Anyone that knows me, knows I am not a fan of Christmas. Not only did I lose a child near Christmas, I suffer from seasonal affective disorder. So, this time of year, when even the sun is too lazy to crawl over the horizon for a full day's work, is hard on me. However, again this year, I find myself drawn into the season here. Perhaps because of the quarantine measures, perhaps because Norwegians celebrate light in this dark season, the lights and decorations are coming out on full display a little earlier this year. All of it has me thinking about old and new traditions. When my kids were young, the Christmas tree went up the day after Thanksgiving. We had a routine in which mom set up the tree with lights and then we began going through the years of personal ornaments hanging them in order. I tried to recruit the boys and their dad a few times to help with setting up the tree, but either due to my perfectionism or their give no fucks attitude, that never became a tradition. Their yearly ornaments continue to today. I had originally thought to stop when they were 18, but the disappointment when I said, "I think you probably have enough ornaments," was palpable. I think they are in love with the memory and feeling of the yearly tradition more than the actual ornaments themselves. But you know, those ornaments are a brief life story in a box. I purchased ornaments that matched their interests or popular films of the year. Only later would they tell me I bought a few that were not appreciated at all, like Randall from Monster's Inc. They were young men when they told me how terrified they were of the ornament and how they would hang it on the back of the tree every year. That peek at a Christmas tradition from their perspective gave me pause to reflect. Of course, they were treated to the same when we discussed the Christmas Village. This glorious lighted Christmas village sat nestled in a snowy pillow of quilting batting on the bookcase around the stairs until it grew so large it needed its own table. Buildings, people, and vehicles were added every year. The boys and I were discussing Christmas one day when one of them off-handedly mentioned "mom's Christmas village." Wait, what? NO, no, no. THAT monstrosity was your dad's idea. I just got stuck setting it up. We also enjoyed the tradition of serving Christmas dinner at the VFW every year after the boys' great grandfather passed. Although I truly enjoyed the experiences, I loved seeing my boys in service of others with smiles on their faces. There was no teenage moaning and bitching about going. They were often ready long before me. Along with traditions there are plenty of memories that bring a smile or chuckle. I remember one year, I was just sick and tired of being the one cleaning up all the Christmas decorations so I left the tree up with lights on simply to see how long it would take Jeff to help me take it down. Come mid January I put hearts on the tree, and when February was ending, I put shamrocks on the tree. When I was asked if we were going to decorate for birthdays next, I caved and put the damned thing away myself. Doing it yourself isn't always bad. I really preferred white lights and always got my way since no one else helped. The year I decided I really wanted a lighted star for the top of the tree, I couldn't find a white one, so I bought a star with colored lights with the intention of changing out the lights at home. I couldn't wait for the big reveal to the boys because we had had an angel for so many years. I lined them up in front of the tree to wait for me to plug it in. I held the cord and asked for a drum roll a la Clark Griswald and proceeded to blind them with the spotlight of a star I had installed onto the tree. I couldn't help but laugh as they shielded their eyes and pleaded with me to unplug it. Apparently, outdoor bulbs are much brighter than indoor bulbs. OOPS. This year will be much different than any Christmas before. For the first time since I had kids I will not see either of them near the holiday. I know how hard it was last year only getting to see Brad, so it is important that I keep looking on the bright side. As wonderful as those traditions are, I have always known when my boys left home, got married, or had kids of their own that the traditions would change as they needed autonomy to make their own families and values the priority. That realization began to settle in my heart when Brad left for the Marines. You quickly learn that you cannot always celebrate all holidays on THE day. There is freedom in that thinking, though. My value and focus shifted from THE day to the people and memories. I do have to say though, all the imagining in the world would never have led me here...Christmas in Norway, away from my children, with a new boyfriend, and embracing that autonomy of new traditions for myself. At this age, it feels odd to discuss past traditions, decorations, trees, artificial or real, and food with a goal of sharing and building anew. He hasn't mentioned corn yet, so cross your fingers for me. I can't say where we will land as we negotiate and navigate new shared traditions, but I can tell you, I love the view from here.
