treeing at the Stump Ranch and Mom's warm cinnamon rolls dipped in a big glass of milk.  I sometimes miss the wonderful evenings in the warm cocoon of my grandma's little trailer--hanging up her little elves and hooking candy canes across the chain in her livingroom--that it still makes me cry now and then.  I miss lining up in our PJs in front of the tree.  I miss the sight of the Missions, blanketed heavily in snow, so majestic and harsh and at once peaceful and reassuring.  I miss Mom's jokes about our turkey and red jello holiday buffet.  I miss buying Hillshire Farms baskets for my dad so that I could eat the content, and stealing the fudge Grandma brought down for him.  I miss Christmas Eve dinners that felt so full, as if half the town must be in our livingroom.

And I'm glad that I do.  Its such a delightful melancholy.  How blessed I am to have people and places in my life so worth missing?  I am only sad because of many memories filled with wonderful happiness and joy.  That's a heartache I'm grateful to know.  Its a heartache that reminds me I am loved, and have many to love--that reminds me of how tremendously blessed my life has been and is.

And this big ol' bump we call Kylie is right now making me terribly uncomfortable and miserable, but reminds me that soon I'll have a precious little baby to snuggle up in the glow of the Christmas lights with.  A baby that will soon turn into a toddler who will throw tantrums and a preschooler who will somedays make me want to tear my hair out.  And I know that each night when I put her to sleep, the only things I'll really remember very well from the day are the things she did that put a smile on my face.  A lot of our discomforts in life are simply there to remind us of our many comforts.  May I be more grateful for them.