I am actually someone who wrings their hands. Both figuratively and literally.
At 18 when I moved I found myself several times wringing my hands on the train. Those first weeks, crying, feeling heartsick, I caught myself wringing my hands. Subconscious action.
Finding out I was pregnant right after Dave signed the contract to move to Canada? I nearly wrung them bloody.
These days I find it happening again. A fifth baby joining is us. A fifth little soul in our hands. These hands that can feel very empty these days.
With the realities of a husband that works retail, in the throes of the busiest season at work, it leaves too much time for thinking. Thoughts that are not always the most gracious. Hurt feelings, incredulity of others opinions and their willingness to express them. Leaving less people to turn to.
The busy-ness of the season is not reflected here. The shuffling of feet and last minute ideas to keep us busy.Thank goodness for piles of snow.
This is my 19th Christmas celebrating on the phone with my mother and sister. You would think that would get easier, but it doesn’t. It’s not so bad, don’t I know it, but I always the most ardent supporter of filling our December with activity but cannot find it in me this year. We have pared down, hunkered down. Thankfully the children have internalized our seasonal activities, reminding me what we should be doing, making and wrapping presents, creating extra decorations. I droop. They revive me. I try not to wring my hands. They ask to be shown how to sew/knit/weave a placemat. These hands have no more time for wringing. Perhaps I will leave that to the gothic heroines.
Thank you my littles for teaching me to abandon my hand wringing and replacing it with action.