Mommy, where do testicles come from?

Alternate title: This Tree’s Got Balls, Man.

Bet you didn’t know you had wings.

On Monday I sent John to get us a Christmas tree.

I like real trees. I know that many people have their own, good reasons for having fake trees, but I just can’t have one. I need the smell of a real tree. I need the mess of annoying real tree needles to scatter the carpet. I need the real tree sappy bark and the real tree prickly branches.

I like it when things are real. They hold more meaning for me, somehow. I am alive when I feel.

Real.

Monday evening, I opened a large storage container. In fact, last year, I closed myself up in it entirely, which is a humorous thing for me to recall. What’s even more amusing to me is that, in true camera-obsessed form, I had my Kodak in there with me.

Instead of a dork, it now contains our Christmas decorations. One of the things inside was the Angel we top our tree with each year. We have owned her for about 4 years. Her arms, held open with ribbons and ornaments streaming from one, are posable. I have never moved them, however, and I pack her carefully each year so she that remains in the same position.

So I was more than a bit taken aback when I pulled her out of the box on Monday evening like this:

It was a striking image, her arm thrown across her face, ribbons and ornaments still streaming from her hand. As if the Reality of the family that she was joining this year was too much to bear.

Was she shielding her eyes from my pain? Weeping for us; unable to bear witness.

Tuesday morning, looking down at my own hand, I was reminded of my Angel.

And I realized that I had misinterpreted the message I’d received in her the previous night.

Others are not shielding themselves from this hurt I’m sharing. My pain is not being avoided – it is being shared by and divided amongst all of my “angels.” Without them (you guys), the burden would be heavier, because I would carry it practically alone.

You are my Angels, so to speak.

Every message you send me. Every comment you leave. Every email I get. Every @SarcasticMomLC you shoot my way on Twitter.  You are bearing witness, standing with me, and sharing my pain – you are lessening my burden by supporting me.  All your messages do this.

Please forgive me if I have not the strength or words yet to reply to them all… but know I see them all. I see all of you.

I see you, throwing your hands across your faces with me, the ribbons streaming from them beautifully as you each take a little piece of my pain so I do not feel alone here in “the abyss.”

Sometimes it hurts when things are so real. But I wouldn’t have it any other way, really.

Thanks for letting me feel safe being real.