Monday – Wrapping Up Christmas Baggage
Dec. 21st, 2009 09:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
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I confess I'm one of those people who lugs around a lot of baggage in regard to Christmas. When you are a child, Christmas is all about fun and presents and singing and pretty lights. When you are an adult, it's about expenses and obligations and every memories of every dark thing that ever happened to you during this obligatorily "happy" time of year that still haunt you. Still, I think I'm getting better. I was able to decorate the Christmas tree without crying this year, and if that's not a sign of progress then I don't know what is.
I don't mind decorating Christmas trees, I just hate doing it alone. This particular piece of Christmas baggage was packed for me by my father and youngest brother in the years after my mother's death. Growing up, decorating the tree was always a family activity and my mother made sure everyone participated, though once my dad had the lights up he considered his job done and would slip off to watch TV after awhile if he could.
After my mother died when I was 15, my house was haunted by two specters: my mother's absence, which was so enormous that it took up more room space than I recall her presence ever doing, and my father who turned into a living ghost after he lost the best friend and companion he had planned to grow old with. In the years between losing my mother and meeting my stepmother, my father went through the motions of living, but he was a shadow of a man who lacked any real substance. My youngest brother and I, the only two of his four children still living at home, grew a little feral during this time as we learned to take care of ourselves in the absence of a mother and in the presence of a living-dead father (I still refer to this time as "back when my dad was a zombie").
When it came to Christmas my father went through the motions like he did with any other thing. He put up the tree and the lights then disappeared to watch television. When I asked him and my youngest brother to help me decorate the thing, my father said, "You like doing that sort of thing, why don't you take care of it?" and my little brother said, "I don't feel like it, you do it."
So I did. I pulled out the all Christmas LPs like my mother used to do, stacked them on the turntable so that when one finished the next album would drop down and begin to play, and decorated the tree by myself while I cried quietly and loathed my father and brother. The two of them never had any idea I was crying because they never bothered to check in on my progress. The next day they would tell the tree looked nice.
When Jeff and I started our household, sometimes he would help decorate and sometimes he wouldn't. He has always worked nights and had weird days off in the middle of the week, so this was understandable. In the years he helped, I didn't cry, but in the years that his schedule meant that I had to decorate the tree while he slept, I did. I still hate decorating a tree by myself, and I probably will for the rest of my life. One year I confronted him and begged him to help me. He was surprised.
"In my house, my dad always did the lights and the garlands and he always left the ornaments to my mom and us kids," he said, "So I just considered my job done. You don't like decorating the tree?"
"I don't mind decorating the damned tree, I just don't want to decorate it by myself, and we don't have any damned kids to help me. I hate decorating the tree all alone! Hate it, hate it, hate it! If you want us to a Christmas tree in this house, you'd better make a point to help me put the damned ornaments on it!"
He got that expression men get when they are trying to figure out how to calm down a hysterical woman, and seeing it made me want to cram a Christmas ornament down his throat and then tie a garland around his neck for good measure. He helped that year. Some years, it just wasn't possible.
Now my son is old enough to help. He loves helping to decorate the tree. He loves every ornament we unwrap from the boxes, and he loves putting as many as he can on a single bough until it droops from the weight of them all. I go behind him and redistribute them, but he confronts me if he catches me.
"What happened to the other ornaments I put here?"
"That branch had too many ornaments, so I moved one up here. See? And one over here, so that they're more spread out."
"But I wanted them all together on this branch. I liked them there. I thought they looked pretty."
With all the redistribution of ornaments, the unwrapping of fragile and whimsical and colorful things, and the warnings to my little boy to be careful with the glass ornaments, there is no time to cry, or even think about crying, when I decorate the Christmas tree. When you are a child, Christmas is all about fun and presents and singing and pretty lights, and with a child in the room the burden of Christmas baggage is lifted and lightened until it seems to weigh nothing at all.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
I confess I'm one of those people who lugs around a lot of baggage in regard to Christmas. When you are a child, Christmas is all about fun and presents and singing and pretty lights. When you are an adult, it's about expenses and obligations and every memories of every dark thing that ever happened to you during this obligatorily "happy" time of year that still haunt you. Still, I think I'm getting better. I was able to decorate the Christmas tree without crying this year, and if that's not a sign of progress then I don't know what is.
I don't mind decorating Christmas trees, I just hate doing it alone. This particular piece of Christmas baggage was packed for me by my father and youngest brother in the years after my mother's death. Growing up, decorating the tree was always a family activity and my mother made sure everyone participated, though once my dad had the lights up he considered his job done and would slip off to watch TV after awhile if he could.
After my mother died when I was 15, my house was haunted by two specters: my mother's absence, which was so enormous that it took up more room space than I recall her presence ever doing, and my father who turned into a living ghost after he lost the best friend and companion he had planned to grow old with. In the years between losing my mother and meeting my stepmother, my father went through the motions of living, but he was a shadow of a man who lacked any real substance. My youngest brother and I, the only two of his four children still living at home, grew a little feral during this time as we learned to take care of ourselves in the absence of a mother and in the presence of a living-dead father (I still refer to this time as "back when my dad was a zombie").
When it came to Christmas my father went through the motions like he did with any other thing. He put up the tree and the lights then disappeared to watch television. When I asked him and my youngest brother to help me decorate the thing, my father said, "You like doing that sort of thing, why don't you take care of it?" and my little brother said, "I don't feel like it, you do it."
So I did. I pulled out the all Christmas LPs like my mother used to do, stacked them on the turntable so that when one finished the next album would drop down and begin to play, and decorated the tree by myself while I cried quietly and loathed my father and brother. The two of them never had any idea I was crying because they never bothered to check in on my progress. The next day they would tell the tree looked nice.
When Jeff and I started our household, sometimes he would help decorate and sometimes he wouldn't. He has always worked nights and had weird days off in the middle of the week, so this was understandable. In the years he helped, I didn't cry, but in the years that his schedule meant that I had to decorate the tree while he slept, I did. I still hate decorating a tree by myself, and I probably will for the rest of my life. One year I confronted him and begged him to help me. He was surprised.
"In my house, my dad always did the lights and the garlands and he always left the ornaments to my mom and us kids," he said, "So I just considered my job done. You don't like decorating the tree?"
"I don't mind decorating the damned tree, I just don't want to decorate it by myself, and we don't have any damned kids to help me. I hate decorating the tree all alone! Hate it, hate it, hate it! If you want us to a Christmas tree in this house, you'd better make a point to help me put the damned ornaments on it!"
He got that expression men get when they are trying to figure out how to calm down a hysterical woman, and seeing it made me want to cram a Christmas ornament down his throat and then tie a garland around his neck for good measure. He helped that year. Some years, it just wasn't possible.
Now my son is old enough to help. He loves helping to decorate the tree. He loves every ornament we unwrap from the boxes, and he loves putting as many as he can on a single bough until it droops from the weight of them all. I go behind him and redistribute them, but he confronts me if he catches me.
"What happened to the other ornaments I put here?"
"That branch had too many ornaments, so I moved one up here. See? And one over here, so that they're more spread out."
"But I wanted them all together on this branch. I liked them there. I thought they looked pretty."
With all the redistribution of ornaments, the unwrapping of fragile and whimsical and colorful things, and the warnings to my little boy to be careful with the glass ornaments, there is no time to cry, or even think about crying, when I decorate the Christmas tree. When you are a child, Christmas is all about fun and presents and singing and pretty lights, and with a child in the room the burden of Christmas baggage is lifted and lightened until it seems to weigh nothing at all.
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Date: 2009-12-21 08:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-22 08:49 pm (UTC)