Well, now that the weather has moderated somewhat this weekend, it was time to drag the ladder out of the garage. Perilously perched as the wind picked up, and the snow started to fall, I took down the Christmas lights and decorations on the front porch for another year.
Stayed away from the lights on the second floor, as it would mean perching somewhat less than safely on a snow covered roof to do so. I'm not into falling off the roof, not really my thing.
The last vestiges of Christmas are down, the house looks much less festive. And I'm mad at the world that I don't have an infant son toddling about the house. I've done a poor job at supressing this anger today. I'm doing chores on the house, trying to keep that energy directed somewhere productive. Small escape to be found in that.
We tried again this past cycle. Apparently the swimmers and the floater didn't get the right road maps synchronized, leaving Mrs. Spit feeling worse for the attempt. It's time like this where I get mad at those people who get pregnant like falling out of bed, while we try and try and get nothing but a kick in the head.
The sense of loss affects us in different ways. Mrs. Spit hates the sight of women that we know, getting pregnant and not having the balls to tell her - even though it's obvious. Me? I get frustrated. I get angry. There's only so long that I can suppress it before it bubbles to the surface at inopportune times.