Flying Solo Christmas Morning

I’m hiding out at Starbucks this morning while Maggie and her kids open gifts and enjoy their Christmas morning. I didn’t think a pathetic, tearful roommate skulking about would do much for the festive, holiday atmosphere.

Yesterday, I hugged my kids extra tight… and for most of the day. My shopping was done, gifts wrapped and under the tree and all my holiday preparations were complete. I made sure there was nothing to distract me from the task at hand, because today, I’m faced with a reality I’ve not encountered in all the years I’ve been a mom: Christmas morning without my kids.

For years, Ben and Lucy’s dad and I agreed that their Christmas mornings should be spent in the place they consider “home.” So, for six Christmases, we’ve enjoyed Christmas morning at our house and invited dad to join us. He would come early and see the kids open their gifts, we’d share breakfast and then we’d divide the rest of the day however was most appropriate given our circumstances at that time. I’m proud we were able to maintain that set-up for such a long time and for such formative years of the kids’ lives.

But many things have changed this past year, including dad moving in with his girlfriend and her children. This year, dad wanted his own Christmas. It’s certainly “his turn,” there’s no doubt about that. And I know I’m being a bit of a baby about it. Most single parents face the reality of Christmas morning without their children in the first or second year of their divorce. I’m incredibly lucky that I’ve not had to face it before now. But knowing I’m lucky for all the years I’ve had, and knowing it’s completely appropriate and fair that dad should get the kids for his own Christmas doesn’t make me any less sad. I can rationalize my feelings all day long, but it doesn’t stop me from experiencing them.

So here I sit at my local Starbucks waiting for the three hours I’ll get to spend with the kids this afternoon. Thinking that looking better would make me feel better, I got up early, showered, put on a reasonably cute outfit and did my hair and make-up for my solo morning. The make-up might have been a mistake, however. I cried before even getting out of the house and the mixture of eyeliner and smeared concealer has produced an ever-so-slightly deranged effect. I think my alarming appearance may have startled the barista who took my order. Or maybe it was the ferociousness with which I swatted her hand away when she reached for my travel mug intending to put coffee in it.

I may be sad. I may look deranged. I may be a big-ole baby and it’s entirely possible I truly am pathetic. But I still have the wherewithal to put on a kick-ass pair of boots, my cutest jeans and hold my head high with a mimosa in my hand (even if that mimosa is in a travel mug with “Ben” Sharpied on the side).

Hands off the mimosa, lady. Sheesh.

That's Gonna Leave a Mark

A boy hurt my feelings this week. A sentence I likely spoke when I was five years old is the most accurate description of what happened. Some things never change I guess.

I liked this boy – I really did. He was handsome, smart, funny and charming and we had great conversations. We really seemed to connect. But, alas, he met someone he liked better and we never made it to our first official date. Disappointing, but it happens.

We seemed so very “in sync” and he appeared to be transparent, upfront and honest – qualities I value highly and feel I also possess. He assured me he didn’t play games and that “what I saw was what I got” with him.  I trusted him. And as we got to know each other, I shared with him a difficult story from my past. I told him something deeply personal - something about which I’m self-conscious. I shared this with him in the spirit of being open and honest and getting to know each another.

When he decided he didn’t want to date me, instead of telling me the truth about having met someone else, he chose instead to say it was because of the deeply personal story I’d shared. I’m sure deflecting the responsibility onto me made it easier for him, but the result was humiliation, shame and hurt for me. He said during this conversation that I could add him to the list of assholes who had hurt me. He seemed almost comforted by the knowledge that he would not be the first asshole to leave a mark. Because that’s what happens, isn’t it? Every hurt leaves a mark – a scar of sorts. Every humiliation shapes us. Every shame changes us.

But those marks – those scars – are what make us who we are, just as much as our joys, triumphs and proud moments. My parents gave me life, but my life made me who I am. My life and all the experiences that have been part of it make me “me” and I’m pretty happy with who that is (most days). I believe the scars are beautiful and I’m honored beyond belief when someone shares one of theirs with me. So it’s unlikely I’ll stop sharing mine with those I care about. And if my scars are subsequently used against me, I’ll learn from that, but I won’t let it cause me to hide them.

This week a boy hurt my feelings and it’s going to leave a mark. It’s true that I can add him to a list, but it’s not a list of assholes as he suggested. It’s simply a list of people. People who have touched me - many in good ways, some in bad ways, and mercifully few who have hurt me intentionally.

All in all, I feel pretty lucky.

I Believe

This morning Lucy asked, "Mom, did you put Harry Harold in the dining room?" I looked at her like she’d lost her mind and said, "Seriously? Do you really think I have the time, energy or inclination to sneak around this house, taking the notes and gifts you leave for him and eating the food you give him? Do you honestly believe I would get up in the middle of the night, every night for weeks on end to move that elf around? Pfft.” I turned away from her to pour my coffee, shaking my head and muttering under my breath, “Did I move Harry Harold? Ridiculous.” Then I turned and called over my shoulder, “Now stop talking crazy and feed that elf his breakfast.”

We have an Elf on the Shelf named Harry Harold. This magical creature arrives at the beginning of the holiday season each year and lives with us until Christmas Eve, keeping tabs on the behavior of the children in the house. Each night our elf travels to the North Pole to report to Santa and each morning he returns. He very rarely returns to the same spot in the house and the kids love hunting around to find him every morning. According to the book that came with our elf, the kids are not allowed to touch him lest he lose his magic. And he is not allowed to talk to us, but the kids are welcome to talk to him, sharing their Christmas lists and other secrets. They leave notes for Harry Harold, small meals and the occasional gift (pennies, stickers and the like). Harry always eats the meals (when no one is looking, of course) and takes the gifts and notes with him when he leaves at night.  Occasionally, he'll even answer a question posed in a note, by circling the provided, "yes" or "no".  "Did you take our note to Santa?"  (Harry Harold circled "yes".)

I’m convinced my kids love Harry Harold more than Santa himself. Last year on Christmas Eve when most kids were climbing into bed smiling, eagerly anticipating Santa’s arrival, Ben and Lucy were sobbing while saying their goodbyes to Harry Harold, clutching him as if they were sending him off to the horrors of war instead of the holly-jolly-joy of the North Pole (we bend the rules about touching on Christmas Eve so that they may hug him goodbye for the year). But their sorrow turns to exuberance in equal measure when Harry Harold returns the next year. This year he arrived in a Barbie car and actually rang the doorbell. The kids were thrilled beyond belief with his ingenuity.

Lucy has planned ahead this year for how much she’ll miss Harry Harold when he’s gone by putting on her Christmas list, “A stuffed elf that looks like Harry Harold that I can keep all year. Not a real one, like Harry Harold – I know he can’t stay all year, but a toy elf.” I’m so glad she understands the difference and I hope that the toy elf she’s likely to receive as a gift will comfort her when our real elf leaves on Christmas Eve. (Note to self: give Lucy her toy elf on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas morning.)

But I found myself wondering today just how long Harry Harold will stay with us. Will there come a year when he simply doesn’t return? I think the answer to that question is pretty simple, really. I think Harry Harold will be with us as long as we believe. If we believe he’s magic, he will most certainly be magic.

And I think the same can be said of life itself. Sometimes I lose sight of this, but I know in my heart that if I believe there is magic in my every day life, it will most certainly be there. If I resolve to see it, I will see it. If I believe, the magic will be there as clear as the nose on my face.

Or the elf on my shelf.

I, for one, choose to believe.