December

The lights and tree went up this weekend, as I scurried about in my one and only chance to actually decorate for the Christmas holiday. It was this weekend or three days before Christmas, according to my calendar of events.

I have had some sort of upper-respiratory bug eating at me for a couple of weeks; Young Prince seems to be coming out of his but Princesita is just going into it, and I seem destined to have to somehow suffer through both.

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This week had Him at the house more than I am accustomed to, which had me either out of the house more as a result or hidden back in my room/cave. As I managed to finish crocheting the Young Prince's new bedspread, all was not lost. However, my time just in earshot gave me some enlightening insights into my children's relationship with their father.

1. He has to have the radio up so loud in the kitchen that it drowns out the kids' voices. True, I like to have the radio on as well, but keep it down to background music, especially when the kids want to speak. If there are NPR stories I would like to hear, I leave the room to listen rather than tell the kids to shush so that I can prioritize a faceless digital box over my own children's developing self-expression.

2. He tells me that the kids disrespect him when they talk to him and accuses me of fostering that attitude. However, stepping back and listening to them banter in the morning, I hear them talking to him in the same way he speaks to them. My children do not talk to me the way they talk to their father, and I wouldn't allow it if they did. However, that is not my battle to be waged; it is his as long as he ceases to involve me through accusations.

3. He no longer sleeps in his own bedroom but instead out in the t.v. room downstairs. This results in an echoing of his dreadful snoring throughout the house...another huge reason we could never, in the history of our marriage, sleep in the same room. I would merely close my door if I weren't in charge of taking care of the kids during the night (thus requiring open doors). Perhaps he's starting to realize his room stinks because he refuses to ever open a window for fresh air when it is nice outside. Or perhaps it's drafty because he hasn't put down his storm windows. He needs to learn how to complete these simple menial tasks. I am not going to be his mother anymore.

December is again upon us and I am disappointed in myself that I haven't made greater strides in this separation, which was something I resolved to do this year. I suppose I have made positive steps; just not as big as I had ideally imagined. As of this month I only have one more year of "probation" to wait out as well with CPS, so perhaps next year I will feel much less trapped by my own circumstances.

I hate December. I love Christmas in all that I can teach my children regarding the joys of giving and receiving and thanksgiving, but I despise December. I don't like January much, either, but December comes and I can feel my heart being ripped from my chest and wrung out like a wet towel every year.

So I must find the Joy. Somehow.