When I was small, growing up in 1970's Ontario, California, we would always watch Rudolph's New Year's special. Dad would put it on and my sisters and I would crowd around the television in our striped, footed pajamas. We would howl with delight whenever Baby New Year would take off his hat to show his huge ears. Boing! They would spring out of his black top hat, a hat that dwarfed his small head, and my sisters and I would chortle with delight while stuffing hot, buttered popcorn into our mouths. "Poor Baby New Year," one of us would always exclaim. "Those ears!"
This New Year's Eve was spent with family in a cabin in Big Bear. It is going much better than expected. No one has fought. There is not a lot of drama. But I can't get that damn Baby New Year outta my head. What was the moral of his story? To accept yourself maybe? If that was the moral, then I need to practice it.
This month will not be the month of the Baby New Year for me. I awoke to cramps and started my period. I tossed in bed wanting to cry and I squeezed my husband's hand. He knows that I wanted a Christmas miracle. I really did. But then, as I looked at the snowy trees outside, an odd peacefulness came over me. Like God was whispering in my ear that it was all going to be OK. There are other options. Right? Kids that need a home where Rudolph is celebrated as the rock star he is. And that maybe, just maybe, the miracle I got this year is right here where I am. In this cabin, with my husband and my family. And if I am going to accept myself, I need to accept my faults and my reality. This is me. Infertile, bossy and neurotic. But hopeful.
I'm hopeful world. Imagine that. Happy New Year dear reader. Thank you for listening.