By Jane Flanagan
I’m depressed. Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, is over, and I know what’s coming….
The Turkey Day is a favorite for a few reasons. First of all — it’s just that one day. No long, stressful buildup. And since my husband and I (and now our son) began going down to a bed and breakfast in Cape May, N.J., it’s very appealing. Dinner is served community style, I don’t do any work and there are no relatives.
When I contrast this to Christmas, well….
Last year I spent a fortune and worked for weeks to get ready for dinner for 16. We were new in our apartment and there were no curtains on the windows or pictures on the wall. I worked like a nut to get ready because relatives I’d known all my life were coming and I wanted to make a good impression.
But then the call came. At 1 p.m. on Christmas Day, as the turkey and stuffing sat on the table: “We’re not coming,” was the report from a cell phone. Most of the group was driving down from Connecticut and it was beginning to hail. “We’re turning around.”
I couldn’t blame them, of course. It turned out to be a big snowstorm. But it was just another example of how that holiday always gets me one way or another. The work is endless, expectations huge and disappointment inevitable. And enjoyment? Hmmh.
I remember a Christmas several years ago. It was the year I was having fertility issues. I was jealous of friends with kids, sure that they were enjoying a snowy glaze of twinkling joy with their delightful cherubs.
If I’d only known.
Last year, after expending great effort, I was looking forward to Christmas morning. On the big day, my son Rusty, then 4, tore through eight presents under the tree with barely a pause. We hardly had a chance to get the movie camera out of its case.
“Are there any more?” was his only comment.
While he later displayed enthusiasm for the toys, it didn’t last long. By the first week of January, he’d stopped playing with all of them.
But it’s a new year. And it’s not that the holiday doesn’t have its moments.
The other day Rusty said, “Mom, is there a Santa Claus? For real?”
“Sure there is,” I said.
I’m big on Santa. It comes from my childhood, the source of all my nutty Christmas expectations. I was in first grade when I found out the truth about Santa Claus. I knew long before my best friend and was jealous that she still believed. I wanted to believe forever.
Rusty is now making up a list for Santa. He’s asking me what I’d like and writing it down. He can’t write yet, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
“Do you remember when Santa left some of the cookies and milk?” he said.
We leave these goodies out on Christmas Eve. On Christmas morning we wake up to discover that Santa evidently enjoyed himself, leaving just a bite of cookie and sip of milk.
There are other moments, too. One day recently, Rusty and I walked into a Starbucks. It was a Sunday in the Financial District and not many people were around. They served our drinks in red paper holiday cups. A heartfelt Judy Garland was singing in the background and the place looked twinkly and colorful. But since it was only November, I didn’t have to rush anywhere. I was savoring the moments.
“If I could just limit the Christmas experience to this kind of thing,” I thought.
Well, I’ve made an initial step in that direction. No dinner for 16 this year. It’ll just be the three of us and my bachelor brother. But, what to do about the rest. I wonder if it’s too late to invent a Santa who brings just one present?
