It’s me again.
I’m not entirely sure I’m going to post this yet, since I know it will be full of emotion & sentiment, which will be depressing, but it’s Christmas Eve… & I can’t shake my nostalgic feelings.
I’m listening to the Charlie Brown Christmas album, thinking about my childhood. We would play this album constantly. I could hum the music in my sleep, it’s etched so deeply into my mind. When I was younger, the moment this CD would play, I would immediately get excited, because Santa Claus is coming to town! I listen to it these days & have to hold back tears (as I am doing now), thinking of what was.
There are so many memories surrounding Christmas for me; more than any other holiday (or birthday). Maybe it’s because we were all one big happy family Christmas morning. Nothing was really in our way, nothing could keep us from being joyful or thankful. We were just oozing love & comfort.
My sister & I would wake up at the crack of dawn to take a look at the damage Santa had done; did he eat our handmade cookies? Did he drink the milk? Did he write us a letter back? Once we surveyed the damage — meaning, how much money my parents managed to scrimp to get us everything our little hearts desired & more — we pranced into my parents’ room, who would still be sleeping.
I remember yelling once, “It’s time! It’s time!” jumping up & down at 6 o’clock in the morning (& I have yet to do that again, now that I am a dignified adult, not to mention very grumpy upon waking up). My little sister would be yelling, too, for our parents to get out of bed because Santa Claus has been here! My parents would have groggy smiles on their faces, delighted to see their children so happy & healthy on another Christmas morning. & slowly… they would get out of bed, brush their teeth, use the bathroom, make the coffee, turn on the heater, & so on. All the while, my sister & I would be on pins & needles, just waiting to rip into those presents.
With a coffee mug in each hand — & when I was old enough (8 or 9) I would have a small cup, too — my parents would sit down around the tree with us, looking at our eager faces. My mom would make a gentle remark about how many presents there was underneath the tree & how “good” we must have been. Her excitement & wonderment during those mornings egged me & my sister on. If it weren’t for her, we would have stopped believing in the magic long before. Actually, Jonathan was making fun of me the other night when I told him I was about 11 or 12 when I learned the truth about Santa. He was amazed, because he put two-&-two together at the age of 6 (!!!). He asked me how I didn’t know sooner & I told him, “Because my parents put so much magic & thought into Christmas, we had no time to question it. It just was that way.”
So, we would open the presents, one by one. Each of us would be handed one — funny how my mother knew exactly which ones to save for last for the “grand finale” — & we’d have to wait until one of us finished cooing over it before we opened another one. Our grand finale present was always something significant & expensive, & usually, it was to be shared between my sister & I. One year, we got a Super Nintendo game console, with several games; another year we got a huge dollhouse, with rooms & doors & cabinets. It was always something we really wanted but didn’t know we wanted it until it was presented to us. & that would leave us wondering, “How does Santa know these things? How did he know that I wanted this for Christmas? I didn’t put it on the list!” My parents always knew; they loved us so much.
They always managed to give us a great Christmas, every single year. No matter if my father lost his job, no matter if they were behind on bills, no matter if they could barely afford to buy groceries. My sister & I always got spoiled… every single year. I don’t know how they managed to do it, but it meant the world to them to see smiles on our faces on Christmas morning. I suppose nothing — not even money — would get in the way of the joy they so wanted to create. Now that I’m older, it’s apparent the sacrifices my parents made to keep us happy. It’s almost heartbreaking, because they would want for nothing. All they needed in their lives was their children’s laughter. Literally.
Everything about Christmas morning was magical. The smells: fresh brewed coffee, the faint smell of peppermint that my parents would sometimes let dangle in their mugs, the cold winter air & the way the heater would smell when it was warming up. The food: my mother’s traditional Christmas breakfast of grits, honey-baked ham, eggs, & biscuits. The sounds: Charlie Brown’s Christmas, my father sniffing — he always had a way of doing this so loudly — my mother cooing along with us as the gifts were being opened, my sister’s excitement & even my own obnoxiousness. Everything just fit perfectly; it was like this practically every year, down to the last detail.
& now… things are different. As they should be, because time goes by, people change, & habits are eventually broken. This is inevitable.
My parents are no longer together; my father has a brand new baby with his new wife, my mother has a full house with her lover, my sister & her boyfriend, & my mother’s lover’s little baby. My parents are both happy in their own unique ways. & of course, I am married with a life separate from theirs.
Everything is so different, everything is so foreign. I won’t be waking up to see my sister’s groggy face in the morning, or my mother’s coke bottle glasses as she’s giving my father a hug. I won’t see my dad’s striped robe, or hear his jokes. I won’t be eating my mother’s famous breakfast, nor will I be drinking their fresh brewed coffee. While I understand change is necessary, I am sad about it. Why must things change? I guess I don’t do “change” very well…
Maybe this is why I’m so bitter about the holidays (& I really am bitter; a regular Scrooge, if I must be honest); because I have been conditioned to have Christmas be a certain way all of my life & to have it end so abruptly, without any kind of warning or gradual getting used to, I feel betrayed, hurt, & vulnerable.
I understand that this is the time to make new memories with my husband… but what about what was? Sometimes it hurts too much to simply remember… I want to BE there. I want to feel that kind of security again; the security that my parents will always be in love, that my sister will always be little & that I will always be there for her, that my house & my room will be left intact. I will never feel that kind of security again, because it doesn’t exist. & because of this, I am always terribly troubled on Christmas Eve.
This isn’t the first Christmas Eve I’ve spent feeling melancholy & on the verge of tears. The last several Christmases have been this way. Maybe this is my Christmas tradition; to feel remorseful, depressed, & unwilling, though I pray not. It just doesn’t ever seem to go away, no matter how hard I try.
& I envy those who have managed to keep the same Christmas traditions, with the same fixings as the year before & the year before that & the year before that. If only life could always be that way; a neverending cycle of security & an expectation that every family gathering — one such as Christmas — will be timeless & never changing.
While I know that these holidays shouldn’t be rushed, that they should be relished & never forgottten, I am never upset when Christmas is over. Never.