So why does a rabbit have its own holiday?
Have you ever talked to a rabbit?
They don’t have paws to bat things with.
They can’t climb onto the windowsill to look at the world below.
They can’t even meow.
So why do they get a day filled with pastel baskets of goodies and great smells from the kitchen?
And humans wonder why we seem cranky.
I’m going back to my nap.
My mother was bemoaning what a horrible year she has had. In an effort to point out how we should all be thankful for what we do have, I mentioned an article I read about a Palestinian doctor whose three daughters were killed by mortars during an attack by the Israelis. This, two months after his wife and mother both succumbed to acute leukemia. In an effort to make sense of his losses, he is promoting peace in the Middle East and says it will be his life work to ensure his daughters’ death would be the last in a long-standing war. There was silence and then my mother rolled her eyes.
It would be easy to look at my mother and label her a depressed person. She has been to varying degrees as long as I can remember. My aunt said my mother is not capable of handling emotional turmoil as most people can. I scoffed at her diagnosis, which excused and allowed my mother’s bad behavior. Perhaps it is our entire history, which makes me unable to find sympathy for her. I look at the upheavals in my life, the pain I have endured, the disappointment and I look at my mother as simply ungrateful and spoiled.
For the first time in years, her prodigal daughter returned for Christmas. Her husband stood by her this year despite her devastating their lives with her selfishness and refusal to quit a myriad of pills she consumes. Her sister survived her third bout of cancer. Her grandchildren are healthy and happy. These things apparently are not enough to be thankful for.
My father is blind to her manipulations and nefarious plotting. Early this year, my sister and I determined our mother no longer wanted to be employed and simply wanted to stay at home taking various pain pills and muscle relaxers. We staged an intervention that quickly spun out of control. There were wounds opened and salt copiously poured and all the while, she sat there seething with anger. When we asked her why she did not want to see a psychiatrist, her reply was “Because I don’t want to.”
There, in a nutshell, was my mother. Our entire lives she has been a depressive person. There were uncontrollable rages and hours spent locked in bathrooms. There was an incident once where I ordered her out of our house as she pummeled my sister who had been begging at her bedroom door. My father has seen all of this, and still he sits beside her, mute to demanding or asking anything from her, and feeds into her desire to be completely taken care of. She does not want help because the dynamic of their relationship would most certainly change.
Despite all of these incidents, she has never seen a counselor. Because she has never wanted to. Her behavior has served her well over the years. As cruel as she can be to my father, he loves her unconditionally and takes care of her ever need. He even turns a blind eye to her current addiction and swats away our feeble attempts to get her help. When she is passed out on the couch, he simply tells himself she is tired. When she was unbelievably cruel to us as children, he put the onus on us to get past it. I said it before; she is my father’s favorite child.
She’s lied to him. She’s been fired from job after job for behavior she could most certainly control. She’s quit the other jobs because she has hated a manager or a co-worker and simply could not tolerate the environment any more. She’s lost friends and family who no longer could tolerate her behavior. She’s devastated my father financially this year with money spent on prescriptions, doctor’s visits and being fired from yet another job. Yet, there he is this Christmas, waiting on her hand and foot and scurrying to fix what she has broken.
I watch all of this and I think of that Palestinian doctor. There are worse things in life than watching this train wreck of a family. He has no one to sit at the table with him, even if there is resentment and anger served along with the ham. I look at my daughter, so smart and beautiful, the whole world to be explored. I have not been the best mother, but I hope she looks at mine and thinks to herself, I am grateful for what I do have.
This year I will:
Travel more – Tokyo is on my list
Sleep more – Sunday naps are returning
Give up chicken – In my trifecta of giving up meat, it will join red meat and pork
Marathon – Enter and finish one
Writing – Do more and get that book you finished last year published
Yoga – Do more
Happy – Embrace it – it’s yours to lose
Disappointment – Let it go – you don’t need it in your life
Buy less – You are not measured by your things
Love – Completely and unconditionally and remember a time when you couldn’t
1. Denial – Arrive at parents and pretend your mother did not just insult your hair, your makeup and your kid.
2. Resistance – Resist the urge to be defensive and/or drink copious amounts of rum.
3. Relief – Celebrate the arrival of your sister and her family and the brief relief you will get from the onslaught of motherly guilt.
