Hallmark Made Holidays Hell, JK

Countdown to the holidays!  Thanksgiving is just around the corner! You can almost smell it in the air--turkey? No, holiday tension.

Why is it that holidays magnify every unmet need, secret yearning and nostalgic ache? There are moments I want to just skip them. But then, the Eternal Optimist in me takes the reins and says, "No--this year it will be great!" The Occasional Realist in me then sits down and mutters under her breath, "Yeah, right."

Why?

Because, thanks to Hallmark movies,  holiday hype and TV commercials, we have all been jacked up to imagine that This Year we'll sit around the table and our touchy family members will temporarily behave in a gracious, attentive, affectionate way, while we exhibit a Xanax calmness and grace. I tell myself that This Year I'll be liberated from burdensome expectations imposed on me by others or myself! This year I won't become a maniac because family members are glued to their phones. Fantasy Holidays, right? Do you, like me, buy a ticket each year to ride the Thisyearwillbebetter Train? Check this bad boy out. Join me, in my Fantasy Family Holiday delusion...

This year, there won't be any sniping about dark meat, white meat, giblets in the gravy or the cruelty of killing turkeys. There won't be awkward silences or even more awkward conversation attempts. There won't be eye rolls, heavy sighs or dramatic gestures worthy of an Academy award. There won't be passive-aggressive comments, heated conversations or stare downs. We won't get baited into talks about politics, morals, Millennials or what is "lame" about our family. Those topics will have zero gravitational pull this year! It will be a magical time!

Why? Either because we 1. Cancel the holiday or 2. We rent a different family to attend it. Oh wait--I forgot that this is my delusion and I can fiat happiness in my shining Fantasy Family Holiday!

Just in case my fiat powers fail, there is always Option 3: I get that nasty Can't-deal-with-the-fam Flu two days early and stay in bed on Thanksgiving and Christmas, behind a locked door with a  fortressed heart. However, for me that could never fly because the Eternal Optimist in me would wash her face, unlock the door and race back to the gathering in time to notice my 6 hour absence and dire illness had gone unnoticed.  

Then there is Option 4.Try a Destination Holiday. I've had mixed luck with that. Despite great hopes, I sobbed at a $500 Colonial Thanksgiving meal, complete with my 2 daughters in Colonial Girl garb. I'd been stabbed in the heart by a zinger from a family member. It split my heart into pieces, right over the peanut soup. On the other hand, I once had a pleasant chili dinner at Stuckies on Thanksgiving. I've had family members travel to my house to fill 22 chairs at 3 tables. And I recall 14 years of holidays when it didn't matter where we were--aching with my husband, wishing for one--just one--chair to be added to our lonely, infertile couple's table. 

How many people does it take to make a good holiday? I wouldn't know. I would say 6. That was the number for me, for about 16 years. Now, it is the number my family used to be. When my family used to be.

Thanks to God and Jesus and the nurse who told us days 12, 13 and 14 are crucial, we were able to have four kids. Currently, four kids with the option to Come Home for the holidays, or not. We were able to become a family. I am less confident these days about remaining one. I know that is not my better judgment because the feels take over my brain in the evening that Daylight Savings dies. It won't fall apart. And even if it does, it will eventually fall back together...I repeat to myself in the mirror.

This year we tried to bribe our "emerging adult" kids with a beautiful condo at a beautiful beach. We had a 100% Come to Thanksgiving Acceptance Rate until that condo got wiped out by the hurricane after Florence. (Who can keep up with them? Mother Nature is more pissed with her children than I am. The West Coast is on fire and the East Coast is flooded. Geez.) Anyhoo, once we could no longer entice the kids with the beach condo, the Acceptance Rate dropped. We got our first cancellation from a daughter, thanks to He Who Won't Be Named. That was going to fall through anyway. But, at least the Thisyearitwillbetter Train carried my husband and I and her siblings for a few wistful miles before HWWBN mandated what she'd be doing for his holidays. No comment. Then, the second cancellation came. It was easier to swallow. The chance to make extra money is an understandable priority that trumps family time. I get it. Plus, we had lost the beach enticement, so duh. See ya.

