Solo, Sinigang, and SoFi Stadium Feelings

My husband flew to LA this morning. Yes, again. This time for a Rams game at SoFi Stadium. Just him and his ride-or-die—his best friend, his forever football bromance. And me? I’m home. Again.

It’s a familiar rhythm — football weekends, solo nights, and the strange quiet that comes with midlife, marriage, and the holidays.

I used to feel bad when he’d go off on these guy trips, leaving me behind in a house that echoed with silence. Especially when we still lived in the woods—snowed in up in Pollock Pines, buried under feet of drama (and actual snow), praying the power didn’t go out again because a tree fell on the lines. I used to ration firewood like it was a war-time commodity, dragging logs up the stairs like a freezing, grumbling lumberjack.

Now? We live in the city. No fireplace. No snow. No deer peeking into our kitchen window like confused neighbors. No bluejays squawking territorial arguments on the railing. Everything is close by—groceries, coffee, the rest of the world.

Everything…except the people I miss most.

I drove him to the airport early this morning, waved goodbye, and thought, Okay. Two nights alone. Two days to clean the house, put up the Christmas decorations, and eat Filipino food with reckless, unjudged abandon.

First on the menu: pork sinigang. Sour, steamy, moody—just like me in December. (For the non-Pinoy folks: it’s a classic Filipino tamarind-based soup, loaded with veggies, pork ribs, and all the emotional comfort of a childhood hug you didn’t know you needed.)

The house smells like tamarind and longing.

I had a video call with Zeke (my 3-year-old genius of a grandson), his mom, and my other daughter. They’re putting up decorations. They’re laughing. And I’m here. Not stuck in the woods anymore—but somehow still stuck in the ache of missing them.

It’s strange how the ache doesn’t yell. It creeps in. Quietly. It hides in the background while you stir soup or fold laundry. It arrives in little moments—an empty chair, a Christmas ornament you don’t need this year, a tiny sock that no longer has a tiny foot to fill it. A photo in your phone. A laugh you only get to hear through a screen.

I’ve learned that missing people doesn’t mean your life is empty — it just means it’s full somewhere else.

Still, I make things. I finished another book for my “7 Continents” series—for Zeke, for Gavin, and for the grandbaby coming soon. (Yes. Grandbaby #3. Insert exploding heart here.) I imagine them flipping through pages someday and thinking, Lola made this. For me. That’s what keeps me going.

Well—that and the knowledge that I still have 48 hours of guilt-free Filipino food and Christmas chaos before my husband returns and wonders why the house smells like fish sauce, shrimp paste and love.

Also: is it just me, or is time speeding up? Like the Earth is spinning in “sports mode”? No, I’m not drunk. I just feel like I blinked and now I’m here—loving children who call me Lola, even when I can’t be there in person, missing my children like they’re still ten years old.

And don’t get me started on family drama — including my mother-in-law, who, if she had her way, would ghost everyone and everything, including her own reflection. Just when you think you’ve hit “Do Not Disturb” on life, someone leaves a voicemail from the abyss of emotional immaturity. My daughter’s dealing with her own soap opera — a sister-in-law who moved six minutes away and apparently thought that came with a lifetime membership to stirring chaos.

People are exhausting. And unfortunately, they do not expire like hoisin sauce in my fridge.

But me? I’m going to light up this little home anyway. I’m going to play Christmas music, even if it makes me cry. I’m going to hang the stockings, even if nobody's here to fill them. I’ll make things beautiful, even if it’s just for me.

Because love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it's just sinigang on a rainy day. Or a video call with grandkids. Or a book written by a Lola with a busy heart. Or even letting your husband fly off to his happy place—SoFi Stadium—with his BFF and a foam finger, while you stay behind and hold the quiet together.

Merry (almost) Christmas, friends.

P.S. If you're looking for a gift for the little brainiacs in your life — I make books for mine. The Flags of the World series was written for my grandkids, and Zeke (age 3, certified genius) approves.

📚 [Amazon link]