A Not-So-Merry Christmas

Jasper just could not with any of us anymore, and I can’t say I blamed him.

“Merry Christmas, Katie!”

That text message came last night from a dear friend. Kim lost her daughter at 19 to a freak car accident 14 months ago. Her daughter, Katelyn, was my youngest daughter’s best friend. They were inseparable and had been for years. Every month on the 21st I send Kim a message or drop a small gift or a note at her house. I want her to know that I haven’t forgotten, that I understand grief isn’t linear, and healing takes a long, long time. I also try to be careful with my words and what I share with her about my kids. She loves our family, I know this. But I struggle with not wanting to cause her any emotional harm. Last night I learned something important. I’ll get to that in a minute.

Due to my divorce 14 years ago, my kids have grown up sharing holidays between their father and me. My youngest turns 18 next month, so the schedule we’ve followed all these years will cease to exist. My Wee Beasties will officially all be adults; this is the last Christmas with kids at home. I’ve had some big feelings leading up to this weekend. Three of the North Carolina Beasties made the 12-hour drive home for the holiday and I had such fun plans for all of us.

We were, instead, besieged by a covid scare, then actual covid, extra dogs who spite-peed about four times an hour in the house, then rage pooped all night, misunderstandings, hurt feelings, handling the stress poorly (that was me,) a terrifying panic attack (Hi- me again,) a husband on call for the utility company during a blizzard and gone nearly the entire weekend, so. many. tears. and a grand finale of (instead of nine of us) three of us eating our Christmas dinner on tv trays in the living room and watching Ted Lasso, swallowing dry ham between crying jags. That night and the following day at their father’s house it, incredibly, was even worse. Two Beasties headed back to North Carolina a day early, and I sat here alone (poor Dave was still out fixing gas leaks during the blizzard,) staring at a tree that made me sad, feeling as if I had ruined Christmas for everyone.

It was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad Christmas. I wanted a do-over. I wanted to get on a plane and take myself to Disney World. I wanted my mom.

So when I read the Merry Christmas text from Kim, it felt wrong to tell her the truth about the day. Yes, my kids were likely unhappy with me, but they were here. I could talk with them and hug them and smooth things over. I can try again next year. I can adjust my expectations and realize that some days just plain suck, but these Beasties I adore are here and they know they’re loved. They’ll never wonder if I’m in their corner. It seemed tone-deaf and self-involved to vent to a mother who’d never have another day with her child, let alone another holiday.

I lied. I told myself I was being kind, that it would be thoughtless to dump the details of my terrible day on my friend. She responded that she was so happy the day had gone so well and we made plans to have coffee soon.

The guilt of my dishonesty ate away at me for a couple of hours. I finally sent the following text:

“You know what, Kim? I wasn’t being truly honest. We had a really hard holiday, and I didn’t want to mention it because I worry about your feelings. But I want us to be friends who can really talk to one another, and I’m sorry for not being honest.” Kim responded quickly and graciously and with love. She’s tired of people tiptoeing around her and treating her with kid gloves. She has some really bad days. She also has some days when the memory of her sweet girl fills her and warms her and brings her peace. She wants friends and loved ones to be real and honest with her-even on dark days.

I was thinking about Christmases past: the year the ambulance came because my father drank himself into unconsciousness and as they put him on the gurney I was just eager to get back to my new Barbie Dream House and disappear; the year after my mom’s death when all I wanted was a bike so I could ride to the library on weekends, but instead I was told I was getting a new mom; the year I was first homeless and all the usual safe places I could hang out were closed, so I spent the day on the beach, playing in the sand and watching the occasional family hit the water to test out a new Boogey Board or wet suit. I’ve had many terrible holidays. This year truly wasn’t terrible…it was bad. And you know how someone said, “It’s a bad day, not a bad life?” I told myself that it was a bad holiday, not bad relationships. Does that make sense?

If we all experience bad days, why is it so hard to admit when we’re struggling? Or when we’re barely hanging on? It seems we could help one another in untold ways if we could share our true feelings with unfettered candor.

So here is my promise to you, the folks who have followed this kindness project from the beginning and those who are brand new: I will work very hard to be brave enough to share my real self with you. The giddy days when I take a new donsy of gnomes to the Post Office, and the cloudy days when I’m overwhelmed with worry about letting folks down or no longer being able to finance this project, or not knowing how to take the next step. I’ll be real with you.

I’m not going to ask you to be real with me or anyone else. It’s not my place to ask that. But please know this: when you are having a hard time and you do feel like talking about it, I will be here. I will tell you’re brave and beautiful and valued. I will listen. And I will understand the courage it takes to be transparent, and I’ll feel grateful that you trusted me enough to share your heart.

It was a really, really, really bad Christmas. And it’s over and everyone is ok. We’re moving forward. What I’m most thankful for this holiday season is a friend who is safe enough for me to open up to and who received my truth with such love.

My hope is that your holiday season is filled with laughter and good food and warmth and contentment. If it’s not, I hope you know that a single day or season doesn’t define you as a host or a parent or a partner, or a child. You’re worthy of love. You deserve joy. The world needs you. And I am so happy you’re here, whether you’re thriving or struggling. We may have never met, but you’ve changed my life and I love you for it.