Stockings

I grew up loving the Christmas season but not really understanding it. We weren't particularly religious folk; for us, the Christmas pageant was just an opportunity to visit with our friends and snitch as many cookies from the cookie plate as possible. Baby Jesus was just some kid who didn't know who his daddy was...like some of my cousins.

Regardless to this ignorance, my mom did up Christmas the way Martha Stewart can fold a linen napkin. With flare. Every year was a competition with to see if she could out do the year before. Could she toss more tinsel on an already over-burdened tree? Could she squeeze in another Santa figurine on the coffee table? (Oh look, there is approximately two square inches of space that haven't been decorated.)

For the entire month of December, no matter what our family faults may be, I was always proud to be a part of this family. Because we always had the best decorated house in town. Inside and out.

Thankfully my mom just didn't decorate. She baked. Not only did we have the prettiest tree, but an ample amount of freshly baked goodies to consume while we lay in the dark and watch the twinkle of our tannenbaum.

Once I grew up and had kids of my own, it was a mad rush to replicate the memories of my Christmas yore. Boo didn't understand my desire to deck the halls; in his household they had a pathetic little Charlie Brown tree with six ornaments on it and one string of lights, most of which were burnt out. They didn't even have stockings. Unfreakingbelievable!

(My darling hubs would like to point out that Christmas for them was more than just tinsel and lights. It had religious and family meaning beyond how big the Christmas tree was, or if there was a talking Santa figurine.)

Whatever. My house rocked. His didn't.

Eventually, I caught up with my mom. My house is a magical place at Christmas time. I tossed the tinsel in favor of garland, traded in the Santas for some beautiful nativity scenes, but I know how to deck these halls. And my kids love it. And the best part of all was watching the Bug's face light up when the Christmas tree was turned on. He didn't understand the fuss, or the muss. But he knew something was up. And every decoration I had was an opportunity for therapy for him. Touching the tree, feeling the prickles. Holding the smooth, cold glass balls in his small chubby little hands. Tasting the peppermint across his wet lips, from the candy cane I would swipe across his tongue.

All of it was so new and fresh for him, every year. And he loved it. While Fric and Frac pranced with excitement, barely able to contain their giddy glee at the thought of ripping into the presents, Shalebug thoughtfully stared at the twinkling lights, mesmerized by some vision only he could see.

So it became a pleasure to decorate every year. To see if I could outdo myself and my mother. I was building the excitement for Fric and Frac and I was providing an opportunity for Bug to reach out and talk with his angels. Every tupperware box Boo dragged in, bitching and moaning, was full of anticipation and excitement; filled with hope and promise.

It's not the same this year. Not for me, not for Fric and Frac. Sure, they are greedy little kids, anxiously awaiting the arrival of promised goodies for a year of half-assed good behavior. But the twinkle of the tree has lost it's sparkle. The water globes are no longer tiny little worlds of mystery, but just glass balls that no longer get drenched with drooly little fingers. The candy canes are now just candy to be forgotten on the tree, collecting dust. How does a person recapture the spirit of Christmas when the family angel is now on top of the tree, instead of in our arms?

How does a mother put on a happy face, decorate her home, bake her cookies, wrap her gifts, knowing that one of her children won't ever again stare at the glittery glow of her pretty tree?

So I carry on. I push through the throng of crazy Christmas shoppers, ignore the carols being sung on every corner and pretend nothing is wrong.

I bake, and I decorate. I tell silly jokes and I encourage the kids to dream of sugar plums and dancing fairies.

And I will watch the anticipation of the season build it's momentum in their tiny hearts, until they are busting at the seams with excitement on Christmas morning.

I will watch them tear into the paper-wrapped packages, and discard the bows I have lovingly placed on all the presents. I will watch their faces for signs of disappointment or glee when they discover what's inside their parcels.

I will play Christmas music and read the story of the birth of Christ, and try to carry on.

All the while ignoring the empty stocking that remains, mocking me, reminding me of what I lost. And what heaven gained.

Group Hug, People. My Therapist Says it Helps

When I started this blogging business, I simply expected to whittle away my hours and pass my days in a computer-humming haze. I was game for almost anything to make the hours tick by faster and I was grateful for any minute I did not have to spend dwelling on my shattered life and my throbbing heart.

Little did I know that this blogging business was addictive and time consuming. My husband calls it my computer crack. He may have a point.

But beyond the self-obsessed, egotistical and sometimes conceited aspect of blogging, surfing the blogosphere gave me something more than just the ability to self-actualize and poke fun at myself. It helped me reach out and communicate with other real, live people.

It helped me heal. It helped remind me I wasn't alone. There were people whose lives were just as screwed up as my own. Children who couldn't remember to flush the toilet and husbands who didn't know the sock fairy didn't exist and that those socks didn't actually walk themselves into the hamper.

