So I'm sitting here in my office at nearly 8:00 at night. It's quiet. The only sounds I hear are the hum of the never ending air-conditioner, the occasional fluorescent light bulb buzz, and Christmas carols playing from Pandora. It's dark outside - and from my view on the 10th floor - I see a sea of lights.
My family is out there - my home is one of those lights burning brightly tonight. My husband is having 'movie' night with the kids - the Muppets Christmas Carol - and enjoying the pizza I prepared for them before dashing out.
And I'm here. Writing.
It's not supposed to be this way. I'm supposed to be at home, scurrying around to set the table, pulling out the fine crystal and china we haven't touched in months, baking pies, rubbing turkeys, and preparing for general merry making.
But I'm here. Writing.
My oven is cold. My kitchen lights are off. There aren't any 'thanksgiving' smells - cinnamon and nutmeg or sage and onions - wafting from the stove top.
My kids are confused. They don't understand why Mommy is pulled away - has been pulled away for days and weeks on end. James especially doesn't understand why his family isn't coming to his house tomorrow. He's excited to go to Grandma and Grandpa's house tomorrow - don't get me wrong - but is particularly bothered by the fact that he isn't entertaining them in his own home.
Child after my own heart...
Anna is sick. Some horrible, evil, weird stomach virus that has plagued her since last Friday. Random intermittent vomiting, general lethargic behavior, gray and pale face. Not the bouncing picture of health who was eagerly anticipating the biggest eating day of the year.
And I'm here. Writing. Not taking care of my child. Feeling guilty that I was so angry yesterday that she had to come home from school - and I had to miss nearly a day of writing.
Aside from that - I'm sad. Incredibly and unfathomably sad. I'm sure its exacerbated by this impending deadline, the lack of sleep and regular meals, and general stress over every single word I write.
But the truth is, that sadness is always there. Always. It just tends to come out more when I'm tired, or stressed, or worried about one (or all) of my children.
I miss my mom.
I miss my dad.
It's not supposed to be this way. I'm supposed to be complaining about which family we have to visit and when. I'm supposed to be rolling pie dough with my mom, making pumpkin and pecan pies, and fussing over place settings. I'm supposed to be discussing which vintage from which winery will make the best pairing for turkey and all the trimmings with my dad.
But I'm here. Writing. Trying to keep focused - to not let the tears blur the screen too much.
But it's hard. Because I want to be in the kitchen. With my mom. With my dad. With my kids. As a family.
And right now, at this very moment in time, I feel so alone.