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First let me start by saying, I am not going to entertain a debate on the existence of a global pandemic or a perceived violation of my "rights", so feel free to skip this week if this topic annoys or triggers you. Today as I watched the news, my heart sank. The pandemic shows absolutely no signs of slowing in the states and is on the rise here again which means my chances of visiting over the Christmas holiday are evaporating like a puddle in the sun. The numbers are stunning and heart breaking. Already, my original flights have canceled, and my school is finishing a five day shut down. Today, I got to explain to my six year olds that even though masks aren't required here that their teacher will be wearing one in hopes of staying healthy enough to travel at Christmas. But probably the worst of all is that I feel deeply, deeply torn about traveling and the logical part of my brain already knows it isn't going to happen. I am well aware of my responsibilities, perhaps even more than the average person, as I am in constant contact with the most precious pieces of many peoples' lives...children. I would hazard a guess that my hand-washing is rivalled only by healthcare professionals, and that I have washed the surfaces in my classroom more than the neighborhood dog cleans his bits. I wear a mask on public transit or walk instead, and I maintain distance in shops or avoid shopping when I cannot. Does this mean I haven't had lapses? No, but I do my best to be mindful because I want to be part of the solution and little eyes watch me. That is precisely why this is such a tough decision. I want so badly to be selfish. I am tired of the term social distancing and masks. Google Meets have long since lost their novelty, and I long to return to "normal". Teaching online sucks on its best days, and I am weary from hearing about all the "loss" that is merely inconvenience and shitty circumstances. I want to claim my "rights" to a trip because I do my part and goddamnit, I haven't seen my youngest son since I moved to Norway. I have a niece I have never met, and I very well may never see my aunt this healthy again, ever. My list of what ifs and if onlys is exhaustive. I look at the posts on FB speaking to this possibly being the last holiday we share together and I feel it in the deepest part of my heart. I WANT IT. FUCK. YES. I AM GOING TO SEE MY FAMILY! But then I see these faces, and the choice and my resolve melt away because what if I was the reason that it actually was our last holiday together? Regret is forever, and that simply isn't my choice to make. My aunt has cancer, my niece's mom runs a daycare, and my sons' father has frail health. I would be destroyed to know I had wreaked havoc in their lives. Not to mention, I hear the stories from my relatives in healthcare about the people taking unnecessary risks and spreading the virus.. even after testing positive. As careful as I am, there is no guarantee that everyone I encounter will be as careful. And how would I cope if I became a source of infection when I returned here?
So, unless things drastically change before Christmas, there will be no trip to the states for Christmas. And while today, this feels like forever, there are two school breaks after Christmas. Perhaps, circumstances will be different by then, and if not, maybe summer will be the time. However, I am sure that I want to wrap my arms around the necks, well waists because they are men sized now, of those boys and squeeze tight. I want to kiss all over that sweet baby's face without a mask or fear. I want to reminisce over coffee with AB and MM. I want to sip my pumpkin spice latte 👌 with AD and Doc while I tour their new home. I want Tony to feel that complete trauma that comes with meeting a family nuttier than a squirrel turd. And these things will happen...just later. Life rarely goes exactly like we envision, and I am no stranger to challenges. Today, I am tired and whiny, but tomorrow is a new day. I will pick myself up and go again. My heart is in good hands until then. Another post that dragging its heels through the mud...sigh, have to love those defense mechanisms the brain builds, right? Sometimes, when I write about hurtful past events, my brain closes a huge iron doorway that blocks my view leaving me wordless. Other times if I want to find a life lesson, my brain takes me on a meandering tour of vaguely related memories which keeps me teetering on the verge of pushing words to paper. Another competing distraction tactic when a topic is deeply personal is humor. It is no secret I have a dark and somewhat twisted sense of humor, so this strategy is most effective at forcing my writing off kilter. Since my brain is throwing out all the blocks, I guess there is no choice but to wade into the mire and wrestle the story to words WWE style. Grrrr! Cue flexed arm pose.
It isn't a surprise to many that my first marriage was not the type of relationship that could serve as a model for healthy marriages. Painting broad strokes, there were plenty of splendidly light and bright colors mixed into the dark defining tones. When we divorced, it was truly the best decision for all of us, but life didn't fall neatly into his and hers boxes. The process of untangling our intermingled lives was excruciating. Not only was this man the father of my children, but many of my own family loved him dearly. In moments, I was deeply embarrassed about the behaviors that I hid for the two of us but my heart was in tatters knowing the source of those behaviors. Both of us has escaped extreme abuse by clinging to each other. In essence we grew up together...married...and then had children too soon building large interconnecting pieces of the cyclical mechanism we had been fighting to escape. The marriage itself was filled with love, hate, life and death, common enemies, fireworks, and deep hurt, and in the end it fizzled as we both resigned ourselves to the fact that we had been doomed to fail. We were better as friends than partners. My marriage ended on the anniversary of its beginning. I own that I was still bitter, and put a lot of work into controlling the end as much as possible. I had decided that the marriage and divorce would get one day of mourning per year, April 5th, and fully intended to achieve that. Not only did I have to file permission to move the court case to another county, but we had to drive an hour and a half both ways to court. My ex and boys laugh and tease me about