It seemed innocent enough.
It was a sleepy Sunday morning. No plans to attend church since I was still recovering from a sprained ankle after falling on the ice Friday morning. Patrick and I were cuddling on the couch and trying to find something to watch on television. We stopped on the Mickey Mouse Christmas Carol.
We were half watching it while talking about Christmas and all of the things we needed to get done. Suddenly, the Ghost of Christmas future was there showing Scrooge McDuck what would happen to Tiny Tim. There was Mickey (Bob Cratchit) standing with Minnie (Emily Cratchit) in front of Tiny Tim’s grave.
I literally burst into tears.
Charles Dickens’ story is hardly new to me. I have read and seen numerous different adaptations of the tale over the years. I have even seen the silly little Mickey Mouse one over and over again since I was a child. But this time. Oh, but this time. That picture of parents, even when portrayed by a cartoon mouse, standing over the grave of their son. Oh, how that hurt.
This was not the Christmas we had planned. It is not match up with our excited conversations of last year. To once again sit there and say that next year we will have a baby there with us is both joyous and heartbreaking. We were supposed to have a baby there with us this year.
We both sat there and cried. Holding tightly to each other. Knowing that this year there is nothing under that tree that will fill the giant hole inside our hearts. The one thing we both want more than anything is something that we can’t have.
I sat there, tears in my eyes, gently stroking my husband’s head as he let out some of the tears that had been building inside. I looked around. We had gifts for the kids in our family wrapped up neatly under the tree. There should be so much more. I looked at the ornaments on the tree. There should be a baby’s first Christmas one hanging front and center.
So much has happened this year and so much has changed and yet what do we have to show for it?