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You have been a strange year.
You’ve been the year of learning to parent two. Despite the fact that sweet David was born in 2010, he only shared 11 days with that equally awkward collection of days. I’ve learned about parenting a boy, about the mother-son connection, about passionate nurslings and mama’s boys. All those things I heard about having a son? They’ve proven themselves true.
I’ve also learned how to survive with only a fistful of whole night’s sleeps in an entire year.
2011, you have not been a year of travel. In the past I’ve gone to Brazil, Thailand, Mexico, Montana. The furthest I flew from Tennessee was Boston. My first venture into New England, and a very fun one.
You contained a lot of heartbreak over our little condo, my first “owned” nest, the home I brought my daughter to and that I still can’t ponder without a slipping-down feeling. God has worked in my life and mind and heart a great deal through this experience, but I can tell you one thing, 2011: this experience gave me a pounding about our idea of ownership. And a lot of lesson about pride in our credit score.
You brought a new home, a new life, a new society. Thank you for that. But you also brought some severe bouts of depression and the worst self-doubt I’ve ever faced. I’m not sure I can handle ten more months of age 3, by the way. Could we move Libbie’s birthday to May, perhaps?
Unfortunately I’ve spent this last day of your melancholy year battling a 3-year-old whilst trying to remember that it’s no good to battle. Nights of lost sleep, post-vacation recovery, and a house that is still sparkling with Christmas lights and mess while my mind is ready to move on has made a mess of me. It’s 7:30 p.m. and I’m considering going all Bridget Jones’ Diary and eating all the chocolate and singing something pathetic … or just going to sleep. Probably the better option.
Good night, 2011. I tuck my hopes and dreams into your final moon, imagining it as the shield of God and knowing only He can fight these battles for me. The battles against myself, my will, my dark places.
As I watch the sun rise over the Tennessee River and Lookout Mountain tomorrow morning, I will breathe deeply and pray thankfully.