I hate those Christmas shoes.
Our choir is singing a version of the pop song. I know it’s made to be kitschy, Hallmark, tug at the heartstrings and here’s-your-kleenex. I’m not even a believer of the “now she’s gone to meet Jesus” faith.
But I do have this deep, dark fear of dying and abandoning my kids.
I have a blood condition that causes my blood to clot more than usual, making driving long distances, flying, or being pregnant very risky. I was terrified the whole time I was pregnant that the condition would cause a clot in the placenta and kill me and the baby. I was terrified the whole time I was flying to Guatemala that the extra aspirins and compression stockings wouldn’t be enough and I’d die before I met the baby. I get terrified thinking about it in those dark, lonely, middle-of-the-night hours.
So when the little boy in the song sings “Daddy says there’s not much time…” my heart clutches. My deepest fear for five and a half years has been leaving my little boy sad and searching like that.
Two more rehearsals and a concert. It’s not so much longer. I’m just afraid now that singing the song in the presence of my kids will send me over the edge.
Breathe. Breathe.
In good news, this was my first no-kids choir rehearsal - they both stayed home with PisecoDad for the first time and everyone survived.
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