My Christmas Story
One of the greatest Christmases in my memory lies sometime in elementary school. I assumed that our traditional present opening and picture taking would happen on the floor of our “temporary” trailer home. When I woke up that morning, I was greeted with my mother’s smiling face and her warm hand gently pulling me into the waking world and out to the shed behind our house. It was there that my uncle, my mother, and a friend of theirs had strung up large Christmas lights, decorated a small, real tree that permeated the air with its piny scent, masking the odor of every little girl’s dream-- a box of puppies. That was a wonderful Christmas filled with laughter and love and joy.
However, most of my Christmases have not held that same sense of magic. When I was seven years old, our new house was flooded during Hurricane Rita, leaving us camping in our front yard in a tent. Since then, our Christmases have been spent in a variety of different places: a claustrophobic FEMA trailer where we passed our presents over a space of about five foot, the living room of a mobile home that we thought would be ours, the cramped living room floor of my grandmother’s trailer that currently houses my mother, stepfather, and younger sister.
While my friends posted pictures of their seven foot trees, the lovely garlanded rooms, the stockings hung over a fireplace, their lavishly decorated yards, I was busy keeping my mother assured, “Yes, I understand our Christmas won’t be large. I know that we can’t have a tree. I’m fine, really.” It was always around the holidays that I saw the worst side of my mother; my mother is the most beautiful, strong, hardworking person I have ever met. She has been dealt deathly blows by life and remained upright, but around the holidays my darling mother becomes stressed-- bogged down by the depression that she faced when realizing that she could not give me the crystal Christmas that my friends were receiving paired with the memory of my father. I, of course, did not realize this until years later. Instead, my mother reminded me that there were children who had to split Christmas with two parents, children who did not even know what a Christmas present looked like. Despite her many worries and reassurances, my mother also provided me with a plethora of presents each year. But above that she taught me not to seep in the negativity of our situation, but to focus on those less fortunate and the joys of our home.
I have to admit, I often failed at this task, choosing to let myself fall prey to the unfortunate setting of a sparsely decorated Christmas accompanied with raised voices and shorter nerves. As a result, Christmas had become one of my least favorite times of the year; in fact, I dreaded its arrival. The appearance of Santa and gaudy decor that hit the shelves before I had carved my pumpkin, reminded me harshly of the childhood I felt cheated out of. The holidays reminded me that a part of my parental unit would never celebrate Christmas with me, that I would not be able to do all of the simple Hallmark traditions that made Christmas… magical.
But this week, as I have approached Christmas, I found that my spirit simply would not be suppressed. I found myself humming along to inane carols, partaking in our choir concert with new gusteau, and buying presents with money that I probably should have saved. As I sit staring at my computer screen I am left wondering, “what changed?” The only answer I have is this: It’s my last Christmas at home.
Of course I will return for holidays, but I will never again live as a student in close proximity with my mother. While we do not sleep under the same roof, she is only a short walk or call away from me, something that I (and I’m sure others) have always taken for granted. I have watched my mother become progressively more disillusioned with Christmas as the years have passed, this year being particularly hard on her. This, too, caused me to focus in on the unique magic of Christmas for me and my family.
Since I was a little girl, my mother and I have presented each other with an annual Christmas ornament that reflects something in our personalities or a major event that happened during the year. For instance, the Christmas before my sister was born, I was presented with an ornament of tiny, zebra print baby boots. The irony of buying an ornament without a tree to place it on was not lost on me, yet I never realized how much this simple act meant to me until I recognized its absence from the past two Christmases. I took it upon myself to find my mother, myself-- and now my three year old sister-- an ornament; on a peculiar emotionally challenging night for my family, I presented Mom with these simple glass figures.
As the tears filled her eyes, I remembered all the special nuances of the past eleven Christmases, and everything that made them special: the six inch trees that we decorated with mini ornaments, the laughter over ridiculously large cups of hot cocoa, the time spent together packing boxes for Operation Christmas child. All of these and more memories make up multiple holidays spent differently from anyone else I have ever met. Every way that my mother has made Christmas special for me, and all the unique moments we share because of our special circumstance.
I may have matured faster than my peers in some ways; I may not have had the typical experiences of a usual teen; I can not tell you what a normal life looks like. But then again, who can? Hopefully next year my sister can start experiencing the typical gingerbread Christmas in our own home, but she will never know all that our mother and I have gone through to get to this point. It may seem like a burden or a curse, but as a great Garth Brooks song tells us, sometimes God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers. No one can say that they have done the things I have or learned the lessons that I have been privy to.
My family is a little bent-- not broken-- and our family is definitely our own. Our house is not decorated with your typical garnishments, but I am lucky enough to say that we have a home garlanded with understanding, strung with lights of twinkling mischief and adventure, ornamented with memories, and the star on top shining with the love that we have for each other.
So however you celebrate your holidays, Merry Christmas (Happy Holidays) from my crazy family to yours.
A prime example of my mother’s ingenuity and humor. Our Christmas tree complete with stocking holders and a snowman (on a gift card). Perfect.