it now because who wants to fuck with a woman willing to calculate endings like that? There is a part of divorce that Hollywood leaves out. Films and stories are filled with the fighting, the court battles, and the finality, but no one tells you that you will mourn the loss and failure. There will be no clean break and swiftly moving on with a small town country vet facing the same situation. I cried through the court proceedings and was left utterly lost after my divorce. Who was I without that particular definition in my life? I was also so completely embarrassed by "my failure" that I didn't tell anyone that I was divorced for a long time. Through this time I came to realize what a toxic relationship we had together, and I can honestly say that the fault didn't lie entirely with us. We knew no different. Sure we were trying to break free of the cycles we both escaped but our shared history allowed us to stay too connected to the past pain to heal for ourselves. Honestly, it really wasn't until I moved to Andover that the real healing began because it turns out sometimes you need physical and emotional distance from people. After all, I had laced my life together with this man at the age of 14. So ingrained in my mind was this voice, that often my boys and I would joke about WWJD, what would Jeff do, but sadly, I had to work for years to abandon that thinking. I spent the two years before my divorce and all the years after learning to love myself and my life. I learned who I was without all of the labels and what healthy thinking sounded like. Through those years, I went to countless hours of therapy I paid for and even more hours of therapy with friends and nature. I actually had one therapist tell me she was glad that I always scheduled my appointments in the evening because I would be her last appointment. She said she often went home and cried for me. On one hand I was devastated to know that a trained professional couldn't handle hearing about my life, but on the other hand if a trained professional couldn't do it, then who did I think I was to do it alone? The poor therapists in my path...like the therapist that asked me what brought me there and I said an Oldsmobile Alero or the one that I told I could see living the rest of my life "Hope"-less (my moms name is Hope). Apparently that shit isn't funny when you have "deep issues to resolve". In my defense, some of it they brought on themselves. At one point I was hospitalized and needed a tampon but had to solemnly swear I wouldn't kill myself with it. My response of one tampon being insufficient as I reckoned I needed at least three to plug all the breathing holes earned me special one on one time with the grand poobah of therapists. I still stand by the statement. But I digress.. I know better now, so I do better. That in itself is a hard lesson to accept, but necessary to forgive yourself. BUT! I still won't promise to stop using inappropriate humor. So where is this post going? Why this topic today? Because I found love, not just an NBF, but love. I hear your voices and hearts. But Nellie, that is fantastic! You so deserve it! Oh, I am so happy for you. You look so much happier. There is a light in your eyes. Meanwhile, my brain says hold my beer, I have work to do. Oh, the thoughts swirling! Nellie, you realize no man wants a woman with such a foul fucking mouth, right? You're stubborn. Have you seen those thighs lately? You're too loud. You're too quiet. By the way, you realize you're damaged goods anyway, right? Good lord, since your aunt's diagnosis you sure cry an awful fucking lot. What a needy woman. How long do you think he can handle you? He can't. You. are. too. hard. to. love. Just wow! And I breathe. I have worked so hard to quiet that voice and stop believing such nonsense. I can remember recoiling and crouching like I was inside a bell tower while the voice rang out my truths. Deep breath. The old me would be okay to crouch and cry, but I refuse. I know days I would hide inside myself and pull away until he had no choice but to see if he could outlast me. One more deep breath and a call for back up. AB, help. Then comes the advice I was afraid of. Honey, you have to talk to him. FUCK! Why did Hallmark do me this way?? Let me start here, I know my heart is safe with this man by the fact that I can even cry in front of him. I have heard rumors, unsubstantiated nonsense, that I am independent and like to handle my life on my own. Sharing is hard, and he doesn't force it yet somehow is right in the middle of it. Truth be told, I think he uses my blog against me, but I also know he is a man that recognizes the small clues that many people would miss. He gives me space to be in my own mind, but opens the door when he knows he needs to which is a course of action that has seen many hands slapped, bitten, or slammed in the door. So when I tried to open this conversation and immediately had second thoughts and turned away, he pulled me to his chest and held me. And he told me, "This isn't the escape hatch you're looking for. I am here to stay." See what I mean about the blog?? Over the course of the conversations, he pushed back against the voice in my brain telling me his own thoughts. Did you ever think that is why I love you? You live so passionately. You love and feel. You are one of the strongest, most beautiful women I have ever met. You are the best thing to happen to me, and I want to be a man that deserves you. But I still know you are Captain Evil. (Thanks a lot, Steve Trevino!) Don't fret, though, words will never win me over so easily. He is a man of action as well. His love shines in a thousand small gestures. He keeps soy milk in the fridge and is constantly scouting new salted caramel treats. He turns on the heat before I arrive. He made a playlist for me and shared his Spotify so I don't have ads. He calls me Nellie. I could get used to this being the normal, and I am not going to squander this opportunity to hone my Captain Evil skills. Perhaps the most surprising part of this is that now I can clearly hear where that voice in my mind is coming from now. That isn't MY voice but the echo of my mother's, my ex husband's, my former self, but certainly not Nellie's. It is possible that those iron bells will never silence completely, but maybe, just maybe, these new bells can ring more true, more clearly. |
Nellie HillJust a woman leaping outside her comfort zone and telling the tale. Archives
April 2024
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