We were dancing in the kitchen tonight. I think it was the new floor. Maybe it wasn't such a waste of money after all! Anyway, Justin was playing random songs from our childhood (apparently I know every word to Bon Jovi's Bad Medicine) and the girls and I were dancing. I am really no good, but it is fun and has managed to help keep me thinnish all these years.
Looking around at my laughing little beauties, my heart felt that familiar wrench:
Our son wasn't there.
There are some days when I really hate ballet. I feel robbed, cheated, ripped off. I was supposed to get at least eighteen years with him. I'm sure this feeling is compounded by the loss of our baby Eowyn earlier this year, but that doesn't lessen its magnitude for me. I just want him home. I want him picking on his sisters and drinking all of my eggnog. I want him alternately rolling his eyes at me and laughing with me. It's those little things that don't translate well on Skype or over the phone.
And isn't it always about those little things?