Let’s just clear the air form the start. If I had them, I wouldn’t be writing this. I’d be hanging holly, decking the halls. Falalala-ing until I passed out from all my joy and laughter.
Instead, you get this. Another series of strung-together sentences wherein I tell you how unhappy I am. If you’re tired of reading about that, I’d suggest you go here. This is all I’ve got for you, my own self-pity, my disappointment, my smoldering anger.
And let me jut say that I know that only I can control how I feel about things. There’s the event and my reaction to it. If I feel bitter, sad, disappointed, or enraged, it’s because I choose o feel that way. Remember what I said about no coping skills? If I had them, Id be making lemons out of my lemonade (or at least a vodka tonic).
All it took was some shrugged shoulders, a little condescension, a lot of non-cooperation and in five minutes my day turned form the best I’ve had in weeks, to ruin. But this is not his fault. It would be easy to make it so. I could start a long diatribe and emasculate him on the internet, but it would wrong. And it wouldn’t make this day any better.
None of this is his fault. It’s mine. He didn’t know all the plans I’d had for today. I didn’t tell him. He didn’t know I was feeling so good, how happy I was. I played my usual, reserved self. He didn’t know I had expectations. Great, great expectations. And he didn’t know I’d be so easily deflated if he didn’t get caught up in my seasonal joy.
The baby didn’t care about any of those expectations, either. She wanted to play with her toys. She could care less about mommy’s stupid Christmas photo shoot and her Christmas jazz album. (Besides, she’d made it perfectly clear how she felt about the camera, yesterday.)
So there it is. I’m owning it. I don’t have coping skills. It’s too easy for my smile to get turned upside down, too hard for the reverse. So today, while people with twice my challenges and twelve times my talent are putting up handmade advent calendars and taking the first photos for their December scrapbooks, I’ll be sitting amongst my untapped potential in boxes filled with Christmas decorations yet to be opened.
And, no. You don’t have to remind me. I know this is all my fault.