December is a difficult month to grasp. It feels more like a concept than a month on the calendar. Setting aside holidays, it’s the time of year that buries the soul with questions and pauses that gently yank at you, “How will I remember this year?”

It was the year I became a parent. It was the year that everyday was a first. It was the year I found 13 strands of grey hair in one month. It was the year I truly began doubting myself, believing and embracing my mortality and limits, and began to press forward with my most important dreams with ferocious intensity.

This was all because of Isaiah.

I sit in my corner of the house, with scratchings of holiday paraphernalia on my desk, and see a changed home, a stronger body, and two singing souls.

There are brightly colored trucks and beige blocks spilling all over the living room rug. The dining room table is still holding remnants of Isaiah’s birthday party on Sunday and Nick’s coursework syllabi and notebooks lay awkwardly among strewn winter coats and scarves, hastily taken off near the side door.

There is no tree up. No garland, ornaments, trinkets, or lights. Just one wreath on our front door and Christmas cards with bent corners laying in our reading areas. There are no outward signs of the holidays, but our hearts have never been more reflective of Advent.

There hasn’t been time to decorate the house and, suddenly, Christmas is next week. Another Advent candle is lit and I see we missed another holiday party because we forgot to RSVP. “That’s ok, I’d rather just stay home and rest,” is what Nick and I take turns saying to one another.

Rest.

One year ago, Nick’s uncle passed away unexpectedly from a massive heart attack and what I remember about that day was my inability to hug him because I was so pregnant. I tried to embrace him, but my belly was in the way. He went to the funeral in his hometown and came back days before I went into early labor. It’s been a year since that day and I don’t know how much I, personally, have been able to absorb Uncle Bob’s passing because Isaiah came on the heels of his departure.

Rest.

I couldn’t imagine having a child in my life and now, since my brain has lost approximately 16 points of intelligence since giving birth, I can’t remember anything prior to my c-section. Older mothers tell me my brain power will return, like an old machine will restart once plugged back in. I hope they’re right.

It’s hard to describe what Christmas means this year, how suddenly a year of Isaiah has passed, and that means of whole year of my own life has passed. I don’t know if I ever truly rested in the past 52 weeks.

Rest.

Life moves at a startling rate. An alarming rate that becomes dangerously easy to become accustomed. I try to remember that Isaiah will not always be this darling baby of mine and eventually grow into a boy, teen, and man who will defy, try, and magnify all of my thoughts and hidden expectations of him and myself. I don’t know how many times I’ve already run into myself over the past 52 weeks.

What I do know about next year is that it’s a year of moving forward. It’s a year of new beginnings. And I am looking forward to defining what that energy and new life will look like. One thing I will do next year is take time for myself, take genuine care of myself.

I will rest.