Unfortunately, it isn't just my angst about a Thisyearitwillbebetter  

Thanksgiving that gets me in my feels. It is the fact that with an Empty Nest, it feels like I'm in the Peace Accords at Camp David negotiating for my life. Not that my life is about holiday entertainment. Rather, my heart is still deep hooked into my kids and I can't afford any mishaps or defections these days. 

I'm struggling enough to take my back, back seat, preferably in the hall, across the street, in another town--- place in their lives. So, I'm more than a tad anxious about what's brewing as the 2018 Thanksgiving/Christmas at the OK Corral. My daughter has not spoken to me in almost 8 weeks. She is under the lovely spell and talons of HWWBN. Even if she is allowed to come home for a Christmas visit, I guess I'll be expected to vacate Santa's happy place (aka our home.) I'll go hug my dog and fight off dark imaginings of homicide. Not of killing her. Never. But of doing him in? For sure. Happy Holidays!

If you are one of my tribe, you wistfully look to the holidays to mend things. To bring not just family members home--but to bring tenderness back to the family circle. You cringe because you dread the inevitable Score Card/ Christmas Card mail in which you're told how shiny is everyone else's family and you're reminded that yours is falling apart. If it can qualify as "falling apart" when your kids are actively, assertively exiting. Does that still count as "falling apart?" Semantics. 

I, for one, will admit to falling apart. Yes, on the outside I'll appear cheery, upbeat, passably sane. That is not a fake persona. That is my Game face. I have to wear it, because catching my true face in an unexpected reflection can bring me to my knees. Yes, the same knees that seem to be failing at prayer power. When I catch my reflection, I see someone so sad, so weary, shattered and heartsick, that my knees buckle. You don't need to see that lady. Neither do I. Those are Game face rules.

It is isn't that I'm a grump about holidays, far from it. Why else would there be scattered Christmas doodads around my living room all year? I love them. I flirt with the holidays in September and by November first, I'm PDA obnoxious. I love them. But, frankly, the holidays, for me are like Bojangles fried chicken. I love it, but it doesn't love me. Both Bojangles and the holidays cause me intestinal unrest. Only, for me, holiday nerves include temporary Chrones plus tears. Both the kind you can and cannot hide.

What to do? Who to be? How to survive another Hallmark hell? I wish I could host a Halloween Holiday. That way, I could hide behind a mask and play off all my weird, nervous, foot in mouth antics as part of my costumed character. Maybe, like that awful time I was 7 and came back from Trick or Treating noticeably bruised, I could pick a costume that considerably obstructs my vision and hearing. Then, I wouldn't see or hear those unwelcome reminders that suggest that I may have outlived my purpose and overstayed my welcome as Mom in my grown kids' lives. 

What irks parents about this, is that our kids can boldly assert that they have outgrown us... before growing into courteous, considerate, kind adults. Even if they faked courtesy--I'd prefer it over the testy overgrown teenage angst played out around the dining room table each holiday by kids throwing tantrums, telling me how mature they are. This is where I could get on my soap box about Millennials and they could get on theirs about annoying parents.

Reflecting back on my question about how many people does it take to make a family, I have concluded my answer: one. One person to hold the memories of a life together, even if the memories are flawed or foggy or more fanciful than factual. One, to hold open a heart for reconciliation. Even if it must be held open judiciously. A mental picture of doors comes to mind. You may be abe to safely fling open the door of your heart to the family member who comes knocking. You may need to remain cautious, and visit over a Dutch door, with its bottom section locked. Or, you may need to visit through a locked screen door. We can love people who have hurt us. But we shouldn't be naive that if that is their nature, it can happen again. And if that person or persons never return, they may have provided us a patch big enough to add to the quilt of family in our mind. Plus, all the wonderful friends and mentors we have---they get to make up our mental family quilt. How many people does it take to make a family? One heart is big enough to do it. No matter if it is a heavy heart. After all, the heavy heart must be full.

