Maybe it’s a mom of babies thing or a young mom thing, but this end-of-year feeling has me yearning for the tough days again and wanting to transport back to February 2020 when life was so much easier and seemingly less complicated. And yet as I sit here, reflecting on who I was back in February and what we were doing, was it much different then?
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On maternity leave with baby number two, a colic-ally little thing with red hair and a loud scream, I sat at home all day long, trying to “nap when the baby naps” as if that’s a real thing, and juggling a 15 month old clinger who wants to climb and run and gets injured every two seconds. I was perpetually exhausted from said newborn and really run down physically. Not from a tough labor or a slower bounce back—no, I felt fine in that way. The constant touching of baby life and toddler life and husband life was wearing on me. I remember being so touched out one day that laying in bed alone when my husband worked late in numbing silence was self-care.

There's nothing more magical for a growing child than quietly playing Christmas music, a warm fire crackling, twinkling lights on the evergreen smelling tree, and a pile of neatly wrapped presents. Of course, this isn't real life. BUT the traditions can be!

I have so many memories from my childhood of waiting eagerly with my brother at the top of the stairs before going downstairs, waiting for our parents to wake up so that we can go down and get our stockings. I remember the smell of bacon on the stove and eggnog mustaches on all of our faces.