Progress. I think I'm making progress. I know I am. I'm surrounded by decorations, the real ones from my past, new ones we've made, and the ones we have blended together. This is a huge step from where I was last Christmas.
I play Christmas music, much like I used to do when Bob was still alive.
I want to bake. I look at pictures of things I want to do. I see my recipes in my head. I buy the ingredients for the cookies. I am So. Very. Close.
I am still not there.
I have to remind myself it is only the second Christmas without him.
I have to remind myself that it is okay to feel like I can't be happy all the time.
I have to remind myself that it isn't my job to bake all of the cookies, wrap all of the presents, or make sure things look like a Pottery Barn catalog. Hell, I don't want to live in a Pottery Barn catalog. I am not Martha Stewart. My shoes are too sexy, and my daughter likes me too much.
We have a decorated tree, a happy bunch of kids, and the crew is getting the rest of the decorations up outside this weekend. My daughter and her BFF have wrapped a lot of the gifts and the boyfriend and I will wrap more tomorrow before his family arrives. The rest will probably arrive in Amazon Blue. God Bless Amazon Blue and Prime Shipping.
Until then, I'm mowing down Trader Joe's mini gingerbread men like it's my Mother-Fucking JOB. LIttle frosted men. I highly recommend them. I might be passing them off as "my cookies" this year if I can't pull my head out in the next few days.