I'll get through the holidays. I'll be thankful to get any moment with any of my kids. I'll get weepy if they call or come by. I'll stare at them too long and have too much desire to reminisce. I'll ask about stuff I promised myself not to ask. And I'll keep secret a couple of things they will one day wish I'd told them. I'm so grateful this isn't the year of a family death or tragedy. Not the kind for which there is a Sympathy Card, anyway. I think I can hear the train whistle! Gotta run. It is holiday go-time!

Motherhood: Backward Clocks & Forward Dreams

Photographs and Memories

       Motherhood
          by Dr. Laurie Davis Johnson, LPC

       Backward Clocks & Forward Dreams...

   There's a reason they don't tell you.

      There's a reason we're not warned.

      That every special milestone

      Is a step toward miles from home.

      Baby takes First steps

      Wobbling in glory.

      A triumph we record

      with pride and celebration.

      But what they shelter us from knowing,

      What they hush when we walk in,

       Is that every First involves a Last.

       Every milestone creates a Path

       another mile from home.

       The First time Baby

        sleeps through the night

        is a poignant independence.

        It marks a bashful beginning

        of a march toward a world

        we will not share.

        The First step,

         is a mark of the Last time

         we are Baby's transport.

         The First tooth,

         foreshadows the Last time

         we nurse in midnight bliss.

         The First word uttered

         ends our precious private language 

         that needed

         no words.

         The First day at school

          is the end of our beautiful 

          Island of affection.

         Their First kiss signals

          the last of dolls and pirates and dreams of ponies.

          The First dance

           Is a waltz away from our arms

           to those who will hold them next

           a Heatbreaker or Beloved

           We can only watch from the sideline.

           A mother loves and launches,

           A mother loves and lingers.

           It is her sweet tribulation

           to realize

           Each First is paid in Lasts.

           Each dawn will bring a sunset.

           Each Good-bye a wider span.

           Each First a Last.

           Each Entry door an Exit.

           Each giggle will fade in an echo.

           Each hurried phone call~ "touching base" -- will

           conclude with a silence

           Longer than the conversations.

           As it should, I suppose.

           For moms are merely Midwives

           to our children's dreams and futures.

           We were there to dawn the rising sun.

           There to catch the falling child.

           There to take the pictures,

            then to step aside.

           There to offer our soft shoulder

            then to stand afar. 

            Careful not to intrude

            Or impose

            Or assume 

            Or assign

            Ourselves the right to be remembered.

            The right to be included.

            We are the Memory keepers.

            We are the Clean up crew.

            We are the ones

            Who invite the Firsts

             and wait in the wings

             for whatever our child may need.
             We are also the ones
             brave enough to say No,
             when our intuition stirs.

             One day

             we must find comfort

             In the dust of our son's trail

             or

             The mist of our daughter's voyage

              that carries our child away

              and beckons us to stay

              Where laughter once filled 

              Afternoons

              And whispered musing filled the night.

              We are the guardians of Yesterday

               In a Land that love forgets;

               It can, you know.

               But we're not told.

               We're not forewarned.

               For that would be crueler even than the facts.

               The fact is a mother's heart

                ticks backward in a world

                that rushes forward...

                Mothers' hearts were made to hold

                The sleeping babe,

                The fussy child,

                The heartsick teen,

                The college laundry

                The Bride's shopping bags

                or the Groom's car keys.

                And afterwards,

                We are left

                To hold
                the splinters of our existence--

                the shards of our own heart

                when Time arrives for us

                to see
                for the First time

                a mother's life

                Is spent driving a child to adulthood

                while waiting a minimal millennia

                in pickup lines and parking lots

                For a wave or eyes that roll,

                Whatever the mood or circumstance.

                We can not help but hold

                 them in our glance

                 And wish for one more talk.

