By the seat of my pants, that is how I’m flying these days. I realize this is a season and I am not asking for pity. I share this simply on the presumption that mine is a viewpoint that few come to know unless they’ve walked a mile. The holidays are hard, but not for reasons that may come to mind.
The holidays are hard because I get cards addressed to Laura Gerald.
The holidays are hard because mail comes addressed to Corey Gerald, a man who never lived at this address.
The holidays are hard when I am approached by a peripheral acquaintance in a crowded grocery store who asks me how I am and then responds to my “I’m good” with, “Are you sure?” You know what , you’re right. I’ll be much better after I go home and make a voodoo doll of your likeness along with a dart board sized cut out of your face.
The holidays are hard when it’s up to me to do it all because my family deserves to enjoy our traditions.
The holidays are hard because I start and end my day in the dark and the time spent in between is filled with to do list check offs, semester-end concerts, programs, projects, and how much I can get accomplished on my lunch hour and it is expected that I do it joyfully when really I want to fly the finger at anyone looking my direction.
The holidays are hard because the traditional family is celebrated on high. There’s ice skating and snowballs and sleigh rides and family pictures. Dads are bringing in the firewood and hanging outdoor lights while moms are baking and wrapping and all kinds of warm fuzzy bullshit commercials.
The holidays are hard because all of the above is written all over the faces of my children. I see it. Others may not, but I recognize the longing.
You went missing at the start of this season. I assembled a piece of crap Barbie townhouse on the floor of our very narrow laundry room in the wee hours of that first Christmas all while cursing every day of your 42 and a half years.
The holidays are hard not because you’re gone. On the contrary, the holidays are hard because you never left.