4. Annoyance – Tell your father firmly for the fifth time you do not want to try the peanut butter fudge shipped to him from Michigan and shoot your mother dirty looks as she questions what color your hair really is.
5. Organization – Meet with sister, synchronize watches and decide what time for each event and when you will be leaving.
6. Enthusiasm – Fake it while your children open gifts.
7. Anger – Suppress it while your mother begins bemoaning the fact she was fired from yet another job and overplaying her victim hand. Fight it when she begins crying how much pain she is in and how she cannot go back to work, yet she joins in with you and your sister who is now doing a kick line and singing Christmas carols badly.
8. Bargaining – Tell yourself if you do not confront and/or argue with your mother there is a place in heaven for you.
9. Depression – Gorge yourself with food to numb the fact this is your holiday.
10. Passive Aggressiveness – Giggle with your sister as you close your eyes in every picture your drunken uncle attempts to take. Do not feel guilty. The pictures are so blurry you can’t even tell who is who. This is followed by much merriment as your sister takes a few of the many magnets on the refrigerator and throws them on the floor, ornaments off the tree she then throws behind the tree, and a knick knack or two that will never be found.
11. Enlightenment – Realize you still have two more days to celebrate Christmas and this is not going to ruin your spirit.
12. Acceptance – Accept this is your family, the only one you get, and drive away, squealing your tires and grateful you have survived it.
A Christmas Present to my Sister
I can remember the morning our parents brought you home. I ran outside, the sidewalk was wet from rain, and jumped up and down on the top step of the porch as mom carried you, swaddled in a yellow afghan, into the house. I looked down at you, examined you to make sure you had ten fingers and toes; I kissed your cheek and welcomed you not only into the house but also into my heart.
For days, I would stand on a chair next to your crib and watch you sleep. If you cried, I would pop the pacifier in your mouth or pat your stomach until you drifted off again. I would help mom bathe you and change your diapers. At some point, I would resent your intrusion on my life, but not during those first few months. I was in love with the idea of a baby sister and you were mine just as much as mom’s to take care of.
Over the years, I took my job as big sister very seriously. We had our moments of war, and then peace as we played and sought comfort from whatever was happening in our household with each other. You were a pest in the highest degree, and I am still bitter over you throwing away my hundred crayons set and writing on my baby doll. You loved to smear your face with food and gross me out at the table. There were bugs exoskeletons you hung on my sweaters and sucking the oxygen from the backseat as we went on long car rides. Yet, you were my first audience, the one I cared about entertaining the most.
We would lie in our beds at night, sharing the same room for what seemed like twenty years, and I would tell you stories. Making you laugh was always my goal and you had the best of them all. In you, I found a respite from any pain from my childhood. I would make up wild tales and you would demand more and more. We even shared the same imaginary friend.
I wanted to protect you from the harsh realities, and sometimes I succeeded. I would tiptoe to your bed at night, and put my finger under your nose making sure you were still breathing. The thought of losing you, was unbearable to me. You were my other half, and I would never be whole without you.
There were times I let you down. Times I let myself down. I left you when you were still barely a teenager and went off on my own. Mom would call me nightly to talk to you about your behavior. Maybe you felt I abandoned you. I tried to bring you along with me, but at some point, our lives veered off in different directions. We were both grown, both moving on with marrying and starting families. We did not always see eye to eye on everything.
I moved away and I thought we would drift apart. We did momentarily, both so consumed by the choices we had made in our lives. I missed important events. I feel like I missed everything. Yet, somehow, that bond we cannot explain and probably do not want to, kept us together. I could call you, and you could tell from the sound of my voice exactly what I needed. It was the same with you. You were miles away, but you were always wherever I needed you.
Coming home again, I am amazed at how easily we fell back into the relationship we always had. From the first embrace in the driveway because I could not wait for you to get into the house, we are what we always were. Sister, best friends, each other’s sounding board and psychologist. We are two halves of a whole and distance cannot erase what we have built together.