                 The mother Dance

                  is delicate

                  Where once our son or daughter rode our toes

                  they grow to step upon them boldly.

                  It is a passage that they need,

                  But one that hurts our heart.

                  And so we learn to step 

                  Way back.

                  We learn to disappear. 

                  We learn to love

                  Discretely

                  out of sight till needed.

                  Blaming our tears on onions
                  and

                  Swallowing our fears.

                  Out of earshot,

                  Out of pocket,

                  Out of the way.

                  In the great Back Seat

                  Of the universe,

                  In the great Back Row 

                  Of our children's lives...

                  Clapping loudest

                  And taking pictures 

                  For the album

                  That will be our 

                  Consolation prize

                  When stares and glares and lectures come,

                  from the child who blossomed overnight

                  Into a ice tongued beauty

                  Or a sullen antagonist.

                  Out of the blue 

                  puberty steals our child

                  and sentences us to 

                  be the bane of their existence.

                  And items on our Bucket List we planned together 

                   are poured out unheeded and unneeded

                   by the Teen who took our child.

                   We watch the picnics and the plans

                   cast carelessly away.

                   The Bucket now feels empty

                   Like our lap and wrapping arms.

                   Round Two of motherhood

                   begins.

                   Full of fear for all we dread.

                   For never more

                   can you pretend

                   To have the power to protect

                   Your child

                   Yourself

                   Your beautiful life

                   from Bullies or beasts 

                   Or broken hearts.

                   Nor can you dodge

                   the bayonets 

                   that pierce your soul

                   from your hurting son or daughter,

                   Just as yours once cut your mother...

                   Steel your will

                   But not your heart,

                   You're needed more than ever.

                   The jungle gym gives way

                   To a jungle of tween angst.

                   And though you'll feel abandoned

                   Your grit and grace are needed

                   More now

                   Than ever, ever, ever before.

                  That's when the Storm begins to brew

                  the first of many tempests.

                  The First of many from the child

                  who once delighted in your every breath.

                  The one who stuck closer than your shadow.

                  The one who nearly deafened you

                  with constant elbow pulls.

                  Look, Mama! Look!

                  Watch me, Mama watch!

                  Did you see, Mama?

                  Did you see me?

                  Are you watching, Mama?

                  Watch!

                  These beautiful days give way.

                  These precious days slip away

                   like a cotton candy sunrise.

                   And we can miss its passing.

                  We can miss the passage

                  from childhood to young adult

                  So busy buying shoes and shorts

                  When we needed
                  was to buy Time...

                 Because the stormy season comes

                 when we ache in deafening silence

                 hearing

                 I'm in here, you can't come in...

                 Mom, it's not your business.

                 Mom, get off my back. 

                 Mom, could you leave now?

                 Mom, leave me alone.

                Mom, not now.

                But, it will feel and seem more like

                Mom, not now,

                Not ever.

               The First of that

               Is hell to take.

              The First time you're told to leave.

               It makes you slowly realize

               The bittersweet motherhood

               Truth.

               We are the keepers of the clock,
               the camera and the calendar,

               for all the years of childhood.

              Then overnight,

               a woman's born

               where once stood your gangling daughter.

               Overnight a man appears

               where once was peachfuzz, a puppy and pizza.

               And suddenly life changes.

               It takes your breath away.

               And if you're not quite careful,

               Your heart will shatter silently

               And your soul may slip beneath the waves.

               For motherhood is

               a different name

               for Valor.

               The kind that's rarely noticed.

               The kind that loves and launches,

               That lingers and languishes in silence.

                It is Love beyond all measure.

                The kind that smiles

                Even when her heart is aching.

                That bites her tongue

                 even when bitten

                 by an Adolescent smug.

                That returns a smile

                to the coldest smirk.

                That leaves

                when others get to stay.

                That's shuttled to the side

                Like a once loved teddy bear 

                Shoved in the closet or

                Left under the bed.

                We wait in the shadows and pray

                for the grace to be stronger

                than any brute force.

