Becoming Mrs. Grinch

My kids have accused me on a number of occasion of being “grinchy” or “grinching it” during the holidays. I admit, the last failing years of my marriage and the years directly after the divorce, the holidays were extremely difficult for reasons that at first were hard to explain and then were easy to explain but difficult to do anything about. During these times, I began to understand why it was that people chose voluntarily to work shifts during the holiday season (I did that, too, and thank you for the double overtime pay while I worked to distract myself from how much it felt NOT like the holidays to me). I also began to puzzle over the tendency to invite people to join in your family holiday celebrations. It seems like a kind gesture, but it just made things worse for me, a reminder of what I had lost.

For all that my childhood was in many ways terrible and abusive, I grew up with mostly fond memories of Christmas. Yes, my father often blew a gasket after the orgy of present opening was over and he had been short on sleep and was probably feeling like he had spent too much and we weren’t grateful enough. But I loved all the anticipation of Christmas. I continued to believe in Santa far past the normal age of six or seven, and even when I stopped believing, I loved the sense of secrecy, and I genuinely loved buying presents for other people and watching their surprise and happiness when they opened my choice for them.

I tended to save up a lot of money for Christmas just so that I could have this pleasure. I was one of those kids who would never EVER have tried to find out what my presents were (unlike *cough cough* some of my siblings) because that would have just ruined Christmas. In fact, I remember several times seeing presents under beds or in closets and turning away and putting my hands over my face to prevent myself from ruining the wonder of Christmas.

I tried very hard as a parent to reproduce this wonder for my own five children. The early years there were probably way too many presents. But after Mercy died a few months before Christmas in 2005, things took a more somber turn. She had a special stocking and we would write pledges to be “good” for her in the coming year as part of our ritual. In this way, Christmas became sacred and holy in a way that it hadn’t been before. Even if I stopped believing in a literal God and a literal Jesus who promised resurrection to the faithful after Mercy’s death, I still believed in the goodness of religion and those who worked so hard to practice the compassion that Christ represented.

When the divorce process started, I tried consciously to continue to celebrate Christmas in secular ways. I still love Christmas music, specifically singing in a congregational choir. I don’t want to LISTEN to other people sing. I want to sing with other people. I don’t need to sing well, either, or to practice, and I don’t particularly want new Christmas songs or new arrangements of old songs. The old standard is just fine for me. I tried so hard to make Christmas still mean something still, about family and about getting along and being our best selves as we gave to each other.

And then . . . Christmas went really badly a couple of years ago. And now I just don’t know where I am or where I want to be with regards to holiday cheer. Sometimes I just do a long run instead of Christmas stuff because that requires focus during the run and then pain afterwards that can also serve as a useful distraction,. That won’t happen this year, since I’m recovering from significant surgery and not allowed to do any running at all. I will probably walk instead, bundled up from the cold. Hopefully I won’t fall and end up in the ER again asking for an Xray of an injured limb.

When my coworkers asked if I had gotten my tree up yet, I told them I was “grinching it” this year. No tree, no precious ornaments that I have collected for myself since the divorce. No German candle pyramid lit every night. None of my variety of Advent calendars are up. It just feels like too much. And yes, it’s also true that the surgery means that I literally am not allowed to lift those kinds of things anyway.

I’m sure I’m not the only person who has very complicated feelings about Christmas this year. If you’re avoiding it, I feel you. If you are sobbing when Facebook reminds you of Christmas memories, I am right there with you. When I was religious, Christmas was a reminder of the hope of a resurrection and the promise of eternal life. It worked as a counter to all of the other stresses the rest of the year held. And now . . . it just doesn’t do that anymore.