Precious Moment

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I closed my eyes after a long day, trying to think of the joy of the holiday and trying to forget the devastating news we’d received a few days earlier about X’s treatment.

Whenever my heart would slip into sadness, I would try to replace it by picturing the two cousins in their Christmas jammies, playing side by side at X’s new fire station, or hand-delivering presents to their aunts and uncles before eagerly tearing off the wrapping paper on their own.

Then my eyes snapped open as the realization hit me.  I’d missed it.  My moment.  The day was over, and it had never come.

I mentally replayed the day, especially the morning.  How had it escaped me?  But I knew.  It was the same old culprits:  exhaustion from being up with a baby who wasn’t in his own bed; distraction from trying to guide my toddler through his Christmas morning; and pure busy-ness that meant that as soon as the presents were opened, I needed to put a tired infant down for his morning nap.  And so I never sat down and looked around and felt the way I’d expected to.  


These expectations.  They sneak up on you, and when they aren’t met, it can be disappointing.  Or it can make you suddenly burst into tears and wonder where the fairness is in all of this.  Because if I didn’t get my moment, I worried… did anyone?  


The next day was calmer.  The presents had already been opened, so now we could just settle in.  My expectations for the day after were more realistic.  My nephew received an animal bingo game from his aunt and uncle, and as turkey soup boiled in the kitchen and football played on the television, we sat in the living room and a few of the adults began to play the game with the toddlers.


X drew a card and, together with his mama, announced what it was.  The person who had that animal on his or her sheet would claim it, and X would dutifully hand it over.  A little more than halfway through the game, his father called from the kitchen.  


“What are you doing, buddy?”


And X looked up with a shine in his eye and a smile that took over his face, and announced, “I’m winning, Daddy!”


We laughed, and the game continued.  I sat in a comfy chair just outside the scene, and as X indeed won, jogging his game board into the kitchen and shouting, “Bingo, Dan!” to his father, I wished I could stay in that moment forever.


Joy.  Peace.  And my nephew winning.


Thank you, Santa.