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I hate Christmas, the whole Christmas season. Why? Damned if I know. I know it has something to do with the fact that this is the first one without my grandmother being alive. I’m still working through how I feel about her and me, and all the issues that never seem to get resolved. We had our disagreements. Two stubborn, strong-willed women in one house is always a problem. But I miss her, damnit. I don’t seem to want to decorate anything. The tree is up, but naked. We’ll decorate tonight after school. But my heart isn’t in it. I remember when my year revolved around this holiday time of year. Now it just seems like something to endure, rather than enjoy. What I want to do is just drown myself in work. I need to do the work, and I could just ignore everything but the work. Jon would be okay with us playing Scrooge. But we have a child, one that still talks about Santa. Every year may be the last year for Saint Nick, so it’s special and I appreciate that, but it’s hard to do a child-friendly holiday when you, yourself, are feeling so . . . well, not holiday. I love my work and my world. It is my shield and my refuge when the rest of the world goes south in some way. I think one of the reasons I felt so compelled to have a child this time round is that a child forces you to be more than you want to be. They force you to not hide, but to confront. If we’re paying attention as parents we always learn as much from our children as they learn from us. Good, bad, hard, or joy filled; it’s always a learning experience.
The trouble is that you keep learning from each other long after you’re grown as a child. The relationship doesn’t end because you got out and had a family of your own. The lessons continue, apparently, even after one side of the equation is no longer among the living.