The Hillhouse

The Journey of a Mother and Son

Melting Time December 26, 2012

Woke up to snow covered trees and fields, the white Christmas we hadn’t even dared hope for. Santa had come long before Elihu awoke at 5:30, but I was pooped and asked if he could wait for an hour. Good kid, he did. The morning was lovely, we made a fire and opened presents and listened to the Peanuts Christmas album. Our first Christmas together, just we two. It was nice, but still…. it’s just the two of us, and something, some tiny little thing just wasn’t quite there. I knew it, he knew it. It didn’t prevent us from enjoying our time, but still…

On account of my mom having a nasty winter cold, we postponed the family Christmas afternoon at our house, and instead made a short visit to grandma and grandpa’s. My mom’s posture and lessening mobility are beginning to show in her inability to do simple things without discomfort. My father hardly gets out of his pajamas anymore, and he is constantly forgetting what has just been said only minutes before. It is an old people’s house, and on this day in particular, it’s not the most enticing destination for a little kid, even one as forgiving and easy going as mine. We need to head out to visit some friends, so after a while we find relief in our evening’s plans and take our leave.

While we’re received with love and warmth at our friends’ home, and while they feed us and include us and make us feel very welcome, still, something is missing. We watch as the extended family plays Wii together. First round we sit out, next one they include Elihu, who, in spite of his limited vision does pretty well. But still, something’s not quite feeling right. We don’t quite feel we’re at home. We both agree we should be leaving soon. We find the right time, the polite time, and thank our hosts and wish everyone a Merry Christmas as we head out. The snow covered fields seem to glow in the moonlight. Standing there in the cold night air, we feel relief.

Although we’re very much looking forward to going home – at least I’m nearing the end of my energy and can’t wait to be there – just as we approach our driveway, Elihu suggests we visit Martha. We haven’t seen her in a while, we miss her, and now is a good time. After all, if we wait just one more day… well, you never know. So we turn around and make an impromtu visit. Martha is a matriarchal figure of my extended family, a woman who, in spite of repeated visits to the hospital and a continually declining quality of life, simply refuses to die. She holds court sitting on the side of her bed tonight. We have a nice visit. But still, it is an old person’s home with pill bottles, strange-looking health and hygiene aids, ancient layers of dust from years without housecleaning, dessicated plant carcasses and antique bottles on shelves… There are also beautiful antiques and lovely old floorboards beneath threadbare rugs, the walls are carefully chosen colors authentic to the home’s original Colonial style… It’s a queer mix of the grand house it once was with the temporary nursing home it has now become. Again, not the most Christmassy place we could be, and certainly not the liveliest. Finally we hug and kiss goodbye, and soon we’re out in the moonlit night on the road home.

But home isn’t the ultimate relief I’d thought it would be. Instead, I make one false move, and the whole night turns on a dime: Elihu continues to investigate a toy, and pulls it apart in such a way that I believe it to be broken, or at least unworking until I can put it right. In an exasperated tone – probably much harsher than I intended – I tell him it’s not time for that now, it’s time for bed. I tell him that if he’d just waited til the light of day he wouldn’t have made the problem, that it’s enough and it’s bedtime. ! Tears come. Rage comes, sobbing, angry noises, horrible noises, noises that are all way too much for me to deal with. But I need to. In the wake of our lovely day, I have let myself get angry, I have ruined it. I apologize, and explain that I’m at the end of my rope. He says he gets it, but asks why I had to yell. Again, I tell him it’s because I myself am pooped, I’m done… that Christmas day is done. More tears. More volume. Then… a respite.

“It doesn’t feel like Christmas” he said finally. Yeah, I knew what he meant. In a way, it really didn’t. I steered him to the kitchen, where I pulled out a cookie and some water. I asked him to tell me, in an ideal world, what a real Christmas day would look like. He told me that it would be in a big house with a stairway up the middle, a mom and a dad (a tall, ‘generic’ looking dad he said) an older sister and a younger brother. He recounted the whole day. I listened. Man this is tricky. I got nothing to compete or even come close to this scene. I wonder how it would be if Fareed had stayed. Hell, if we had all just stayed in Evanston. In our beautiful home. The four of us, how we’d planned. But I let it go, there’s just no point to doing that to myself. As so many times before, I toss that old dream out quickly and make an effort to concentrate on us, here, now. I apologize to Elihu again, this time for the lack of all those things he wishes he had. He tells me it’s ok. We sigh, sit in silence for a moment, then head to bed.

But after he’s in bead, he asks me to leave. Not sure that he really means it, I offer to sit and talk. I pull out a short book, and as I open it he explodes. Tears again. He wants me to leave. He screams at me. I just don’t get what’s behind all this. It’s very late, and it’s been a crazy long day. That’s part of it, I know. But there’s small voice inside that tells me there’s more; he’s feeling a bit let down. Christmas in a family of two just isn’t the same. I feel sad that I can’t give him the family he wants. Shit, I’ve felt this way for the four years I’ve been here. I try not to indulge the feeling, but at times like this, it kinda stares you in the face. I know I’ve made a very good life for my son here, but at Christmas, what with all the hope and expectation and hype – it’s kinda hard to see real life match all that.

I let him cry, I say goodnight to him, and he says good riddance to me. There’s no repairing this tonight. From my room next door I listen as he winds himself down, and I relax as he falls asleep.  Finally. That’s better.

The countryside might be covered in snow, but here inside there’s been one hell of a meltdown.

 

3 Responses to “Melting Time”

  1. Gene Burnett Says:

    My hunch is that that meltdown was probably needed and looking for a way to happen. Sometimes our “false moves” are truer than we think. I hope it all felt better the next day. GB

  2. […] son has only ever spent one Christmas here with me at the Hillhouse. And it wasn’t the magical time I’d hoped for. It certainly […]


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