There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays

A two hour car ride, a walk on the boardwalk, two deep fried turkeys, 3 Beef Wellingtons, 17 side dishes, 4 pies, 3 trays of cookies and several growlers of home made beer later, Scott and I finally enjoy a moment of quiet together. We have gifts and cards for each other and it is soothing to finally be able to focus on just us. His girls and their friends have gone visiting. The dogs have been corralled out of the room. It's just us, and I can finally stop feeling so crappy about being separated from my kids.

Scott's sister had touched a nerve, referencing Scott's girls' mother. She had wondered out loud to me how any mother can be spend Christmas without her children. She was not talking about me. She was talking about them. She and I had discussed my unique situation before and she'd been very empathetic about the choices I've had to make and the circumstances I have that I'd not choose for myself or my children or anyone else whose life intersects mine. She was not talking about me being seated at her table while my children were miles away at someone else's. She was talking about her nieces and their mother. But still, it had touched a nerve. No hard feelings toward her. Just a sensitivity that is all mine to own. Something I will never feel right about. I have Christmas china which will never be used to serve Christmas dinner to my children. It remains in boxes and stowed away, like many of the feelings I have on this day. No one can successfully navigate the land mine that is my Christmas.

I wonder if people who don't know me think I am selfish to be enjoying myself with Scott's family. Or Charlotte's. I wonder if they assume I've made a selfish choice. I know people assumed that about my mother. In the 70s it was inconceivable that a mother would choose to live apart from her children, no matter what the condition of her marriage. People assumed she was dead. I wonder what people assume about me.

The next morning Scott and I are up early making coffee and warming the Monkey Bread I'd made for my kids. I had brought it with me since Hil and Pat and I had polished off only about a fourth of it, despite our intentions to wolf down every last gooey morsel. It makes me feel guilty. Like I gave something away that belonged to the kids. I wash that thought away with strong coffee.

I have evidently missed a few desperation texts from Charlotte. She had sent up a few flares in the night. Texts commenting about Bill's habit of complaining about my mother the moment she leaves the room. That he rambles on endlessly telling the same stories over and over, usually covering a topic that is of minimal interest to begin with. Like the shelves. In a voice that sounds like his throat needs constant clearing. How did it get so gravelly?

I reply, however delayed. "He did that at the cottage. And the voice is courtesy of Jack Daniels." Jack's Jack Daniels. Most notably the entire bottle of Single Barrel he polished off unassisted two summers ago in a two-and-a-half day stay.

She replies at 8:49 am. "OMG they just left. Told the same stories in great detail (none of which were relevant) at least 3 times each day." Followed by "Bill has a major issue with you. I let him have it."

I write back. "Call me."

Bill and Estelle have been here for exactly 48 hours and have raced back to the nothingness that awaits them at home. The need to pull away evidently overpowering anything that would draw them near.