Some traditions are adored and in place because they bring actual joy; some are a chore, but done because of departed relatives or loved ones and some are in stone because you liked pandas when you were five years old so every gift for the rest of your fucking life will be a panda. It’s rough because you know they mean well but it demonstrates how little they really know of who you have become.
When home in Philadelphia, I see my brother for about twenty minutes before we are saying Mommy and Daddy. I don’t and haven’t addressed them like that in twenty years but with Michael, it is immediate. I also become the spoilt sixteen year old that feels unseen and bored and pissed off. I quickly revert back to someone I escaped over 25 years ago. Some of it is habit, some of it is expectation but a lot of it is a nostalgic retelling of holidays of old. And romanticizing the past. Holidays are rough, expensive and often painful. The expectations, the disappointment, the friends that are definitely having a better time than you according to Instagram.
I grew up with split custody so lived week to week with each of my parents (along with my brother). Holidays were always split at 3 pm. And alternate years, so new Christmas breakfasts were established and Easter was often brunch. Thanksgiving was just gluttony. This arrangement was from when I was a baby, so I only have one picture of the four of us together. Long and acrimonious divorce and custody battles meant my parents didn’t speak for the rest of my mother’s life other than a hello or similar at a graduation. The tug of war, the adjustments, the telling us Santa came for us on Christmas Eve Eve because of their divorce were all part of the package. Tensions were always high as we waited for the 3 pm beep of the horn.
So why am I so desperate to revisit or build that past? Christmas Eve was my mom’s favourite day of the year. We would wake up, do presents, do breakfast and then go to the book store (to spend our gift certificates) and then come back for the absolute storm of family and friends that would come throughout the day. My mom would shop for ages and make enough food for a hundred people; but we usually averaged around 60. It was the only night of the year that her and my Mom-Mom would drink (Mom-mom is Philly for Grandmom) Amaretto sours were the drink of choice.
I would stress out about her stressing out about her in-laws (my Stepfather’s family). Luckily they always came early and didn’t stay long. And then in the ways that women do women’s work; I would end up clearing plates of male relatives because if I didn’t she would. To be fair, my Stepfather did always do the washing up. But some of those Christmases, at least the in-law family part were an absolute shitshow. My Step Father’s brother handing me envelopes of money to pass out to the “real grandchildren.” In my mother’s house, eating my mother’s food I wasn’t numbered among those that were handed envelopes. But blended families are difficult. And I am difficult.
When all of my friends were old enough to drive they would all come and that was when we would hide and smoke weed and the dog would get out and then devour the food. Then around 8 pm, my mom’s would die down and I would head to Aunt Jane and Uncle Brian’s. No longer assisting anything, this was what I re applied makeup for, to flirt and make out with cousins. Not my cousins. I’ve been best friends with Megan since we were eleven, but not technically related so I was free to sneak beers and kiss the boys.
One very memorable Christmas my friend Deborah’s grandmother died on Christmas Eve. Her dad was Catholic and her mom was Jewish. The Jewish grandmother is who died, so when we showed up to pay our respects, they were literally shoving the Christmas tree up the stairs to hide it in order to sit Shiva. One older uncle was pushing us down the basement, and kept saying “kids in the basement”, but then we were the only people in the basement. So we just stayed down there and snuck drinks and gossiped about who we had made out with the night before. We were in our early twenties.
Don’t get me wrong, there is lots to love about family and Christmas and valuing being together. When I brought McNulty to Philly as my carry on to meet my family, as I excitedly went through a toll booth at 5 am the booth operator handed me dog treats for her. I will miss them and feel conflicted when they pass the phone around for the “love you, yes I am good. Been a crazy year– yeah the whole suing the Met Police and winning. Am back in March to speak at Penn State” to fifteen relatives. I loved the huge games of Liverpool Rummy and Pictionary. And the pictures of my dad passed out after dinner. And we know how to dinner. Unlike the routine here of turkey, we get the turkey out of the way at Thanksgiving; so Christmas is no holds barred. And we are competitive and take turns.
My favourite Christmas gift story was my baby sister Katie being gifted a hamster. Unbeknownest to my parents, it was pregnant. As they arrived to pick me up for Christmas dinner she exclaimed that “it’s poops were moving.” Literally the gift that kept giving.
My problem is the pressure I put on the holiday to fulfill me. To make me feel like I felt in Marlo Book Store when my mom ummed and ahed about what books we would get. And then remembered the fifteen they were holding for her behind the counter. And then she’d always throw a few more in. My bittersweet pain is from the lead up and pressure for things to be like I remembered. To feel joy and excitement and really like Christmas without any of the facts getting in the way. To taste her food again. To laugh at her stupid glasses chains and light up santa pins.
