The Season of Struggle?
By: Hollis Hartwell
When I was a child, my mom filled our Christmas mugs to the brim with cocoa, our stockings with toys, and our hearts with cheer.
Every December first, my dad hung the same strands of lights along the roof and put the same glowing Rudolph in the front yard. My parents lugged their same aluminum folding chairs with frayed webbing to the same spot along Main Street to watch the Christmas parade. The same vintage ornaments went on the tree as we watched the same movie about Santa Claus. Every Christmas Eve, we walked around our town’s small festival of lights only to come home and unwrap matching pajamas.
They are some of my favorite memories from my childhood. I grew up with Christmas being synonymous with love. Now, as a mother, I have had the honor—and duty—of cultivating those very same tradition-filled memories with my own kids.
But this year, the season has arrived to find me a bit wounded. A bit lonely and Grinchy, if I’m being honest. Being a mom who thrives on a chaos-filled schedule of the town’s festivities while wearing bold Christmas garb with my kids by my side and proving my love by doing the things we’ve always done, I have nothing. Namely, my kids, who will be spending every single tradition and special day without me.
As I sit at my computer writing this, it occurs to me I might not be the only woman struggling this season. Not the only person questioning the meaning of the season and the traditions we’ve crafted. How do we keep smiling when the key players don’t show up? Can the Christmas show go on if life changes the way it is inevitably designed to do? Will those around us know we love them even if it’s not our face they see on Christmas morning?
After a lifetime of every holiday season being as predictably beautiful and magical as the last, this year, whether I like it or not, is different. Because of this—because I can’t bear to do the things I’ve always done without eight additional hands reaching for me, I’ve decided to do none. I’m skipping every tradition to see what, if anything, is left. What magic remains if we divorce ourselves from the things we’ve always done to celebrate?
While my Christmas-loving town gathered like the Whos of Whoville for the annual tree lighting and Santa costume contest, I, like the Grinch in his cave, opted to go in a different direction: to the local bowling alley. It took the entire first half of my time there to think about anything other than all I was missing.
Then the unexpected happened: Two strangers with a unique brand of holiday cheer befriended me and invited me to join a game. I’ll admit, I don’t yet understand how they smiled so easily knowing all they were missing out on just miles down the road, but they did. Without reservation or regret.
I have doubts about the longevity and authenticity of this kind of Christmas spirit. Joy born from randomness and the desire to not conform instead of from a passion for preservation can’t work, can it?
And if it can, what does that mean for someone like me who has spent their life clinging to the traditions of parades and dates on a calendar?
Take heart, wary mamas, for better or worse, we’re in this season together.
November 7th
Hollis
Jay
Tomorrow at 5. Dress warm. I’ll send the address.
Marv
mnojk
Hollis
I’m guessing that’s Marv.
Jay
He has an untraceable flip phone and types in code to throw the bots off.
Hollis
I would expect nothing less.
Marv
pqrsdede wxymnotu tghdepqrde
Hollis
Wow.
When Jay texted last night, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do this. On the drive to the address, I listed every single reason to turn around. Aloud. Twice. Most involving Marv, who is either a danger to society or harmlessly insane.