I am proud of you and the children you have raised. I watch you in awe that the baby I stood over is now this woman. We laugh a lot together, with our secret jokes and our silliness, excluding everyone else from our shared world. We commiserate, rant, and rave and at the end of it all, we know we do not have to agree on everything.
From the minute you were home, I knew you would be one of the most important relationships in my life. You make me a better me. You have reminded me of who I once was, and I found her again. All of those years being your substitute mother, prepared me for my own daughter. I would not take back or erase a minute of our lives together, even the worst of times.
This Christmas is my first at home with you and your family in a long time. I am happy we will be sitting at the table, laughing at each other’s antics, while everyone else looks puzzled at what is so funny. Later tonight, one of us will call the other and we will talk about whatever happened, be it good or bad. We will wish each other a Merry Christmas and for a moment, I will wish I could go back to when we were kids.
Christmas morning, before even the sun had risen, you would bounce on my bed, up since the night before so excited about Santa’s arrival. You will beg and plead with me to get mom and dad up so we can open our presents. We will drag them grumbling out of bed and we will sit on the floor in front of the tree while dad, always dad, passes out the presents. The best part is that no matter what toy we have received, we will look at each other and say, “Let’s go play.” Then we will scamper off together, making a blanket fort in the gap between our twin beds in our room, and spend the rest of the morning, until we are dragged from our fun for family obligations, playing together.
This Christmas, we will spend it playing with our kids, and we will appreciate and hold on to those moments as precious because we have seen how fleeting they can be. We will know, that someday there will no longer be toys and blanket forts and make believe Barbie worlds. Life moves so quickly and someday our children will have moved on just as we have. Yet, it is always there isn’t it. That wonderful memory that we share.
I can still look at you, even in adulthood, and say, “let’s go play” because you are even today, my best friend. The one I want to share my toys with. The one I want to share my pain with. The one who understands me and all my complication. We have the best gift of all. Each other.
It’s that time of year
Time to spread my (pause)
Jingle bells far and wide
In my work I take great pride
While some families trim their trees
I do my part on my knees
Lifting spirits and my dress
I provide a buffet of goodness
I’m gonna bone
The wise men
Donner and Blitzen
The carolers down the block
All I want is Christmas c***
It’s time to sell my a**
In the alley after mass
It’s never a holiday chore
Being a Christmas whore.
You may choose to deck the halls
I prefer decking (pause)
Something entirely not related to rum balls
It’s not a holiday
Unless it’s the season for a lay
I won’t work on chaunaka
Winter solstice or Kwanza,
I do my part to celebrate
I give more than fruitcake
I’m gonna bone
The Mail Man
Even Father Damien
The carolers down the block
All I want is Christmas c***
It’s time to sell my a**
In the alley after mass
It’s never a seasonal bore
To be a Christmas whore.
I don’t need Mistletoe
It’s with great glee I’ll give a (pause)
Special holiday with all the trimmings job of blow
You won’t see me standing in a line
I’ll be on my back by dinner time
You won’t need to follow a star
I’m perched on a stool in a bar
Waiting for an offer of cash
In the car we will dash
I don’t want no frankincense
Pies of pumpkin and of mince
I don’t want to open a gift
Only one thing gives my spirit’s a lift
I wanna bone
The twelve drummers
Eleven pipers pipes
Ten lords need a ride
The carolers down the block
All I want is Christmas c***
It’s time to sell my a**
In the alley after mass
Tis the season to adore.
Being a Christmas whore.
I wish I was the type who teared up over It’s a Wonderful Life. I suppose it’s my cold dead heart which prevents me from even enjoying what I find to be a maudlin movie. Instead, I’m more of A Christmas Story watcher. I watch Grinch every year (the cartoon, not the Jim Carrey debacle) and I’m sentimental when it comes to memories and traditions with my daughter. Yet, I cannot watch Jimmy Stewart become grateful for what he does have in his life and take it seriously.
This year we’ve put up our tree, minus some ornaments which are being held hostage by an ex. Instead of being bitter by it all, I’m looking at this as an opportunity to create new traditions with my daughter. The problem is we can’t think of a new tradition. We trimmed the tree as usual, we’re baking cookies today and we did manage to gorge ourselves on Christmas movies (minus It’s a Wonderful Life…yes, I know heresy). Yet, we cannot think of a new tradition to share to celebrate the new path of our life.
