If I were a cursing woman, this post would probably read much differently, but I shall try and keep it classy. "Sucks" is about as harsh as I shall go outwardly, while inwardly cursing 2015. 2015, you are dead to me.
This year, my 36th year, has brought many blessings. Do not mistake this post for me being ungrateful for yet another year of life, love, family, accomplishments, good health for the Freiberg 3, and prosperity. God has been so good on so many fronts. We have a roof over our head that is bigger than what we need. We've never gone hungry. We haven't let a single day slip by without being grateful for the beautiful son God has chosen for us. On many fronts, this has been a good year. Thank you, Jesus.
On some other fronts, not so much. Some other fronts simply SUCK. In this 36th year, I've lost and buried my fur-baby and first-born, Piggy. There was no time to prepare for that goodbye and the hurt and shock was crushing. I miss him daily and still forget that he's gone a couple times a month.
I've watched a sweet friend's 5 year old son battle an awful illness while they try to figure out how to live within their new normal that looks nothing like what they had envisioned at this stage in their lives. There is no break for little Walker's body and there are no words for what they must feel every day.
I've watched my mom suffer through a life-altering illness for the last 7 months without being able to do a dang thing to help her. Try as I may, there aren't the right words to alleviate her pain. There's no magic pill to take away her ailments. I want to make it better. I want to make her better. I want to see her full of life again. I am confident she will get better. I'm confident she'll fully regain her footing. It just might not be in 2015. 2016, you've got some work to do. You hear me?
I've seen an incredibly challenging year unfold and fall upon us at work. We've weathered a very public strike and layoffs all within our 50th anniversary year. A year that was meant for celebrations, felt more like defeat on many fronts.
And as we near the end of 2015, I will saw goodbye to my grandfather. Grandpa Meyers is on his way to be with the Lord, and although we don't know the day or the hour, his leaving is in motion. There is absolutely no good time to lose a loved one, but to lose them at Christmas time stings just a tad bit more. Merry and Bright aint feelin so merry or so bright.
My brother and I have been so abundantly blessed to have him in our lives for as long as we have, and Nash was born on his Great Grandpa Meyers' birthday which makes him even more special. My Grandpa, who called me Brittany Joe Billy Bob throughout my life, will be incredibly missed. His body will find rest and he will be with us in spirit on Christmas day, just as he has been for my last 35 Christmases. It just sucks that "in spirit" will be our reality. Christmas won't be the same this year. It may not feel the same for a long time. Grandpa was always in the best mood on Christmas so we'll all try our best to do the same for him this year.
2015, you have taken two of my loved ones and physically and/or mentally crippled others and I'd just like you to move along, please. Take all of your crap with you and be gone. I'll count my many blessings from your 365, but that's about all the use that I have for you.
You pretty much sucked.
2016, I'm counting on you to rally the troops. Renew us, revive us and Jesus, please redeem us.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Whilst pregnant with said cray cray, I read all the blogs about being a "boy mom" and how my life would be covered in missed-the-potty-pee-splatters, dirt and boogers, crotch adjusting and injuries caused by a lack of fear that is somehow woven into boy genes, but none of those bloggers mentioned a dang thing about the injuries and fearlessness happening at 15 months. Somehow my precious little went from crawling to walking to crowd diving in a matter of weeks, which I can assure you is not nearly enough time to prepare this momma's heart. Or mind. Or insurance provider.
What started as a friendly and innocent game of tackle mom and dad if they're laying on the floor has escalated into "I'm just gonna put this throw pillow on the floor and proceed to run and face plant into it repeatedly while belly laughing." Our Munch thinks flying face first into the ground is the coolest thing ever no matter how many times we try to redirect to an activity that is a bit more gentle and parent approved.
Trying to climb off the backside of the couch? Sounds totally fun to him! Trying to fling yourself off the bed? He's game! He. Has. No. Fear. And the forehead bruises to prove it. I tend to joke that his little still forming body will see stitches by his second birthday, but truth be told, it's not funny when I say it. It scares me to the core.
How do you tame a child's sense of independence and fearlessness without squashing their spark and sense of adventure? How do I walk the line of ensuring he's just the right amount of afraid of danger? And more importantly how do I wrap our entire house in bubble wrap in a completely Better Homes and Garden sort of way?
Any and all suggestions and advice are welcome on this one. My son's poor forehead thanks you in advance, as does my heartburn.