The first Christmas that I brought Jonny home, she was diagnosed in November and our tickets were already bought. She was self conscious about losing her hair so my great Aunt knitted fifteen crazy hats so we all had them on. I stayed on for chemo and Jonny came back to take care of McNulty. That was the beginning of six long years.
As my mom was dying, a counselor recommended that I start making other Christmas structures to ease myself into the idea of not having it with her. The first year I didn’t go back to Philadelphia my brother’s wife was due with their first child around around that time. My dad, step mom and sisters flew to London and I had an amazing itinerary and rented a house. It was so outside of our norm that it was glorious. My nephew was born Christmas Eve in NYC and my mother was there for the birth of her first grandchild. Nonna was finally Nonna. It was her absolute favourite title, but also one I had no interest in participating in (not as an aunt, that was fine, but I didn’t want kids.)
The day after she died I was at a friend’s child’s christening and another friend offered me his place in Padstow to escape, walk the dog and grieve over Christmas. It was so overwhelming and needed. I drank through those first six months. Christmas was a blur of darts and dogs and some men in blackface. We did that until the pandemic hit. And then a weird lockdown lobster Christmas right before we broke up. Last year I was home for the first time in three years and nothing matched my memories or what I wanted or needed, because she wasn’t there. I couldn’t escape the memories or the reminders or the pain. From her discontinued Bigelow Cinnamon Tea being back on the supermarket shelves; to wanting Christmas Eve morning to be special at my father’s house where it just meant last minute shopping. We had a screaming fight about him telling me not to eat the chocolates before Christmas and me hysterically yelling- but it is Christmas, it is Christmas to me. Granted, had I explained that previously and calmly, it would have probably been a smoother holiday.
Which brings us to Christmas present in my own little Christmas Carol.
I am in London but have gone south of the river. Having lost my faithful companion McNulty in September, I decided that I could not survive the season without a furball next to me. So I volunteered to house and dog sit and have ended up with a regal cavapoo Sprocket. He is absolutely holding up his end of the bargain. Never more than a foot away from me. So far I have only bawled on two cavaliers, the owner of Poppy then kindly reached out to me on Instagram to send love and condolences.
So for my Christmas (Eve)– I’ve packed today out to occupy and entertain myself. I am on basically no sleep but not for lack of trying. Dog walk, coffee date, Jonny for lunch and then Philly friends over for the Philadelphia Eagles playing football at 9 pm. My mother would have seethed at her day turning into a watch party for sports. Men in the basement not socialising. She would have been raging
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I’ve not decorated this year because when I pulled down the crate McNulty’s stocking was on top. I just couldn’t deal with it. 13 years with my diva pup, it’s rough. I’ll put Christmas music on, but one of the benefits of my life choices is I am allowed to skip it. No one is depending on me to fake it or be Mrs Claus. I can just read in bed all day, but actually now that I have written this, I’m feeling more up to facing it. Laughing about her light up Christmas pins and her glasses chains (I literally had 90 of them when she died. I sent five to each of her friends that I was in contact with.)
For tomorrow, at least I can guarantee that there won’t be any political arguments with relatives and I will have a dog to cuddle. My friend Laura recounted when I was sobbing on her armchair in Margate and using McNulty’s long spaniel ears to wipe my tears. If it isn’t clear, I’m melodramatic.
It will also be my third Christmas without drinking. A friend who doesn’t have her daughter this year and another who is estranged from her family are joining me for a quiet day without any itinerary. Us three might have pillow fights and watch Grease, we may cuddle and read, we may play Scrabble. There may be tears, there may be turkey, there may be fresh pasta because it will occupy us, but the beauty of it is that I have no expectations at all.
Well maybe one. The coffee date’s father is an antiquarian book seller; and on very limited knowledge of each other we are exchanging books. Hallmark level cheese but has piqued my interest. If he gives me Bridget Jones’ Diary I will actually push him in front of a bus. Wish me luck and at least a good story to tell.
Merry Christmas and all the love, families are complicated, grief is individual and all of us are dealing with our own demons, expectations and disappointments. Be as nice as you can, and if you are going to talk shit about your relatives— make sure you are out of ear shot and that your phone isn’t hooked into the bluetooth speakers. A story for another day.
POSTSCRIPT:
Soon after publishing, I recieved a message from my book blind date “Morning Jamie. On reflection, I want to pass. Wish you well x”. Life comes at you fast. Was curious if he had read this or seen the TEDx and inquired what book he was planning on giving me. He said “I don’t think I can be sufficiently vulnerable. Also my impression is that it’s too early for you.” He was going to give me a book about trauma on Christmas Eve. More of a horror movie than Hallmark, and would have preferred Bridget Jones. It was a dog walk to see if I fancied him. Definitely dodged a bullet. I don’t expect this will be a Hallmark Movie.