A Bit of Christmas Angst

I don’t know what it is about Christmas.  I absolutely LOVE the idea of Christmas, everything about it – the Goodwill, the Charity, Family and Friends (with capital F’s), Peace, Joy, Hope, Love, Christmas Eve Mass, carols, trees, decorations, Santa, the Christmas Pickle, baking, giving gifts, eggnog (mmm, I love the nog).  Every year I dream of the perfect Christmas; every year it eludes me.

When I was a kid Christmases were OK, corporations would donate toys and clothes and stuff to the children’s home – it was about the only time of the year you got the chance of having something brand ing new, all your own.  After I was adopted, Christmases became Family Christmases.  My parents would always get into an argument.  Then, I would be forced to spend the day with my mom’s family – a huge gathering of silently stewing, passive aggressive tightasses who never missed the opportunity to remind me that not only wasn’t I really a member of the family, I wasn’t even suitably Germanic (the German heritage problem eased after I became more fluent in German than any of the other cousins).   After I left home, I refused to celebrate the holiday at all.  Until I got married and had a child, that is.  I was determined that my husband and daughter would have wonderful Christmases; something always got in my way, though.  Some years it was separation – my husband would travel and I would be left to make a whole houseful of Christmas cheer on my own.  One year, when I was in Bosnia the first time, I missed Christmas with them altogether.  Some years, especially the last three years, it has been marital discord.

I know the holidays are hard on my husband.  He s them with a passion.  His family fought, too.  His birthday is in December, too, the same day his dad was buried when he was 14.  It’s enough to turn anyone, even someone who is not clinically depressed, off the whole season.  I keep hoping, every year, that this will be the one.  Not this year, though.

I blew it.  I ruined Christmas one more time.  Same Trouble, three years in a row.  I could have kept quiet and waited until the holiday was over before I said anything.  I should have.  But, as I saw through him, he would have seen right through me, literally, since there is a massive, gaping hole in my chest.