postscript

It's 10:00 on Christmas Eve night. The candlelight service at church was difficult right at the end; we did the traditional holding the little candles with the plastic base to "Silent Night." This is one of my favorite few minutes of the whole year, looking out into the dark church and realizing how many people are there. Tonight the church was packed, more than overflowing, we ran out of candles and bulletins. So that was a positive development, but this year after the last (sung) verse of the song, a violinist did a solo of an additional verse. ... I was holding David and for the first time in the service, he was being still and quiet and cuddly; I think he was impressed by the scene, as well. I began crying, the music was so lovely. Matt was right beside me and we held hands tightly; I was glad for the darkness so I could wipe away tears. ... I have not been overwhelmed by sadness today, but I have cried a little, and my overall mood has definitely been down. I was afraid the whole holiday season would be like this, and I've been pleasantly surprised that Simon's enthusiasm has carried me through, until today. Today I haven't felt like doing much, and of course there is still plenty to do, mostly to get ready to go out of town tomorrow after lunch, to spend the rest of the week visiting family. ... Now that the day is here I don't want it to end; it feels as though once this day has passed, that's officially the end. I've thought about this date every day since I found out I was pregnant; it never occurred to me to think about what it means, for me, when the day is over. Obviously, logically nothing changes at the stroke of midnight - there is still sadness and crying and grieving. But my instinct is, I don't want the day to be over, not yet. I'm interested to see how I'll feel tomorrow - we may actually have to peel Simon off the ceiling, so I'll be pretty busy during the morning, but then we have a 2.5-hour car ride so I'll have plenty of time to think and over-think.