Yes. Christmas. If you’ve lost a loved one, you have to “make it” through two big things: the funeral and the holidays. The former is like a party you’ve worked really hard to plan at a church you don’t attend with all of your best friends who are crying their eyes out. This is all quite expected and yet totally surreal. The latter is sort of like hell week with annoyingly peppy or painfully sentimental Christmas carols playing in the background. Again, all quite expected, yet totally surreal.
To say that I’ve been coo coo during the lead up to Christmas would be accurate. So just going to bed on Christmas Eve after putting “Santa’s Visit” in place was a huge relief. But I don’t think my mom’s absence from the holiday really hit me until far into the next morning, way after the kids had gotten up and opened some of their presents. My dad was the first to show up, just like every year. During the drive over, he said he could almost feel my mom sitting next to him. As we all stood in our kitchen, crying over his story, I realized how empty the house felt. It’s incredible to me how the lack of one person’s energy can leave such a huge hole in a room. Granted, my mom was a force of nature. But, still. Just one tiny person. Like George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
So with the exception of a 15-minute crying jag in the bathroom — brought on by my fragile emotional state and the inaccurate belief that because I’d failed to get Elfie the “right” presents, she wasn’t having a “great” Christmas — I held up pretty well. In fact, I’d say that logistically, we had one of our best Christmases ever. Brunch, afternoon movie, dinner. If Nan were here, she would’ve had a great time. And I think that’s the hardest part — there’ve been so many times during the past couple of weeks when I’ve had that exact thought. Watching Newt jump off the trampoline with reckless abandon at his gymnastics show and yell, “I’m Superman!” Going to a Christmas caroling party where my dad got to play guitar accompaniment for a group of grandparents, parents, and kids. Seeing my dad sing at his barbershop chorus concert.
My mom was the type of person who visibly glowed when she was proud of her brood. So I suppose if someone asked, what have we done this year, I could say that I think we would have made her proud. I think we’ve done our best to carry on in the absence of her energy. And I think, if she were still here, we would have made her glow.
Tammy Soong is a writer, wife, and mom from Reno, Nevada. She takes an absurd amount of pain medication, but not enough to have actually named her children "Newt" and "Elfie." She spends most days stressing out over clutter, writing stuff for this place, and working on podcasts with her gal pals, the Blogging Betties.