My eldest is at that age where she's much more in tune with her surroundings and my conversations and the f-bombs tossed around (I know, I know, I really have to work on my French!) She's also a Christmas junkie! She loves the music, and lights, and 'fraser fir' scented candles and putting santa bells on Miss Goldie's neck and well, you get it. My Sabrina LOVES Christmas!
{My homemade Christmas wreath ♥}
Sometime at the onset of this holiday season, she asked me, 'Mommy, when you were my age, how was YOUR Christmas?'
I cringed inside.
I crinkled my face and forehead and nose and made my eyes really, really, really small and said, 'Do you REALLY want to know?'
No duh you idiot, that's why I asked you! Is what she must've thought but she was too concerned over my contorted facial expression. Plus I knew that I HAD to tell her.
Deep breath in and out came...
'When I was seven, I woke up on Christmas morning and there was a Christmas tree in the living room. It had no lights, no ornaments, no tree skirt and no presents under the tree.' I said.
'WHAT?' she gasped. I simply looked at her surprised beautiful big blue eyes.
'Why?' she asked.
'I don't know why.' I responded to her.
Because I didn't know why there were no presents under the tree. Okay, fine I kind of DO know why there were no presents under the tree. My mother was involved with a drug dealer and from what I could remember, most of his cash flow went up his nose. My mother never apologized for a present-less Christmas that morning. I remember she had woken up late and basically acted like it was an ordinary day. All I worried about during the remainder of my school break was trying to figure out what were the 'cool toys' that I could lie about at school that I 'got' for Christmas. I think they were 'My Little Pony', 'Rainbow Bright' and 'Cabbage Patch Kids' but now I'm not too sure.
*I DID NOT want to tell my seven year old daughter that a cocaine addict/pedophile had tarnished my Christmas. Or how her Grandmother seemed to 'not care' about that day for me. My daughter will find out soon enough. It'll be written right here on this part of the blogosphere *forever* Just know that I love my mother despite the negative moments I experienced under her control. It's a tough position to be in.
'So was it your worst Christmas ever?' she quickly asked me.
'Kind of...' I said to her.
She lowered her head but I could still see one side of her sweet, translucent face and she looked remorsefully sad, heart broken, angry and confused. I hated the feeling of the entire exchange because as it was, I felt like a LIAR and CHEAT and so BROKEN in front of her. Not because I 'believe' myself to be any of those things but because I cannot bring myself to be 'fully' transparent with details and facts and moments of 'truth' with respect to my childhood. Not when she's only seven.
It makes me angry. Not sad. Angry. For her.
The interesting thing here is that I WAS seven when what I DON'T want to share with my daughter happened to me. I simply don't wish for her to be consumed with my unfortunate childhood experience while she's the same little child that I 'needed' to be. I know her well enough that she WOULD encapsulate herself with sad parts of mommy's life. No. I cannot do that to her. I won't.
There have been times when she's actually told me to pretend that her and I are the same age so that I can have the moment back. She's self-less and sweet...
I feel the need to protect her from these horrid things. I know that I cannot save her from EVERYTHING (I'm not delusional) but dammit, I CAN salvage any part of her emotional hurt for MY childhood.
She hurts for it. I see it. I feel it. I know it.
Even if I don't articulate it, she picks up on my body language and how my eyes shift. She's connected to that sensitive and raw side of 'me.' I find it fascinating and scary.
Here's what I know I can do: I CAN tell her 'partial' stories and I CAN choose to 'limit' what she learns about me and what may or may not have happened to me at the age of seven while she's seven herself. But I WILL always tell her how I felt, the thoughts that came to my 'child' mind and the way I bounced back from it. I quickly added my own emotional consoling to this issue.
'Sabrina, it doesn't matter how my Christmas was when I was your age.' I added.
She looked up at me and I smiled at her.
Her face was home. Her gaze was love. Her heart was peace.
'Do you want to know what my BEST Christmas is?' I asked.
'What?' she responded.
'You are.'
That's what I told her.
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