
Last Christmas and the year before that, I had sick kids—kids with the stomach flu, no less. I was feeling like there might be a Greek God of Holidays whom I’ve offended in some manner—is it my wrapping skills? Decorations? My mockery of Elf on the Shelf? (It couldn’t be a Greek Goddess of Holidays because if such an entity existed, she would have nothing but compassion for all mothers everywhere, especially in December.) It seemed like this deity was fairly annoyed with me and thus wrecking vengeance via the untimely presence of the rotavirus.
I wasn’t sure what to do to placate him. In fact, I wasn’t really holding out any hopes for a non-puking Christmas this year. Bad things come in threes and all that. And in all honesty, my excitement for Christmas this year was pretty lacking. I kept looking back at the Christmases when I had a houseful of tiny little believers and feeling nostalgic. Not even a good nostalgia, but the kind that makes it hard to appreciate anything right now because of remembering so fervently what used to be.
But then all three of my boys got the stomach flu—during the week before Christmas! Which meant there was a very good likelihood that no one would be throwing up, or recuperating from throwing up, on Christmas. And then I started looking at the weather report for December 25, and the chances for snow changed from 60% to 75% to 90% as the day got closer. And then I managed to get almost every little bit of wrapping finished way before Christmas Eve. We got Haley home from Florida without any problems, everyone was happy, and I let myself hope—not even a little bit, but hope hard and big and surely—for a perfect Christmas (finally!) I started letting go of that ugly nostalgia that was making me live in the past, and seeing what is good about right now.
And everything really was on track for a nearly-perfect Christmas. I couldn’t figure out what to cook on Christmas Eve. Usually we have sweet pork burritos with all of the extras, but Haley is a vegetarian now, and while she insisted that she didn’t need a special meal, I wanted something that everyone could eat together. I worried about this for a while, until I was desperate enough to ask Kendell for suggestions, and he said “why don’t we just go out to eat?” For a few minutes that sounded like heresy, like something that might anger that vengeful Greek god, but then I thought about the benefits: no dishes, less stress, everyone could pick something they loved. So instead of cooking, on Christmas Eve we went to Chili’s. (I know…not very fancy, but that’s OK. Choices for everyone!) We had a great time, eating and laughing together and playing rounds of Trivia Crack together on our phones.
It was a good choice.
When we got home, I sent the kids downstairs to pick up the basement and get the space ready while I got started on some of the food for the morning. I made pie dough, double-chocolate-chip cookie dough, cinnamon-roll dough, and the chocolate cake. Then I went downstairs, and that’s when everything got off track. The basement wasn’t finished, and instead of being patient, I snipped a little bit, and then I went upstairs to get Kendell and he snipped at me for something, and then we opened PJs and read the Christmas story from the Bible. But when I tucked Kaleb into bed, I was in tears, because no one was throwing up but everyone was tense and I was just full of this sort of empty frustration. I had let my hope take me to a place that was too full of anticipation, to certain that this year would be a perfect year.
Too connected to the idea of “perfect” in the first place, probably.
But I got Kaleb tucked in, and I started defrosting the sausage for the morning, and then Kendell discovered that I was upset. So he got mad at the kids (instead of just acknowledging that yes, he’d been a jerk, which would have completely diffused me) and then the kids got mad at him, and then I went downstairs to mediate our lovely Christmas Eve discussion.
Leaving all hopes for a sweet Christmas floating around the ceiling somewhere.
I suppose I should just take it as a sign that our kids are growing up, because it’s not unusual for Kendell and me to have a BUA (big ugly argument) sometime in December, brought on by the tension and the spending and the expectations. Now the kids are just old enough to be included! Isn’t that fabulous?
I’m not going to record all of the argument. Or any of it. I cannot say it was any one person’s fault (except for my tendency to say it was all my fault) so I’m not placing any blame. Maybe all of the recriminations and stinging words had been waiting to be flung for quite a while, and it was just, like the previous years’ stomach flu, untimely. But it was long and ugly and discouraging. I left it feeling raw and undone and in a fairly dark place, especially since it happened on Christmas Eve, which is lovely and sweet and fun (or it’s supposed to be) but is also the pinnacle of a mother’s busy-ness. To have such bitterness uncovered right then was just…it changed me. It confirmed all of my fears that yes, my efforts at being a good mother really have failed.
The only saving grace is that at least Kaleb was asleep.
