What a Minefield

I spent Christmas Day alone this year. Pen and Ryan left to see her siblings in Colorado on Christmas Eve. Ryan had been so depressed lately (like the last 50 years) that Pen thought he would benefit from spending time with two spoiled, dysfunctional adults. It will be interesting to see how that works out. Stacy is spending the week with a newfound friend in Tucson. So that left me and ML to fend for ourselves. We both agreed we would prefer to spend the few days alone, planning nothing special with each other. ML is a kind and generous woman who prefers her own company to anyone elses.

I have been spending Christmas alone since my mother died in 2009. Before that, she and I would spend it at a fancy (to us) hotel in DC or Georgetown. We would go window shopping in malls for the 1%. We would graze at boutique bakeries. We would sip on wine at a fancy restaurant, share one appetizer between us, and then move to some shady brewpub to have an actual meal.

She and I would talk for hours. In retrospect, we would talk for hours about me, politics, or books—rarely about her. In fact, we did so little talking about her that she married and had stepchildren (granted, they were adults), and I knew nothing of this family—for almost two decades!

The weird thing is, I understand why my mother never told me about her other family. Her love was a warm, generous, and perfectly fitting blanket for me (and Pen). It was always wrapped around us and I think she didn’t know how to unwrap it to include others without fear of us feeling cold or betrayed. When I did find out about her other family I felt ashamed rather than betrayed. Kind of stupid. Like of course I wasn’t enough to fill her life.

Never having been a mother myself, I marvel at how little she had and how much she gave. I don’t consider myself as having a lot but I certainly have more than I give. But, truth be known, I give all that I want. So I don’t really care for a time of year where giving is baked into the calendar. Giving is too complicated to make it a requirement. And so many hurt feelings are unnecessarily created. 

That became evident this morning at the coffee house. I was sitting outside, bundled inside a P-Jacket and scarf (temperatures have plunged to the low fifties), enjoying a mint latte when I overheard a couple of conversations. Each one complaining about Christmas. “I can’t believe he thought I would like that.” Or, “All I do for her and she got me this.” Or, “I got this and my brother got all that!” It is no surprise that the hurt often isn't about the gift itself but what it symbolizes about the giver or the relationship between the giver and the receiver.

What a fucking minefield.