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An hour ago, I was signing onto the computer to write a blog post about the progress I’ve been making with the girls in terms of some minor discipline problems we’ve been dealing with and how wonderful Ellie is doing with her potty training and how Eva is really coming into her own in terms of personality.

All of that seems less relevant now. My husband works at night and always calls me on his break and his lunch break. Tonight as the blue of the computer screen flashed on, he called and informed me that the decision had been made and sometime soon, his job would be gone. His company was closing operations in our city. Goodbye, job security. Goodbye, sole source of income for our family. Goodbye, health insurance. And most likely, goodbye, our home.

I try not to cry as I type this but all I can think of is how to protect my daughters from the changes that are going to come and they’re going to come right after Christmas. I am thankful that we know ahead of time and it’s not a sudden thing. We have time to try to figure out what we’re going to do but at the same time, I am mortified at the thought of possibly (probably) losing our home. It is just a townhome in a building with three other identical townhomes, all of which are empty. Yes, we are the only people still living in the building. It’s quiet but it’s sad to go outside and see six empty parking spots that once used to be full and three yards becoming overgrown and unkempt while we try to keep up with our own little patch of grass.

This is the only home my girls have ever known. It’s small, it’s crowded for us, but this is the home where I got pregnant and didn’t have a miscarriage, where I carried my first baby to term and brought her home and a few months later found out I was pregnant again and then brought my second little girl home a year after the first. This is the home where my cat Pee Wee, whom I’d had since he was a tiny kitten, stood up to get a drink of water and then flew into the air as if he’d been shocked and died in my arms of a heart attack at age 15. Almost five years of our memories flow through this house.

I keep telling myself I will be strong tomorrow morning and not let my girls see how upset and concerned I am about the situation. I will pretend it’s just another normal day in our routine. I will praise Ellie for her use of the toilet. She is wearing panties all day now, no diapers except to bed at night. I will laugh at the bubbly personality that Eva has suddenly started showing off like a fancy new dress. My previously quiet child has become this happy, squealing, playful little girl. I will hope that these moments will be etched in my mind forever so that when we leave, I will carry them with me no matter where we end up. I will ask God or Santa or somebody to help me get a new digital camera for Christmas so I can document the day for us all to remember how we celebrated Christmas before we lost our home.

I’m sorry, I’m crying too much to type anymore. Good night.