There were a million times I thought, "I can write a blog post about this tonight..." I kept a notebook with me to record such thoughts. A knock-off Moleskine I picked up for three bucks at a Barnes & Noble. I even got about what I am assuming is about a quarter of the way through an essay inspired by a simple statement I made to The Husband while sharing with him the events of the past few days.
So I figured I'd blog about that.
"This is the adult version of finding out that Santa Claus doesn't exist." My voice was nothing more than a smoky whisper, barely audible, I'm sure, over a cell-phone connection spanning 2,000 miles. But The Husband knew before he even answered the phone that it was his job to listen with all of his being tonight. I get like that when I'm emotional and almost smiled remembering our wedding day. But just like my wedding vows, he heard every word I said.
"I know, sweetest."
He offered nothing more than those three words, knowing it was all he could give and yet the exact thing I needed to hear. An innocence, of sorts, has been lost and a simple truth revealed to be nothing more than a lie.
Daddy's really the one in the Santa Suit, honey...please don't tell your sister. It'll break her heart.
Empty promises to make it all better and slay the dragons would have only served to soothe his protective feathers and, well, piss me off, quite frankly. Bullshit, even if well-intentioned, is not something I deal with very well.
But simple understanding made me cry.
I know Santa isn't real, but I need a moment to mourn what I thought to be true. Closure is out of the question until the eight-year-old inside of me decides it's time to grow up for the third time in my life. I'll let you know when that happens.