“Christmas makes everything twice as sad” – Doug Coupland (I think).
[I’m fine. I haven’t bled at all, not even spotting, for the past 24 hours. I think *looks frantically about for some wood to touch* we’re all home safe and towelling ourselves off.]
Anyway, Christmas Eve, chez the exceedingly Godless May. H and I are spending Christmas all on our lonesome again. And this is a very good thing. Christmas Family Togetherness and Cuddliness has, as ever, passed the extended May Clan by. We’re just no bloody good at it. Diva ran off to spend Tinsel Day with her shiny new boyfriend. Trouble said she was going to take Minx to see our Dad, but at the last minute decided the weather and the hassle and the everything were too much, well, hassle. Mum has gone to the Chalet of Terror again, with an assortment of her siblings, to have a ‘grown-up Christmas’. Any dutiful compunction I might have had to go spend Tinsel Day with Trouble and Minx evaporated when I lost Eurydice. Was spared any guilt at all by Diva telling us that Minx was hugely looking forward to having her mummy all to herself for a few days. Good-oh. Dad, meanwhile, is being Scrooge-of-the-Glen and refusing to ask any of us to go there for Christmas because ‘he can tell we don’t really want to’. (Dad, honestly, it’s not about you. At least, this time it isn’t).
I’m avoiding the inlaws (H’s lot) because I can’t deal with their inability to deal with my miscarriages. I’m not sure why H is avoiding his lot. I’m not sure H is sure.
So, our plan this year, like last year, is to spend the day in our pyjamas, eating our faces off and getting quite tipsy and watching the Dr Who Christmas Special in absolute peace. It’s the least we deserve.
We finished Pikaia’s candle at last, so this evening we lit a bright new one, not just for our losses, but also for Illanare’s, tonight of all nights, and for everyone who is finding Christmas a bit of an arse, really, given the relentless emphasis on babies and children and family wonderfulness and togetherness and sweeping miserable and sad things under the carpets and then decorating the resultant mound with tinsel.
Last year, I wished I could be pregnant for Christmas. I was, even though I didn’t know it for a few more days. This year, forwarned, I carefully did not wish to be pregnant for Christmas. So I’m not. Oh, ha bloody ha, Universe.