Bringing my heart to Bethlehem

Merry Christmas, y’all!

I figure I must only have like 5 readers left by now. I am so sorry I never write anymore… it is just immeasurably hard to write about my life whilst sticking to the rule of not “talking” about Little Dude. I do have some news about that, though. It looks very likely that by spring of this year, you will get to meet our new little guy. Why you ask? because he will be ours. Yup.

Ahem…  sorry for the preemptive tangent, there.

Abby in fine Abby form made her mind up weeks ago that she would stay up waiting for Santa to thank him for giving her a baby brother to keep. She was driven… think Wall Street mogul driven. While most people laugh and say “Oh, my (fill in kid’s name here) tried that when he/ she was five, too. They lasted till Midnight.” They simply do not know our Abby. Tonight, as I left cookies out for Santa with her I mumbled “next year we are leaving him chocolate covered coffee beans.”

She made it clear to 3Am, y’all. Three. Our lawns are covered in snow and Jack Frost is a-nipping… and I was just sweating like a vegan at a southern potluck. Little Dude will be up and smiling in an hour and I am beat. This early morning.. as I looked at the spoils of Christmas shopping.. or as my mom and I call it- female hunter/gatherer syndrome, I thought to myself… Jesus, I need you. I need you to remind me why we celebrate WHY do I need to make each Christmas wonderful? I need to bring my heart to Bethlehem.

In my life, I have a lot of reminders of the love and miracle surrounding that Holy Night:

I could think of how as I type, there is a little brown baby boy asleep in his Moses basket who statistically, no one expects anything awesome from… but when I see his face, I see the face of God in so many ways.

I could relate to y’all and remind myself of how Hubs loves my kids.. as his own. He is a man of God and the man of my heart and house…. quite like the coolest step-dad ever, Joseph.

I could look at my Mom, asleep in her chair and reflect on how her body keeps her from joining us at church, but she first introduced me, as a small child, to the spirit of giving.

But tonight, I want to tell you the story of when The Teen was a little younger than Abby… but just as, well, tiring.

The Teen was three and a half the year I finalized my divorce from his dad. It was a long drawn out battle and one I could not lose… for The Teen’s sake. I spent every last dime I had on lawyers and securing a safe life for my, then, little boy. I had to sell our 4 bedroom house and move in with my mother. Not the best of years for us. The Teen would have never known though. I worked very very hard on making sure he had everything he needed and most of what he wanted. I think 2 years went by without me buying one thing for myself. One day, while in the mall, I saw this most amazing yummy cashmere sweater… cobalt blue. It was just the perfect sweater. Did I mention that it was as soft as butter and tailored in the most classic of ways. I NEEDED this sweater. But, it was Fall and I needed to conserve money for my son’s Christmas. So, I waited. Weeks  turned to months and the first week of December my sweater went on sale. From 200.00 to 65.00. I made my move. I gave myself my first Christmas gift as a single mom. I would wear this sweater to Midnight Mass.

Something about putting up Christmas trees, lights, stockings, etc. has the amazing ability to turn even the most gentle hearted child into a crazed Ebola Monkey and my little boy was no different. The weeks leading up to that Christmas were filled with time-outs, early bed times and lots of chocolate for me. Where had my sweet little guy gone? And could Santa bring him back? Seriously, those weeks made me doubt if I could ever be a good single mom. My sweet boy had gone rogue.

Christmas Eve came and I finally got the little booger to sleep just in time to head out to Midnight Mass. I threw on my skirt, make-up and pulled my hair up in a twist… now for my gift to me… my sweater! I slipped the yummy buttery goodness on and rushed to the door. Now, my mom, pre-stroke, had a wicked sense of humor. To this day, I am shocked she actually stopped me. She could have easily let me walk into Saint Anthony’s laughing heartily at home. But, she did not.

Mom: Hun, WHERE are you GOING?

me: to Mass

Mom: Have you looked at yourself?

me: Do I have a base line? ( any good Southern woman would rather be caught dead than with that pesky line of make-up on the jawline)

Mom: (laugh, laugh, snort) Sweetie, I think you should go LOOK in the MIRROR

I rolled my eyes at her and grumbled to myself as I walked into the hallway to inspect myself. I knew I looked cute. I had been courting this outfit for months…. then I saw it.

My Ebola monkey of a child had cut a hole in my sweater. A big square to be exact. Right. Over. My. Left. BOOB!

If he had not looked so cute sleeping in his Old Navy Christmas PJ’s, he very well may not be called The Teen today. I was livid. I don’t think I have ever been that angry at my son. A hole? In the titty? Seriously?

I cannot tell you what Hymns were sung or what the sermon was about that night.. I lit my candle, sang Christmas songs all the time mourning the death of cobalt blue yumminess.

I am no longer a catholic… and I miss the formality of Midnight Mass sometimes. I do not, however, miss the length of said mass. I think I got home at 2am that night. Time to be Santa because I knew my son would be up in a couple hours vibrating with giddiness. I assembled a Big Wheel, put out toys and got to stuffing stockings. As I was putting the required toothbrush in each stocking, I dropped one on the Nativity scene. That’s when I saw it.

There he was, our Baby Jesus. Surrounded by a loving, scared, YOUNG mom… an overwhelmed dad.. and covered. In the most regal, yummy, cobalt blue blanket.

As I sneaked down the hallway to my room, I peeked in on my son knelt by his bed and silently thanked him.   For  my heart first found Bethlehem through the eyes of my first child.

Merry Christmas, y’all.

CeCe