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I have always loved Christmas, the magic of it, the giving, the decorations and the beautiful smells. I like the way the whole world seems to stop a bit and do what is right. For one day, or a few weeks if you are lucky, we are all living the way we are supposed to.
When I was a little girl I always got a letter from Santa just outside of my stocking. It was written on the cardboard that my dad’s dry cleaned shirts came folded in. It was written all in caps, not shouting, but in the style of the letters we got at camp from my dad. I did not like the year Santa mentioned that I was blossoming into a beautiful woman. Santa is not supposed to notice those things. I was deeply embarrassed and sad that my childhood was being pulled away from me. The next year there was no letter, just a clock radio(pushing punctuality) and a Dr Pepper lip balm(pushing prettiness). Womanhood looked like a real drag. I was only 12 and a half. I looked at my brothers and they still wrestled around on the floor until someone almost lost an eye, acted like neandrathals or neonatals and no one expected much of them beyond cleanliness– a long shot mostly.
As a newlywed- our first Christmas together, my then brand new husband was placing a new pair of skis beside the tree. I said ‘what on earth are those?’ He told me they were the present he was giving me. I said’where is the letter from Santa? Why aren’t they wrapped? They have to be wrapped so I don’t know what they are”(not easy with skis) He did these things for me and every year played the role of surprise beautifully. Every year I got a dress from him, that somehow fit me perfectly and that I loved. I had that gorgeous feeling that he was paying attention to my style, my likes and knew my exact size from memory. Nothing is quite as lovely as a man in a dress shop at Christmas choosing well for his wife. Choosing well feels like being noticed.
When we split up I played Santa for the first time ever in my whole life. I did not feel very Jolly. I wrote all the letters with my left hand and even wrote one to myself. This was another time to talk about the year to my children. What had happened, what we still had. Santa told them they were strong and that life had been hard but it would get better and feel more ok every day. I wrapped all the gifts, my own as well, put the notes beside the three stockings, re read the one I had written to myself, shivered in bed until I feel asleep.
The next day things were okay- I did my best, swallowing hard when I felt the tears coming up. Eyes were dry until Christmas dinner, 12 of us around the table and my nephew cut the noise in half with his innocent question ‘Where is Mike?’ For a 7 year old it was a natural question. For me, first christmas alone and a million years from feeling any connection with my ex husband, I could not speak, could not answer him but could only look at my daughters across the table and whisper with full eyes ‘I am so sorry’.
Last year I had problems finding my joy I normally feel at Christmas. I felt more bombarded than usual by the early prompts to shop,consume, and emulate someone else’s idea of Christmas. My parents were not going to be with us, due to my dad’s rapidly progressing illness.It was a taste of the future without them. I was particularily overrun with work and parties and began to panic that I would not give anything original at Christmas. I tried to find the heart of the season at a soup kitchen serving the homeless, it helped a little but the goodness felt fleeting. Four days from the Eve, I called my ex husband and invited him for Christmas Eve dinner. My children did not want this they said they were not ready- but I assured them it would be fine, no one would lose an eye.
This is why alcohol was invented.
He came for dinner, bringing me a poinsettia (16 years of marriage and he did not know I hate poinsettias?) and a bottle of wine. He carved the meat, said I looked pretty and left right after dessert. I breathed in and out, after all-other ex people do more. Some share vacations, family cars, beds, monogrammed towels, parent teacher meetings, all special occasions, sock drawers, spice racks and even some bodily fluids.
I did well last year. I gave my children an original gift.
I have had this problem my whole life, honestly one of my best skills is my ability to be cheerful under the worst possible scenarios. I am afraid to admit it but I may have a love of adversity. And I definitely have an aversion for anyone pitying me in any way. And yet pity, and incredulity are what I am getting.
I wonder if having a positive attitude convinces people that your life is easy and then they need to knock you down a little. I hope this is not true. It seems backwards that the whiners get propped up and the people fighting for their life, everyone tries to take a run at. We live in a victim adoring society.
I have a big present out front- it is a dumpster. It carries all the old, worn out past. I have wanted to do this work for years and I am finally doing it and the world can’t wait to bring me down about it. While it is true it looks like Beirut around here , it is a sign of life, forward thinking, hope and a belief in myself.
All of this is hard enough to do, near impossible to pay for and weary to endure. So let me have the simple joy of it.
Don’t bring me down.