Christmas Eve is here. I knew it was coming. I'm trying so, so hard to keep the joy. The girls are so happy and excited, as if nothing is different. That makes me so happy, and yet so very sad.
My sweeet Daddy, how you loved Christmas. All those months of watching and listening to us to decide what the perfect gift would be. Then a few more months of trying REALLY hard not to tell us what it was. I could hear your voice first on Christmas morning. Your loud, silly voice when the girls bounded up the stairs to find you. It's going to be a very quiet Christmas morning here, Daddy.
Thanksgiving was harder than I thought. I ordered everything premade because I wasn't ready to pull that perfect turkey out of the oven and not have you there to start immediately picking at it and hopping around saying, "HOT, HOT, HOT!" as if you were surprised. Then after the meal you would find just the right spot on the couch, turn on the game and force us all to go in the other room because we didn't want to ruin your nap. It drove me absolutely crazy. And now I would give just about anything to have another chance. John missed you too- he told me later- it was lonely for him without you. He thinks of you every holiday when he turns on the John Wayne movies and has nobody to discuss the shooting techniques with. I think about you every day, Daddy. Maybe every hour you cross my mind. Last weekend we watched videos of you and it was so overwhelming to hear your voice. I had avoided it for just over three months. J planned our family Christmas for the 15th, which was the anniversary of your diagnosis. We didn't talk about that elephant in the room, but we did drink too much, tell embarassing stories about you, listen to saved voicemails from you and watch all the videos we could find with you in them. J says he makes himself do it even though it hurts because it reminds him that you were real. I know just what he means. I go through my everyday life with this constant feeling that something is missing and I'm just used to the space. I have to remind myself that you were here. You were real. You were mine. It wasn't much, but you would've been happy with it because we were together and we were thinking about you.
K is amazing, Daddy. She's reading like a maniac, she's happy at school and she's just as much a cuddle bug as ever. I asked her last week why she hasn't really cried about you and said, "well, I did, but I know he's in heaven so I guess I'm just okay." The faith of a child. L gives me fits. How I wish I could call you when she's driving me absolutely nuts so you could laugh at me. She still tells me that she's The Hopper because Papa said she is. When I tell her Nene's coming she yells, "YAY! And Papa too!" It makes me so happy and breaks my heart at the same time. I tell her you're probably thinking about us and that you would be here if you could. The little Bear talks about you often. She misses you and still surprises me the most of the three of them. She has such a caring and tender heart. She has this sensitive honesty, and yet she is not pulled down by other's sadness. She will gently rub my back or leg when I cry about you and then she'll skip away humming a tune. She should be a nurse. Her joy would bless people. When the shooting happened last week in Conneticut, I wept for those poor babies and their parents. A thought crossed my mind, though, that brought me some peace. You're with them. I just know you're having a catch or tossing a football with those sweet little boys. You're playing hide-and-seek and having tea parties with those precious little girls. You're teaching them. I know you are- Jesus would want you to teach the children. You have to be the best story teller in heaven. Oh how I wished those poor parents could know that those babies would be well cared for (and that they would surely learn all the words to Yellow Submarine). You were the world's most fun Daddy and I'm thankful they have you. We're all doing our best, Daddy. We miss you so much and make you a constant part of our lives. We learned so much from you, Daddy. In life and in death. I look at the bookmark on your computer that says "Our Blog," and I just can't give it up. I know you can't write me anymore, Daddy, but I want you to know that I write you every day in my heart. You made Christmas so perfect, and I will remember that joy always. Merry Christmas, Daddy. I love you so very much.
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