This year, first of many that have gone by, we are going to be with my parents. If you’ve been following my blog you know I have an entirely complicated relationship with them, especially my mother. I’m still angry with her and the wreckage she has caused this year and it continues. Sitting with them while decking the halls will be tense to say the least. My sister and I have already established our arrival and departure times so we do not have to suffer more than necessary. It’s sad this year instead of heartfelt homecoming, we are merely enduring the celebration.
I wanted this year to be different for my daughter. I wanted to be the type of mother who cried over It’s a Wonderful Life and wore atrocious bow covered sweaters with pride. I wanted to be the soccer mom she’s deserved. Instead we made a gingerbread ghetto and she made a Christmas octopus manger scene for our mantle. Yes, I said octopus. We’ll be baking cookies later while watching Elf and sipping hot chocolate with cinnamon. We’ll laugh and eat raw cookie dough and I’m sure there will be a beheaded snowman made. At some point, we’ll argue about something trivial. It will be our version of a sentimental holiday.
Maybe I don’t like It’s a Wonderful Life because everything comes wrapped up in a bright red bow. Jimmy watches his life crumble around him, but his loving wife is there to pick up his pieces and his children are nauseatingly precious. He decides life isn’t worth living, but his guardian angel shows him that even at his worst, he matters in the life of his loved ones. Apparently the entire town collapses without him. Rubbish, I say. He then realizes despite his utter failures, he matters to those who love him and he rushes home to some cliches and a cute ending.
In my opinion he’s a narcissist of the worst order and selfish beyond compare. I’m glad his epiphany prevented him from devastating his children with a Christmas memory of their father throwing himself off a bridge. In my opinion, he shouldn’t have needed a guardian angel in the first place. Life sucks, accept it and keep moving forward. I don’t need an angel working hard for his wings to remind me I am important in someone’s life, not just for Christmas, but year round. It’s my duty as a parent to take the lumps and prevail despite them. It’s a gift I’m putting under the tree for my kid, one that I never received from mine.
So as we bake cookies, maybe our new tradition will be embracing our weirdness. We’ll watch only the holiday movies we like and not feel bad about the rest. We’ll make inappropriate cookies and laugh about it. Maybe we’ll eat pasta as our Christmas meal. Who cares? It’s our holiday to celebrate however we see fit.
Oh wait, I didn’t mention Miracle on 34th Street. Now that movie leaves me sobbing into my snuggie. There, I’m not so cold dead hearted after all!
My birthday has come and gone
I have embraced the path ahead
Whatever came before
Was meant to
It shaped me
Molded me into the present
And I can see the joy still to come
I developed a mercurial nature at a very early age. I learned to internalize and keep the essence of me hidden away. Call it survival skills or genetics, but I became withdrawn from people and refused to believe I needed anyone else. Instead, I became a listener. An observer of the world around me.
Nothing fascinated me more than the adults orbiting around our life in Arizona. There were gin rummy nights soaked in sloe gin and loud conversation coming from a room filled with the thick fog of smoke. I would sit on a chair in the living room, close enough to hear every word, yet nonchalant enough to look as if I cared about the game of Monopoly being played by the kids. I hovered between both worlds and lost all interest in whatever childhood I had left.
My immature crushes on Dylan and Daniel were a thing of distant memory. I had a new object of affection and as I sat perched on the arm of the couch, I wondered why I had wasted time on mere boys. He was every cliché of a cowboy that had ever been written. Wearing road weary blue jeans, black cowboy boots and a silver and turquoise belt buckle the size of a dinner plate, he walked into our house one night and I fell in love. I stood there mutely staring at him as he was introduced around and reluctantly left the room so the adults could do whatever they did that made them cackle with laughter and talk loudly at each other.
The entire night I stared at his face. He was tanned, probably younger than he looked and sporting a neat mustache beneath a mangled nose. He was in town for the rodeo and one of the women of the group had brought him home. He sat in his chair and she stood at his side, his arm casually around her waist. I shivered at the thought of his hairy arm on my skin. He was as ugly as he was beautiful, but I guess that was most of the attraction.