                To be gentle,

                Even when shattered like glass.

                Mothering

                Means one release after another

                with the weakening

                Hope that 

                Life will provide us Something 

                For all

                that Love

                requires us

                to let go...

                Yet a mother never let's go.

                We hold our child's hand

                from childbirth

                to kindergarten,

                to new classrooms

                and parties

                and down long corridors

                for shots and reports

                and dreaded recitals

                until

                that dreadful day

                we're not to be seen hand in hand anymore.

               When our ready hand is spurned

                like a broken abandoned toy.

                A difficult day, that one...

               We mothers hold our children's heart,

                from the first flutter of his or her heartbeat

                Til the last breath we take on this planet.

And even then,

when next we breathe

in Paradise

Our first thoughts will be,

How is my beloved child?

No matter how old they may be...

        Mother's love has no end.

        Childhood ends.

        Teens grow up.

         College closes doors between us.

         Adulthood sweeps our kids away.

         Life divides our lives.

         Yet, we must rise to the Occasion

          as our Dance comes to a close,

          and another takes our place,

          We summon our strength
           and choose to celebrate

           When Love comes

           To companion our daughter or son

            to that Place that we can not follow.

            So until then, 

            Mom, If you're listening,

            Let no errand or grudge,

            Silence or distraction
            texting or tift

            be Thief of your sands of Time.

                  They are spent so fast

                  in Life's hourglass,

                  You'll regret if you glance away.

           The lullaby and cartoon songs

           barely fade before it is Intermission.

           A pet, a playmate, a field trip

           and suddenly the curtain falls

           On those magical years

           Between laughter and tears,

           Between bedtime stories
           and high school glories.

           Glance away

           and you'll miss

           the Moments.
           Whatever can wait,
           can wait.

           Take it from mothers

           who stand at the Dock

           watching the far Horizon...

           It is humbling yet glorious

           Heartbreaking but grand

           to walk the path of Motherhood.

           My prayer is that

           You too will find

           the grandeur of messy days

           Of errands shared that take forever

           and pets and squabbles and exams,

           of nerves and haircuts and sleepless nights.

           Of phone calls you dread

           and details you're spared

            and all the In Between

            When you don't even notice,

            You don't even hear

            Their patter ascend to their Path.

            May you be gently awakened

             by their stirrings in the Night

             that bid you get out of bed,

             to surprise them with ice cream

             or sit at their side,

             Or overlook that fight.

             May you awaken to see the Sunrise

             that follows the endless nights

             When you're too tired to breathe

             and too wired to sleep

             And your heart is in your throat.

            May you groggily rub your eyes

            Like the child you once tucked in bed
            to hear what's gone unspoken

            and see clearly all that Love would see

            Before it is too late.

            May you discover

            and hold quite dear

            the Privilege you're granted

            To birth a soul

            and guide a child

            from tea cups and toad stools

            to the edge of that shore

            Where Life will bid them sail.

            May you know your Love

            was spent in full

            despite all empty threats and nonsense.

            May you know you treasured

            hours and Moments and memories

            that make Eternity blush.

            May the words you spoke

            Speak volumes

            when Life tries to steal their Voice.

             May you know the tender touch
             that you held back

             and the hugs you longed to give

             Transcended limitations

             Of petty rules and peers.

             They left their living shadow

             On a heart that will reach back

             inside they'll seek your comfort

             Long after you have walked away.

              Your love will console and fortify

              Across the miles and years to come,

              Even after your Walk has ended...

              May you learn how fierce is the courage

              Called a mother's Love.

               And may you find the

               Grace to give the rest of it

               to those who need YOU now.

               Rest assured,

               weary mom,

               lonesome mother,

               Battle-worn Mama and friend...

               It is a humbling privilege

               to learn a Mother's place

               is in the background

               on the beautiful canvas of Life...

               But, Oh, what a magnificent Painting!

(c) 2017 Dr. Laurie Davis Johnson

Drlauriejohnson.com
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