Choose Your Christmas
I have never been so great at conforming. My earliest memory of trying to be like everyone was at a time in life that most of us were doing that: 7th and 8th grade. Looking back, I don’t know if my parents were poor or if they just chose not to extend any practical financial health benefits to us children. Still, amongst more severe consequences of how we were raised, we never had adequately fitting clothes. I do not have any memories of caring about that until junior high, where I’d try to camouflage my ill-fitting clothes with safety pins, knots, layers, and more. I had curves by then – breasts, a tiny waist, and big hips – which felt like added layers to the humiliation of not having any choices in how I got to spend my time, what I could eat, and how I presented myself. The pants I had that fit best in my waist and hips were about six inches too short. I tried to solve that deficit by wearing big socks of the same color. I probably was doing more to highlight what I was trying to hide than gain any traction in the northern Minnesota early teenage fashion scene. I didn’t conform, even with all my effort.
Growing up, Christmas was a reflection of all the deficits we experienced from how we were raised, only it was decorated with tinsel and pretty lights. When we did receive anything, they were odd gifts that were not age-appropriate and never seemed to be about who we were as people. And we could always count on getting in trouble for something and having our new and confusing treasures confiscated and then being isolated in our bedrooms so that we don’t further ruin the holiday for our parents by talking or otherwise just reminding them of the burdens we created.
Christmas as a young mother was terrifying. I had never had a healthy, meaningful Christmas filled with joy and the pursuit of making beautiful memories. My then-husband was a generous and excellent gift-giver during the earlier years. He had laser-focus on his goals and hobbies, so buying him gifts was easy and rewarding. He was Mormon, and I converted to his religion, and the lessons and sermons at church added more meaning to Christmas, and I felt like I was getting closer to what I had always imagined Christmas was supposed to be. The best part for me, though, was my sweet, fat, happy baby boys. I loved taking their photos and dressing them in the cutest baby Christmas clothes and fantasizing about how every Christmas would be better than the one before and that when they’re old enough to remember their childhood holidays, they’d only remember the magic.
Of course, it didn’t entirely turn out that way. My husband’s laser focus was never fixed on his family. The world was his, and his alone, and the boys and I were complications that weighed him down. I think it was mostly me that was the problem. I believe that as he traveled and grew in his career and met people, and gained more education and experience, he didn’t like me. But, because I was raising our boys, they were an extension of me and, therefore, a burden.
At the end of the day, I think I’m still that girl who tried to hide how badly her pants fit by wearing big socks of the same color. As though they’d blend in and nobody could see. That helped a lot when I became a single parent. We were no longer holding him back from the life he wanted, and I now had to learn how to build a space for the boys and me to know who we were without hurting one another or other people.
It wasn’t a smooth transition. We were traumatized, and we were truly poor. Our first two Christmases on our own were almost entirely donations. We were very loved by our new community, and I am so thankful for that, but my failures in providing the magical Christmases of my dreams for the boys brought me anger and tears every year. I was too young and dumb and under too much pressure and stress as a single parent to see I was hurting my feelings with my dreams of Christmas magic.
We have had some weird Christmases. We have had Christmas in hotels and other homes, and one year a tree fell on our house the day before Christmas Eve. We have spent our time volunteering on Christmas, and we have hosted others on Christmas. Our only tradition seems to be that every Christmas is different, and I’m always hurt and disappointed by how it turns out.
As the boys barrel into adulthood, we have continued to try new ways to do Christmas, and nothing has stuck. Now that some of them live far away, all I want is to know they are happy enough to keep chasing some dreams. And I think that’s all they want, as well.
Last Christmas, we learned I had cancer. I don’t even remember what we did. I only remember the feelings. I remember feeling terrified and sad. I remember feeling loved by my boys, and I remember observing how they seemed to have no care or concern over our lack of Hallmark moments. I took photos. We ate food. We had drinks. We napped. We loved each other in our ways. We were together when any of us could have been anywhere else. We felt no deficit from refusing to participate in the cultural norms of Christmas.
We have tried to do Christmas in 22 different ways, and I’ve learned that the family I have made, with my boys and other important people, shares what I imagine is the magic of Christmas all year. That’s not a revolution in our relationships, it has always been that way, but I have been so busy hurting my feelings over not having or not giving that Hallmark experience that I’ve missed it.
So, I canceled Christmas #23 this year. And it’s been better this way. It has been a gift of its own to have no expectations, to reject stress from the outside, and to have the space and time to eat more, drink more, rest more, and play more.
Wherever you are, you have choices. Above all things, I hope your holidays and traditions are based upon your choosing joy.
Merry Christmas or whatever,
Wild Wanderer
