Apologies in advance. This is the most meandering, pointless thing I’ve ever written.

I realized this morning that with all the money I have spent, that I don’t have….I could have gone somewhere for Christmas rather than staying home.

Wait, was that personal information? Aren’t I supposed to be sticking to witty and urbane social commentary?

Sorry, not up for that today.

My earlier post was ironic given that I’m wearing one of Granddaddy’s jackets today. I was thinking about familial love, and in particular the love of a grandfather for his granddaughter, or a father for his daughter, and how special that bond is. I suppose this goes under the category of things you never realize growing up; but now I see how really wonderful all the times we (dad and myself, granddad and myself) spent together really are. I have granddaddy’s eyes, and my dad’s temper (sorry about that). I have dad’s work ethic, and granddaddy’s love of literature and the arts. I didn’t inherit any tall genes – both dad and g’dad are/were much taller than myself. And I have all these memories, 34 years worth, that reflect their love for me. Of course, my favorites are all situated at the beach – firecrackers in the eyeball, sunrise beach walks. When I was a child, dad played every John Denver or Simon & Garfunkel song ever written on the guitar. We used to beg him to play for us; it was always a special treat. The two daddies were always the ones you could go to who had the authority to overrule the mothers “Don’t tell your mother/grandmother”. Dad taught me to be fair, and they both taught me I was worth something. Hell, Dad and I both love popcorn with salt. Granddaddy and I loved peanut butter, banana and mayonnaise sandwiches (it’s not gross, try it sometime).

I don’t know where I’m going here, I think I’m just writing because it feels good. Sometimes you do that, you know? I really want to be at home with my girls right now; I could use a Maddy kiss prior to starting the madness that is pre Christmas cleanup.

Would I have been the better person if I had stayed married? I don’t know why that came up either; I usually only think of it in terms of the “mistake”…but…what if I had stuck with it a few more years? Could there have been some kind of compromise reached? In my heart, I know that it never would have worked, but I wonder who I would be today…

Christmas isn’t the same without children. I will admit that this is possibly the only thing I miss about my ex husband – he had such a large family, and he had young nieces for me to play with, to buy pretty dresses and cool toys for. Christmas for adults is about every disappointing thing your parents ever did to you, with a heavy measure of guilt, mixed in with rampant consumerism, and for myself the eternal drive to have the Most Perfect Christmas Ever! I seem to recall it being Grandmother Carol’s favorite holiday as well; velvet Polly Flinders dresses!

Maybe I would feel more like Christmas if I found a grownup version of the Polly Flinders dress?

It’s really about stress. And I impose all of this on myself – I don’t want anyone to be disappointed, I don’t want to be embarrassed by the state of my house, I want everything neat and tidy and clean and just sparkling with my ambition to be a freaking twinkling star of…I don’t even know. I want everyone to have a good time and to get along; I don’t want anyone to get in their car and say “well, that wasn’t very nice!”

I do love this time of year. I love what it represents to me – family. Because family stays with you through thick and thin. Because family loves you whether you are fat or skinny, poor or rich, ugly or pretty, or crazy or normal. Family loves you whether or not you have bad luck in life, bad luck in men, bad luck in women, or just plain ole bad luck. When you die, the only thing you have left is family. When you are born, you begin with family. Family loves you for you – not for who you could be (lose those ten pounds, grow up, man up, get a degree, get a real job, whatever) but for who you are. That’s the most important gift ever – being loved for who you are. Not what you do (or don’t do).

I guess I’m thinking about all this today because last Christmas was when Granddaddy really started to go south. Christmas wasn’t very happy. Rather, it was strangely impersonal and laden with those fabulous holiday twins guilt and sorrow. And regardless of what you believe personally, it really was better for Granddad to go ahead and die, rather than linger in what I have to believe was severe mental agony (a man of such pride would have been shamed at his state, and surely in some corner of his mind that shame ate at his disintegrating brain day by day).

And I’m also thinking that I haven’t had a Christmas in fifteen years that was happy. A Christmas where someone didn’t cry. A Christmas where no one walked off with hurt feelings. Heck, lately, we haven’t had a major holiday that didn’t involve undercooked meat! (please note that Eliza does not herself prepare holiday meats after a disaster a few years ago involving someone’s brilliant last minute idea to grill pork loins for Christmas Day dinner without checking the level of fuel in the propane tank. This necessitated much running by Eliza from the grill to the oven as she tried to force cook EIGHT tenderloins all while making seven other side dishes and frying shrimp. Oh, and kicking her cousin in the fanny when he stole some shrimp out of the oven.) I’d like a Christmas where no one got drunk at the family gathering. I’d like a Christmas where no one gossiped about other family members. I know with 100% certainty that this will not be another “Box of Socks” Christmas (and you’ve NO IDEA how happy that makes me). Or the last Christmas the ex and I shared, after I had told him I wanted a divorce, and he bought ridiculous things he could not afford, and cried and cried all throughout the holiday, which only made me angrier and angrier that he hadn’t cared enough in the previous years to bother.

So Christmas Day will find me, alone or with company, indulging in my Christmas ritual of visiting Carol’s grave. And I suppose I will have to rub the container that Granddad’s remaining ashes are in (a teeny tiny pot brought to me from an Indian tribe in South America). And I’ll say a prayer for Grandfather Virgil and his wife Wyoma, and for Great Aunt’s Dixie and Jeannette, and for my Great Uncles Alex and Bryant. And I will thank whomever is listening that I can still wake up every day, and walk, and think, and breathe, and live, and love.