New Year's Eve

The progress on the construction work which prompted the cancelling of plans for me to do Christmas at the Urban Homestead has been minimal enough to make me feel cheated out of a vacation. Sorta. I have made considerable progress in healing the trauma of December in a kiddie whorehouse, but I donae believe Christmas will ever carry the same meaning for me as for those who were raised in blissful ignorance of what's REALLY in Santa's lap. Despite the discomfort of the disparity, I am extremely grateful all of the other members of the Urban Homestead have enjoyed that ignorance beyond their awareness of my annual struggle. I pray my absence here in their first Xmas outside the FIL's dominance allowed them to find their own balance between the Christ-free Christmas my in-laws practiced and my own PTSD responses to the December trauma. Prayers in progress. . .

In the December trauma by which I was conditioned, the only thing that sets New Year celebrations apart from the rest of December is that they hail the end of the madness season. Dare I hope that this year it will also hail the beginning of serious work on the aeroponics lab? Prayers in progress. . .