Blogging gave me a means to be normal again.

And yes, I use that term loosely.

For that, my family and my therapist are enormously grateful. And so am I.

So when the incomparable (albeit, slightly hairy) Mrs. Chicky asks for a bloggy love in, I jumped all over it, like my two kids on a trampoline.

But sitting here, I am in a quandary. Do I blog about my sweet Australian doctor friend Jelly, who never fails to cheer me up with her kind words and incomparable mother?

Or do I post about the hysterically funny Kristen who not only made me clutch my sides from laughter, but was also one of the first to figure out that my now defunct blog and this blog belonged to one mommy?

But then I thought of composing an entire post about J and KimmyK and how, if the three of us ever got together, you just know that one of us would end up in the clink for drunk and disorderly, while the other two took pics to post on their blog.

Of course, there is always my love of a bald baby and her ability to rock the hat, so I began composing an ode to the inimitable Wonderbaby.

But I found I could not do justice to her bald head. And her mother knows too many big words for any of my ditties to be worthy of the Wonderbaby, so I scrapped that idea.

In the end, like a two-year old who hasn't had lunch and missed her morning nap, I was overwhelmed and daunted by my choices. My bloglines rocks. I just simply couldn't choose from all the bloggity goodness that I have collected there.

Just know that I read you, I love you and I need you.

Yes, I'm that annoying, clingy, little girl, who just wants to be part of the crowd and will sell her soul to do it.

I'll even do your homework for you, and give you my allowance.

I'm just so grateful you shone your beacon of hope for me, and then plucked me from my fog of grief.

Thank you.

After No Tomorrows

The last good memory I have of my son, was my being too damn lazy to get off my arse and put him to bed. So, instead of being a good mommy, I grabbed him and cuddled him on the couch for an extra half hour. He didn't fight it as he normally would, instead, he just burrowed in for more. When Boo came passing through the living room, I mentioned it was past Bug's bed time and insinuated he was a lousy father for allowing his son to stay up so late. At 8:29 p.m. my husband reached into my arms and took my son from me, as I smothered him with kisses.

After that, all my memories are akin to those from a cheap dimestore horror novel. And hours later, the Redneck mommy was born.

I didn't know what to post this weekend, it being the first anniversary since his passing. I didn't even know if I wanted to say anything at all. After all, how many times can you write you miss your son before even you get the point.

Enough! I get it! I miss him! Move on already!

But as I've discovered, moving on is not always so easy. This past year has been torturous, hard and somewhat miraculous. I have discovered more about myself and my family than I have ever known before.

Some of it good, a lot of it not. What amazes me, is the unrelenting love I still carry for my Shalebug. Shale was my life while he was here, and somehow, in death he has managed to shape every decision, every choice I have made since then. Little bugger. Of course, I needed an outlet to vent my grief, anguish and ultimately, love. So I bought a computer. Thank you, my most beautiful Mac baby, I love you. And I started surfing the net, looking for other parents who have been through what I have been through. I didn't find many. But what I found instead, was what ultimately saved me.

I found you.

At first, I lurked. Then I started commenting. And it wasn't long before I launched Redneck mommy. With every comment, every post, I healed. I grew stronger. Yes, I stumbled this summer, but who wouldn't? But I've picked up my pieces, my life and carried on.

And that is what I've learned this year. That I can do it. I am invincible. I am Supermom. (Just kidding. If anyone is still reading this drivel, I apologize.) I've learned I am a lot stronger than I realized and that love doesn't die just because your child does.

Don't get me wrong, I still panic at the thought of living to a ripe old age and not seeing my Bug again. What if I don't remember him? Worse, what if he doesn't remember me? What if, what if, what if. I've learned there is no such thing as a what if. There are only what are's.

I ache at the thought of not hearing his laughter ring out. Of not being slobbered on, shit on or puked on. But thankfully, Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever, stepped in to help out in that department. My kids, Fric and Frac, they've banded together like merry little thieves and wrapped themselves tighter around my heart.

All this love and missing has done one thing: expanded my heart. I want to love the whole damn world. ( Them's some good happy pills you've prescribed, Mr. Small Town Doctor.) But seeing as how I'm too damn poor to support the whole world, I'll settle for one. After all, I am not Madge or Brangelina.

Ultimately, that's my tribute to my son. Not the tattoos, the piercings or the posts. Just the simple ability of being able to love harder, longer and larger. That's what his life, death and the year since has brought.

So this Oct. 21st, I urge you all, to grab hold of your kids and drool all over them. They might fight you, squirm and wiggle. The older kids might roll their eyeballs and think you've lost what little of your mind you have left, but do it any ways.

Because that's another thing I have learned.

Sometimes, there are no tomorrows. Only the moments at hand. Enjoy them.