Christmas, Colfax Style

Eden has officially announced that she is too old to sit on Santa's knee.  I can accept this.  Santa is, frankly, a bit scary.  Just ask Little Red.   

Our little town has a Christmas celebration at the beginning of each December.  Santa and cookies at the library, a grand-ish candy-throwing parade, and fireworks.

Nothing says Ho Ho Ho like a bedazzled combine, lemmetellya. 

This year I am dutifully doing all the Christmassy things, mostly for the children.  It seems, though, that the weight of the pending divorce of my parents overshadows most things.  Not that it is a big surprise, in fact, we are all very aware that they will both be much happier alone.  The weight comes from the upturning of years and years of sadness, fresh, steaming sadness in which to wallow.

Screaming anger explodes from within my heart and surprises even me (passionate to the core) 

with its intensity. 

I could tell you all about why I'm angry, I suppose.  Trumpet it from the rooftops in the hopes that justice will prevail, that the weak will overcome, that the guilty will confess and plead forgiveness.   I wonder, sometimes, if spelling out all the dysfunction and pain for the entire Internet to read would make it more manageable to deal with. 

More than likely the answer is no.  I would just end up throwing people under the bus (or the twinkling combine, as it were).  To be fair, a child can never know all the truths behind the relationship of her parents and should sit quietly instead.  Seen and not heard.

So my anger simmers, unattended and hot.