I became eager to fetch beers and refill the chip bowl, as the night grew longer and the crowd rowdier. He pinched my cheek, calling me cute as a button and plopped a sweat stained cowboy hat on my head. I had resisted the urge to run my fingers through his dark curly hair and stumbled over whatever thought came to my head. I did not have a clue the power of lust yet, but I was awash in the hormones of puberty that were yet to develop.
It was close to midnight when my mother insisted I go to bed. That apparently was the witching hour when the adults could no longer tolerate children’s presence and the more outrageous things would happen once we were ensconced in our bedroom. I cajoled, pleaded, but to no avail. As I made my way out of the kitchen, fighting back the tears that threatened to embarrass me, Merle had grabbed my hands, putting them on his slender hips and declared he would bunny hop me to my room.
There it was, this grown man, hopping down the hallway to my room, laughing as I giggled and then stopping at the door of my room. I wanted him to kiss my cheek, to feel the tickle of his mustache on against my skin, but instead he tousled my hair. He declared me a cutie, and then he was gone. I was both mortified and elated at being called cute.
Later that night, I snuck out of my room to tiptoe to the bathroom and peek down the hall at the adults. Merle sat in one of our kitchen chairs, his girl of choice on his lap and he was kissing the slender slope of her neck. She laughed and squirmed, her drink sloshing from her glass onto the table. Her mascara was running down her cheeks and she was undoubtedly drunker than anyone else at the table was, but still he wanted her. I was cute, but was she what men wanted?
I saw Merle again at the rodeo that ended the Fourth of July celebration. This holiday was a big deal in our small town. It meant a parade of floats, men on horses and a shoot out in the town square. There would be smoke, blanks being shot and men falling covered in fake blood and then carried to the parking lot of the Silver Spur in wood coffins. Sunburned, covered in sweat and cranky, we would then drive to the fairgrounds where we would sit on the hood of our truck and watch the cowboys try to stay on the horses.
There had been talk the rodeo would be canceled that year. There had been a tragic death at the last one. A horse had bucked and fallen on top of its rider, puncturing several organs and killing him two days later. Although it was by its very nature a brutal sport, the death hung heavy over the festivities. It was decided to have the rodeo anyway, and just after the National Anthem, there was a tribute to the fallen cowboy. I remember watching the cowboys, lined along the fence, wiping tears from their eyes and hiding beneath the brims of their hats.
As I sat on the hood, frying in the open sun and wishing I were anywhere but there, Merle walked up to my father. They shook hands and then he turned to me, a beatific smile on his face and gave me a wink. In my burgeoning adult like mind, winking back was the thing to do. So I did. He threw back his head, roaring with laughter and squeezed my shoulder. He told my father then, something that has resonated with me my entire life, she is going to be a handful.
I was a handful, but not in the way he probably meant. I grew up to make horrible decisions when it came to the matters of the cold dead heart I had tucked away. Somewhere along the way, I lost all sense of myself and a belief I could be loved for who I really was. I was a handful because I was impossible to know or pin down. I was loved, but whom did they really love?
As the sun set and everyone was leaving the rodeo, Merle walked to the back of the truck where I sat with my sister drinking a coca cola and fighting off heat exhaustion. He leaned in and kissed my cheek, his mustache tickling my cheek. It was not a kiss of someone making an inappropriate gesture to an underage girl. It was meant to reassure. I knew it even then.
“You’ll be okay, kiddo.” He said his voice soft and gentle like his kiss had been.
I’m not sure what he saw or thought he saw, but I knew his words were meant to convey a message of hope. Looking back, I think he meant hang on until you really are an adult. You will see all of this means so little. You will have your own child, your own life and someday you’ll stop searching for who you are. You will just find her, and you’ll be okay until you do.
Merle left town. Springerville went back to normal after the Fourth of July fireworks faded from the sky. There would be more card parties in the house, more drinks and laughter, but it had lost its luster. I chose to bury my nose in a book rather than eaves drop on conversations I could not yet understand.
School was out soon and one morning I woke up to find my mother crying at the kitchen table. I heard their words, but it was as if they were speaking from miles away. Just snippets of information penetrated my denial. The sawmill was closing. No work for my father. It was time to sell the house and move back to Kentucky.