I cried in church today.

The “Angel Choir,” which is your typical little kids choir, presented their Christmas program this morning during service. And I sobbed. To be honest, Christmas music never fails to make me kind of weepy in the first place. But this year it was more than that.

Because she should have been up there, too.  She’s finally the age where she could have participated. She would have been singing. And dancing. And wearing an angel costume. And loving the heck out of it. And I would have been so proud. I would have been up with the other Mamas, clutching my camera and just beaming back at her. I would have given her a big hug afterwards and told her how proud I was of her.

But it didn’t happen like that. And it won’t happen like that.

The kids’ program didn’t make me weepy like this last year because, at our church, she would have been too young to participate. But this year, her first “of age” year, it just smacked me in the face.

She would have been the cutest one up there, of course. And most talented.

Alas.

Crisp air. The kind that makes you find your jeans and long-sleeved t-shirts but you open all the windows anyway, just to feel the cool breeze. The smell of nature has changed. The air no longer drips with humidity. You can almost hear the leaves start to change color. Memories wait to be made wait just around the corner. Pumpkin patches. Halloween costumes. Holidays with too many family members and far too much food. The heart swells.

It’s this change in season that hurts in strange areas of my being. Never one to be silent about my love for winter, autumn is a very, very close second on my list of favorites. It comes to pass that, because of the adoption, I will have two whole seasons of new memories to be made… without my daughter. It stings and smarts. I don’t let it interfere with my daily duties as an everyday Mom. I don’t even let it interfere with my duties to my daughter as her first mother. But when I walk into a store and see little girls’ clothing in browns, reds, oranges and deep plums, full of beautifully textured sweaters and cords, well, my heart aches a little. Or a lot.

I know that some hard months are just around the corner. I am thankful that, at the very least, there is beauty to be found in nature during these hard times. Staying positive isn’t my best attribute or a strength that I can pride myself in based on past performance. I’m just not that good at the whole shebang. Last year, as we gutted pumpkins in the kitchen, BigBrother and I both covered in orange goo, I felt that twinge in my soul, the tug of my heart strings. I trudged on; I assume I’ll be able to do the same this year.

I miss her when the air cools down, when I speak outside and I can see my breath. Or, more appropriately worded, I miss her all year round but these two seasons hold such a special place in my life that it’s hard not to have her always present at this time. For so many, spring signals regrowth and new beginnings. For me, it was always fall (back to school, clean slate) and winter (with pure white snow covering everything that needed covered, making it pure all over again). So much I want to share. So much I could have shared.

Tonight I will bundle up in a jacket (if one fits?), take a mug of coccoa outside and sit, quietly, in our back yard. I’ll stare at stars, brighter without the haze of humidity between us, and have some moments alone as this transition from season to season takes place with or without my permission, my blessing.

And thus begins the slippery slope towards her birthday. I write this as a reminder to myself to enjoy the months that come before hand, for I do, truly, love them so.