When we finally came to a sort of uneasy peace, I still had so much to do. I went upstairs and finished the pie, baked the cookies, made the cinnamon rolls, made the breakfast casserole, and started the wassail simmering. Then I did my Santa work: gathered up the gifts from all of their hiding places, put the bows on (I always do the bows when I put the gifts under the tree, so that they don’t get smooshed), stuffed the stockings, ate some of the snacks on the Santa plate, cleaned up all the mess, and then fell into bed. It was 3:45 before I got there, and I was still upset so I couldn’t fall asleep even though I was so exhausted I couldn’t think straight.
I must have finally managed it, because I was dreaming, and something strange was troubling my dreams, and then all of a sudden I wasn’t asleep because the smoke alarm was blaring, and I realized that strange thing was the smell of something burning—cinnamon and cloves and allspice berries, apple juice and orange juice.
I forgot, it seems, the very last step of my usual Christmas-Eve preparations: turning off the wassail.
It had simmered dry, and then the solids started burning, filling the kitchen with smoke. I raced down the hall into the kitchen, where the smoke looked just like it does in a movie: heavy and thick near the ceiling (where I’d left my hopes), gradually thinning towards the legs of the table. I ran to the stove, turned off the burner, grabbed the pan and filled it with water, burning my palms on the handles. Kaleb and Kendell weren’t far behind me. Kaleb was confused and excited. He said, “Is Santa here?” and then I had to just hug him because this Christmas Eve/early morning—it was 6:18—was so far from happy Christmas memories for him that I wanted to curl into a ball and die.
Of course, there’s no curling allowed on Christmas morning when your house is filled with smoke.
Kendell turned off the smoke alarm and we opened the kitchen and front room windows. Then he stood at the front door and Kaleb and I stood at the back door, fanning out the smoke. The promised snow had arrived—it hadn’t started falling yet when I went to bed—and with it a ferocious wind. It was so cold, and the snow was blowing in, so I sent Kaleb back to his bed to warm up, while Kendell and I kept fanning.
I didn’t want to know this, but I can tell you that the exact scent of a ruined Christmas is burned wassail. That specific smokiness, built of cinnamon and spices and sweetness but turned bitter and harsh and pungent—I might not ever smell it again. But it is what disappointment smells like.
What I wanted to do was just go back to bed. To actually sleep, and to just not be awake anymore. Feeling that feeling. But Christmas, especially with a nine-year-old, waits for no broken-down mom, so a couple of hours later—none of the teenagers having woken up for the fire—we went downstairs to see what Santa had brought. That is a story I will share tomorrow, but today I just want to share what I will take from that hard Christmas Eve:
Most of that argument really was my fault. I don’t say that as a martyr but because of what I have learned, thinking about it. I worked myself into a sort of mom-frenzy, wanting Christmas to be perfect. Part of this desire was for Kaleb, my last believer who really does deserve a few more years of childhood Christmas mornings. Of believing. But it was also for my Bigs. I wanted them to feel a little bit of the magic they used to feel when they were the believers. And I wanted us to be happy together. Who knows—maybe this is the last Christmas we will all spend together like this. Maybe in another year, Haley will want to do Christmas with friends, or a boyfriend, or something else entirely. Not too shortly, Jake will be graduated from high school and off to college and/or a mission, with Nathan following closely behind. I just, in my deepest part, wanted one more year. Together, with just us. With us happy together. So I built it up and I pushed myself to make it as perfect as I could, and I didn’t sleep enough during the days before, and despite not wanting to hope, I hoped. I let expectation push me, and then a small thing (the couch not being turned around, the floor not being vacuumed) was too much to bear. I snapped and that started the whole cascade of expectations, ending in me almost burning down my house.
So next Christmas, I am not going to do this. Not to myself or anyone else. I’m not going to build up the expectations. I’m not going to cling to wishing things could be like they used to be. I am not going to hope to make it perfect. I’m not going to try to make it perfect. I’m just going to do what I can, without making myself crazy from the pressure. I’m going to look for the small perfect moments—which were also there this Christmas, despite the drama—and savor them, and just breath. Just not build it up so much that I snap because someone didn’t pick up their socks. I’m going to shop earlier and perhaps bake less and definitely ask fewer things of myself, and remember that my deepest desire—the thing I built all of that stack of expectation on—wasn’t really about the kids loving their presents (although that’s part of it). It is really about just wanting us to be together in a good and happy way. I want to seek out the experiences that will help us do just that, and let go, somehow, of all the other desires.
Maybe then the Greek God of Holidays will finally be appeased.
(Coming tomorrow: the really good parts of Christmas 2014, because really: there were some)