Gratitude

 It is the beginning of the holiday season, three and a half years later.

I remember trying to get through the first holidays after my husband took his life. My children were SO little. SO very little. They were 1.5 and 4 and 6 and they couldn't really understand what had just happened. But there we were, suddenly trying to make holidays as a family of four instead of a family of five.

I was overwhelmed.

I had to shut myself down to my children. I had to. 

I didn't have to. I was compelled to.

I was still reeling. I was dealing with feelings by not dealing with feelings.

I went through the motions. Cook a turkey. Bake cookies. Wrap presents. Make a holiday. Make it look like a holiday, even if it does not feel like a holiday. Instead of feeling like a holiday, it felt like "I can't believe he did this to me and to them." Everything, even the turkey, was marinated in that feeling.

It is three and a half years later.

It is me and the three of them and our two dogs in a new home.

Yesterday, I took the kids to pick up baked goods. I bought them hot cocoa with whipped cream and marshmallows to enjoy in the car. When we got back to the house, I lit a "harmony"-scented candle, I put on holiday music, and I went searching through the basement for all the decorations I could find. I asked the kids to help me choose the table cloth, and for their approval on the candles. 

As we made deviled eggs together, my 8 year old said "this looks so great, can we keep it this way forever?"

Today we will cook the turkey and we will make mashed potatoes. My daughter will excitedly put out the dishes. My son will check on the oven every 15 minutes. My littlest will ask if he can feed our dogs everything. Then we will sit around a small table, the four of us, and we will talk about gratitude.

I am grateful for the past three years, for the journey from there to here, from numbness to feeling, from fear of life to forgiveness of life, and for my ability to fully be here for and with my children. I do not take any of this for granted. Not the smell of the candle, not the songs playing in the background, not the tablecloth, not the food on our plates. Not the three faces of my children. I do not take myself for granted, my ability to be, to mother, to love, to try, even if it is sometimes hard. We are all here. We are all together.