Poetic License

One more pie to bake. One more present to wrap. One more celebration to be had. It is Christmas, and I am finding joy in spite of the 75 degree day predicted. Children throughout the Christian faith (and others who just enjoy celebrating the holiday) woke up this morning to presents and full stockings, twinkling lights on the tree, a sleepy mom and dad watching them over a cup of coffee. That was my life for many years while my children were growing up.

Sometimes we lived where there was rain on Christmas. Sometimes, like today, we had sun and warm temperatures, like where I grew up in Texas. Sometimes, on rare occasions, we had snow. Each Christmas of my life was special in some way. Each Christmas stays with me and warms my heart, even when I feel it has given up on the world.

There was the Christmas when I was five, when I realized there was no real Santa. A letter left by the empty plate of cookies was in my father’s handwriting, but I kept that from him because I didn’t want the notion of Santa to go away. I kept it alive for myself and for my sister for many years. Now I realize how magical it was that my stern sometimes angry father took the time to sit down and write a note from Santa to me thanking me for believing in him and for sharing my cookies. It made me see my father in a different light. He had good in him.

There was the time we lived in Ohio in a very dicey neighborhood in a haunted house owned by my husband’s step-father. We were flat broke, looking for work, then were blessed with it just before Christmas. We had accepted food stamps to be able to feed our children. We had the money for exactly one toy apiece for them. With the food stamps, Santa was able to give them additional Christmas cheer in the form of tiny candy canes all over the tree and a box of store-bought cookies under the tree. Sean opened a Tonka truck (that had been on sale). Stephanie opened a Barbie doll – not one of the best ones, just a plain old Barbie. And you would have thought it was the most amazing Christmas any child had ever had. My ex and I still talk about that one to this day.

Later on, when we were more secure in our careers, we were able to provide a bigger house, nice cars, bigger presents, and bigger celebrations than that little holiday in the haunted, very cold house, but nothing ever matched our celebration that day and the one we had with his mother and step-father. Snow lay white on the landscape as far as the eye could see, but warmth spread inside us like a cozy fire.

The last Christmas with Stephanie was hard. She was sober and was trying to put her life back together. We had such hope! I remember her beautiful face across the table from me, her long black hair streaming down both sides of her beautiful white skin. As always, she had on rich red lipstick. She ate little, but she seemed alright. We had no idea it would be our last Christmas with her. I wish I remembered what we gave her. I think it was warm clothing, at least. She wouldn’t come home. We had to trust she would be okay. Like any other parent of a child who is troubled in any way, who is addicted to any substance, we sent all our hopeful energy into her, wishing for it to be enough to get her onto the right path in her life. We did not know how much we had failed, or how much she had. All that trying…

That was seventeen years ago. How can that be true?

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve scaled my celebrations down–first to survive such a loss, and then to endure. I don’t need as much or want as much. I put a spending limit on presents this year, though I did go a little bit over. My son and his girlfriend are hard to buy for, but I think I got them a few things they will like. It isn’t really about that, though. And the older you get, the more you will realize it.

This Christmas, I took an extra day off, because I woke up at 4 am on December 23 with what was most likely norovirus. The onslaught of its wrath didn’t stop until about 1 pm that afternoon, after I found that I had some Zofran in my nightstand. By that point, I had been reduced to a dizzy, shaking mess. I couldn’t get water down and wondered if I would have to call my son (who was also hit with the virus at 8 pm the night before) or an ambulance. Thankfully I began to keep down sips of water, and that was pretty much my sustenance for the first day. I haven’t bounced back from it as fast as my son did, but over the last two days, I was able to increase my fluids and take in a little food yesterday, though I was not and am not hungry. Baking the pie will be a labor of love for my son and his girlfriend. I’m past the contagious phase. Now I’m just weak and a little shaky. Four pounds down.

I’ve told my neighbors that I’ll drop off their presents as soon as I can, probably Saturday. I want to be sure that there is no chance I’ll pass this on. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy–cliche but true.

But even on the Christmases when we feel our worst, look our worst, plan our worst, the day is still magical to me. Isn’t it to you? My sister said to me in text, after learning how sick I was, “Oh no! Christmas is your favorite holiday!” Yes, it is. And it still is, though forces tried to stop me from celebrating this year. Damn the mistletoe, I’m ploughing ahead!

Now where did I leave my sleigh?

Namaste, and happy Christmas all!
Jude