This Christmas

During the holiday season, the common matters of the heart are ever-present and they are what binds us all together during good times and bad.

 In the packed surgery waiting room at the beaches hospital yesterday, I was struck by how similar it was to a wedding reception.  Laughter and tears were interchangeable in a way that anywhere else may seem inappropriate, the way we’re at once held captive to the moment and also in touch with yesterday and tomorrow, how simple pleasures, such as food and drink, seem such a deserved and necessary comfort, and the forced intimacy.  We’re all in it together after all.

 This Christmas was like the others in many ways. My husband gave his mother a nutcracker one Christmas as a child, which has evolved into a collection that fills an entire house with colors and memories of the year each was acquired. This year, he gave her a surfer snowman nutcracker, fitting since he surfed as a teen.

All the years carry tradition like a needle carries thread, all the memories woven together into a monumental quilt that we simply can’t look at without crying. We bring the family quilt out every year and add more memories, another patch, stitched with love and hope for the future. 

Each Christmas brings its own humor:  we had to laugh when Christmas morning our three year old assessed his gifts from Santa, and then proudly exclaimed which store he had seen me buy each item from. This year my brother and sister-in-law posed for a family portrait with the cardboard baby my parents bought them for Christmas (a little hint at the big gift my parents hope to receive next year!).  My dad wore a Hawaiian shirt of the Florida Gator variety on Christmas and gave all of us Gator sweats and orange and blue crocs.  I exclaimed, “Dad! I’m only wearing these when I come to your house” about the crocs, and he said so sincerely that I had to laugh, “Yes, Nikki, but look at that back strap: there’s a Gator on there.”  So much love in the form of thoughtfulness and generosity goes into our preparations for the holidays.

Each Christmas brings its own stresses:  this year, we have one boy who thinks power cords make the best teethers and that the Comcast box is a fine trampoline, and we have another boy who believes parking lots are super playgrounds and that his little brother is the best punching bag ever invented.

Each year has its own wonder:  the look on our son’s face when he was finally fully awake Christmas morning and realized that he had received the train set he had played with at the toy store all year long, his little fingers playing with every part of my mother’s Christmas village, the lights and colors reflected in his eyes, and our baby boy sitting in his aunt’s lap, playing the piano that his father had played as a child.

Each year has its own magic moments: they are precious, subtle, and fleeting. Yet they visit us every Christmas in different forms: maybe a new walker taking his first big steps on Christmas Eve as our baby did this year. It could be a child falling asleep in his great-grandmother’s arms, hurt feelings forgiven as we strive to see the good in others around us, and perhaps in ourselves, maybe just a twinkle in our hearts as we see the lights and hear the music that are unique to each Christmas.

Each year has its own sweetness and sorrow that adorn the tree with the memory of those we love and those we have lost.  This year, we lost Grandma, who loved Christmas so much. Every year, a special Christmas cake fresh from the bakery sat at the center of her table.  We lost Aunt Maime, who filled a room with so much spark and presence. And Spanky, my parents’ Yorkie, died shortly before Christmas. We remember them with love. 

I am forever touched by the innocence in my son’s voice when he asked me where Grandma was and the way in which he accepted my answer without question.  And how in the very next sentence, he looked at me in his brand new glasses and said, “Mama, I am so handsome.” 

Each year has its own worry and sadness that is not mentioned:  it sits in the corner all through the holidays like that tacky gift that we know we can’t even get away with regifting.  What can we say when we open the box? We act happy and try to distract everyone from the truth. The conversations in a packed surgery waiting room are a lot like that too.

~ by nikkiskyephotography on January 9, 2008.