I remember when Christmas changed for me. It was 1992 while living in Visalia, California. My parents had been separated off and on through the year, and I had my first interaction with death, as both of my father’s parents had died, Pa in February, and Granny in mid-December. The latter, as would be expected, would start the chain reaction that would eventually lead me to today.
My father would die of lung cancer almost ten days shy of one year since his mother’s death, in December of 1993. I would spend that Christmas in Kansas City, surrounded by people I wasn’t that familiar with. I spent most of the time reading an R.L. Stein book (no, not Goosebumps), and ignoring everyone around me. Apart from visiting once, in the late 80’s, it was only the second time I had partaken in the yearly Christmas Party at my Grandmother’s house (My Mom’s side of the family).
We moved back to KC later in the spring of 1994. I was then thrust head on into the yearly get together at Christmas, and after about two years or so, Christmas was starting to feel somewhat enjoyable again. The drive to my Grandma’s house every Christmas Eve, the singing of Christmas Carol’s, the Santa Clause that the family hired to hand out gifts that were stored by the parents in a bag in the basement, and the subsequential destruction of the exchanged gifts in the living room, gathered around the tree.
While the distractions of a Christmas Eve Tradition were always welcomed, my mental state as I grew older, and the seasons grew colder, would always deteriorate at a rapid pace. This was due in large part to a volatile relationship with my mother, and years of trying to cope with having my childhood turned upside down at the age of 11.
Things would eventually get worse before they ever got better, but eventually they did. When the woman who is now my wife moved to Missouri to be with me, she brought with her a love for the holidays and was always doing her best to make me see this light at the end of the tunnel. It had worked. By our third Christmas together, I was fully embracing the holiday. Unfortunately the following year would rip down the hard work she had put in.
2006 was one of the happiest, yet saddest years of my life. It was the year that I married my wife, and the year that my Grandmother passed away. As in 1992, it would forever change Christmas for me. Her house was sold, and the annual party was moved between the homes of my mother and her seven local siblings. Santa was no longer hired, the Party was moved from Christmas Eve to whenever people could find time, and there was a yearly argument over who would host the Party.
I would spend the following years trying to salvage the torn relationship that I had with my mother. A lot of high, but too many lows. Christmas was about the only time of the year where we wouldn’t fight. We would sit down and spend time with each other and laugh, and be what it used to be, all those years ago. We started a tradition of spending Christmas Eve at her house, and then coming home and spending it as a family on Christmas day. What helped in the process was the birth of my two sons, Austin and Logan. She adored them. Giving her Grandbabies presents on Christmas was one of the things that made her smile the most. I wish she had gotten more time with them, but that’s another blog post, and another set of demons.
When she died of Cancer in 2013, it was like the final thread had been snapped for me with the family Christmas tradition. My family attended the Family Christmas Dinner a week later because it would have been what she wanted. It hurt, but it had to be done. Last year was much of the same. But it was filled with a lot more pain than before. Several conversations with my own family members showed just how disconnected I was with them, and them with me. It left me feeling empty inside.
This year, with work being so hectic, and both of my sons growing at such a rapid pace, trying to plan out our entire Holiday schedule was a chore. We had booked every day and night leading up to and past Christmas. So when my Aunt let me know of this year’s party, and seeing that not only did it fall on a day we had planned things to do, it wasn’t even being held at anyone’s house, but at a rented space, I knew it was time for a change. I texted her back informing her we had plans and probably wouldn’t attend. She was not happy about this. But after a year of limited contact with the family (by both them and I) and the death of one of the few people I had a strong connection with in my uncle, I had decided to move forward.
My kids are growing up so fast that it scares me. My oldest is reaching the age I was when all of this started for me, and I feel my own mortality slipping away. It’s the start of new traditions for us. Things that they will hopefully pass on to their kids, and so on. The decision to not attend the upcoming party is not easy, and it hurts. But the important decisions we make in life aren’t the easy ones, it’s the ones that leave us awake for hours at night. Maybe next year or the year after that, we can stop by on Christmas for the yearly, “Hi!”’s, the “How are you?!”’s and “Oh My God, You’ve gotten so big!”’s. And in between then, maybe we can all find a little more time to see eachother, other than big events. But right now, in this moment, I’m looking forward to making a Gingerbread House with my kids this weekend, and finishing up some last minute prep for what will hopefully be the start of some great, HAPPY, Christmas traditions.
