Ugh, Christmas
It’s over. December 25, 2021, and Family Christmas day. I hate this day even more than Mother’s Day.
Mom died in May, 1992. The first Christmas after her death is a story unto itself. Since her death we have developed new traditions and watched them devolve year after year as family members are added.
Why do I hate Christmas? Well, as my daughter so aptly wrote in her own Insta post includes a “very specific, very deep kind of pain.” I recently asked her what was the cause of her pain, wanting to have an adult conversation. I assumed it would be some fault of mine, but was surprised to find out that it was more than my fault — we visited extended family members during the holidays, and she didn’t feel wanted at some of those homes, like the in- laws’ aunt and uncle’s house where she was told she wasn’t wanted, or to her step-mother’s family’s house where she was always “in trouble” for something and not treated like a member of the family.
I thought about that a bit, and yes, her feelings are not only valid but I remember Aunt Ida telling her she wasn’t real family. And I thought about my mom — each year we adopted graduate students who couldn’t be home for the holidays and celebrated with them, and how in general everyone was welcome at our house.
She did tell me that I also played a role in how she feels about Christmas (moms are always at fault at some point) because she remembers me always saying I hated Christmas. Definitely since mom died, but also thinking back I always felt something was missing, and there was an undercurrent of disappointment. I sound ungrateful here, but it isn’t about the quantity of presents; there was always too much under the tree.
Christmas season began when we got the Sears Christmas Wish Book (catalog) in the mail. We fought over who got to look at it first. We were allowed to each make wish lists solely from the catalog with 2 rules that could not be broken — we had a budget of $25 each (just under $175 in today’s dollars) and we could not choose anything that we saw on TV.
Christmas eve was when we hung our stockings from the mantle, and left milk and cookies for Santa with a note. Then off to bed we went. Christmas morning we were not allowed to go downstairs until Mom and Dad verified that Santa had been there, so we waited at the top of the stairs for the verification (making coffee and setting up the camera) before we could come down.
Sounds idyllic, right? Perfect family Christmas. Only, as I got older I realized that I always felt off. It felt like my sisters got the better presents, exactly what they wanted. I remember wanting one of those styling heads that you could make the hair long or short and use water to apply makeup for a couple of years, but my parents bought it for my sister. She asked for a dog one year and got it. The other sister always asked for sports equipment and got it. I wanted a dog and was always told no because Dad was allergic to animals. In my teenage years I started to realize that my parents really didn’t know who I was, and started buying my own Christmas presents, wrapping them and putting them under the tree for me to open, hoping they would get the message. Nope.
As an example of the Christmas presents I have received, let me introduce you to a gift I got one year, The Perfect Man.
Why this? Because I threw my second husband out for cheating on me, and it was supposed to be funny. I laughed with everyone else while hiding the hurt. One year I got a bottle of vodka and then the running “joke” was that I’m the family alcoholic. Again, hiding the hurt.
So each year as the holiday season approaches, I try to find the elusive joy in Christmas. I wish family, friends and my staff Happy Holidays, search for the perfect gift for my daughter (this year not only did she get my presence for a week but other gifts selected just for her, including a karaoke microphone. She’s 27.) I went to the Christmas Markets with her in Germany, drank gühlwein, and enjoyed the lights. But that empty feeling still lingers.
