Last weekend, I had something taken from me.  Something of huge sentimental value and considerable financial worth.

I thought I wouldn't cry.

I thought I wouldn't be so angry.

I thought I wouldn't cry after the first time I cried about it.

I thought I wouldn't cry the second time in front of my son, who has seen me cry before but knows I'm not much of a crier so when I do cry he slips into the most amazing nurturing mode you've ever (well, I've ever) had the pleasure of knowing.  He curls up on my lap and brushes back my hair and kisses my nose and smooths my lashes and strokes my face until I'm all done. 

Jake deals with my tears much better than I deal with his.  I should take a lesson.

So there we were, wrapped up in one another in front of the Christmas tree and he takes hold of my cheeks and says to me, "go ahead and cry, Mommy.  And after you get it all out we will talk about the good things that you still have and we can figure out a way that you can go on with your life and be happy without this thing."

And I went ahead and cried and after I was done we talked about all the good things I have and we figured out a way I can go on with my life and be happy without a thing.

Because, after all, it's just a thing.  A symbol.  And no one can ever take away what that thing stands for.

Happy Christmastime to you all.  I hope that all the things that Santa brings you stand for something wonderful.  I hope all the things on your list that he isn't able to fit down the chimney this year are quickly forgotten and your heart is filled with love and sweetness and hope and warmth and your nose is kissed often and your tears are all joyful ones and your nights are all peaceful ones and your days are all merry and bright ones.