I’m a mother of the most wonderful little girl on this Earth.
I always imagined I would teach her all the great things about this world.
I pictured trips of us going to Museums. Me teaching her about Impressionism vs. Modernism vs. Realism.
I pictured me quoting Browning and Keats, and her following behind me as we took walks in long gardens.
I imagined all the wonderful stories about love and life and loss I would pass on to her.
I never in a thousand years thought she’d be the one teaching me. I never once thought that my heart had gotten this lost. Until she found it for me.
Most people love the Holiday season. Thanksgiving dinners, shopping for Christmas presents, all the family time. The sugar cookies, the candy canes, the lights.
All the gay Hallmark made for TV movies that move you to tears in spite of yourself.
I however, tend to get a little blue around this time of year.
I hate the cold. I hate that all the leaves are gone. I hate raking the leaves. I hate that the mall is crowded. I hate the weird men in Santa suits that I’m convinced have all just been released from prison and are on some work release program. I hate the dishes that go along with all those family dinners. I hate that my family doesn’t believe in dishwashers.
I hate the Kay engagement ring commercials. I’m just not a fan. The commercialism. The forced tradition. I’m just a Scrooge I suppose.
But when you have a happy, joyous, bright eyed daughter, you have to take a cue from Donnie Deutch and “fake it til you make it.”
On Sunday I baked cookies. And we decorated the tree. And watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas. And all that fab stuff.
And then I cried. Because my tree was so sad and pathetic.
Because I can’t afford to get her half the things she’s circled in that damn Toy Book, Toys R’Us so kindly mailed to us.
Because I couldn’t figure out how to make a Gingerbread house the way my mother did.
Because I am lonely. And I can’t give her the Christmas my mother and father gave me.
The older I get, the more I realize, I had some damn fine parents. And it’s really bothering me that I can’t live up to the standard they set for my brother and I.
A house constantly smelling of cinnamon and love.
And then my daughter. In all her wisdom. Gave me a kiss on the forehead. As if I were her child. And she told me that our tree was the most beautiful Christmas tree she’s ever seen. And that I had mommy magic because I could make the star light up without touching it.
You gotta love a kid that doesn’t understand the meaning of lights on a timer.
And she sat back and ate a cookie and smiled at me. And I felt so small and insignificant in her presence.
She’s not going to care that Santa didn’t bring her a Wii. She doesn’t care if our cable gets disconnected. Or if I owe Capital One thousands of dollars. The only thing she cares about is that I’m happy. And that makes her happy.
Its not the material things that my parents gave me that I remember. Its that love. That sense of safety. That feeling that once I cross through that front door, I’m in a place where nothing on the outside could hurt me. Family. Its not defined by having a mother and a father and a golden retriever. Family is wherever you find your heart.
Even if its just you and your mom on a raggedy couch in an apartment with pink walls and a scruffy tree eating slightly burnt cookies.
I always imagined I would teach her all the great things about this world.
I pictured trips of us going to Museums. Me teaching her about Impressionism vs. Modernism vs. Realism.
I pictured me quoting Browning and Keats, and her following behind me as we took walks in long gardens.
I imagined all the wonderful stories about love and life and loss I would pass on to her.
I never in a thousand years thought she’d be the one teaching me. I never once thought that my heart had gotten this lost. Until she found it for me.
Most people love the Holiday season. Thanksgiving dinners, shopping for Christmas presents, all the family time. The sugar cookies, the candy canes, the lights.
All the gay Hallmark made for TV movies that move you to tears in spite of yourself.
I however, tend to get a little blue around this time of year.
I hate the cold. I hate that all the leaves are gone. I hate raking the leaves. I hate that the mall is crowded. I hate the weird men in Santa suits that I’m convinced have all just been released from prison and are on some work release program. I hate the dishes that go along with all those family dinners. I hate that my family doesn’t believe in dishwashers.
I hate the Kay engagement ring commercials. I’m just not a fan. The commercialism. The forced tradition. I’m just a Scrooge I suppose.
But when you have a happy, joyous, bright eyed daughter, you have to take a cue from Donnie Deutch and “fake it til you make it.”
On Sunday I baked cookies. And we decorated the tree. And watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas. And all that fab stuff.
And then I cried. Because my tree was so sad and pathetic.
Because I can’t afford to get her half the things she’s circled in that damn Toy Book, Toys R’Us so kindly mailed to us.
Because I couldn’t figure out how to make a Gingerbread house the way my mother did.
Because I am lonely. And I can’t give her the Christmas my mother and father gave me.
The older I get, the more I realize, I had some damn fine parents. And it’s really bothering me that I can’t live up to the standard they set for my brother and I.
A house constantly smelling of cinnamon and love.
And then my daughter. In all her wisdom. Gave me a kiss on the forehead. As if I were her child. And she told me that our tree was the most beautiful Christmas tree she’s ever seen. And that I had mommy magic because I could make the star light up without touching it.
You gotta love a kid that doesn’t understand the meaning of lights on a timer.
And she sat back and ate a cookie and smiled at me. And I felt so small and insignificant in her presence.
She’s not going to care that Santa didn’t bring her a Wii. She doesn’t care if our cable gets disconnected. Or if I owe Capital One thousands of dollars. The only thing she cares about is that I’m happy. And that makes her happy.
Its not the material things that my parents gave me that I remember. Its that love. That sense of safety. That feeling that once I cross through that front door, I’m in a place where nothing on the outside could hurt me. Family. Its not defined by having a mother and a father and a golden retriever. Family is wherever you find your heart.
Even if its just you and your mom on a raggedy couch in an apartment with pink walls and a scruffy tree eating slightly burnt cookies.
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