Well, I'm going to avoid the current unpleasantness of my social life right now, and just talk about my sons.
Marathon day was awesome. The runners come right down our street, so we're forced to have a party every year, whether we like it or not. The kids had a blast. Not my kids. The relatives' kids and random people's kids.
My little one was sleeping. It was the day before his second birthday, and we were going to have a cake to celebrate, but he slept right through it.
My big one managed to loosen up and have some fun, despite other people wanting to use his toys. There were many tears, followed by locking up his prized go-cart in the garage, so no one could enjoy it.
Being Dutch, he felt compelled to pick up the runners' cups when they dropped them. Not ALL of them, just the ones HE had personally handed out. Very responsible. God, I love the little kid. He misses his dad, though. I can't blame him. I miss Holland too.
On my son's second birthday, I cried all day. I was so sad about the loss of our lives in Holland, and the traditions we had started to make there, that I felt like I couldn't catch my breath. I was crushingly sad all day - a day only made bearable by the efforts of my friend, who took us all to the beach, and did her best to make us all feel a little less dejected.
When we walked to the water's edge to wade and collect some shells, I got that freaky, weird, out-of-body feeling thinking about the water reaching all the way back to our beaches in Holland where we spent so much time together pretending to be a happy family.
Why the fuck do the right decisions always hurt so much?