Chapter Eighty Eight; My Empty Christmas

I sat down fully prepared to publish a humorous essay I’ve been working on about Facebook (Oh, who are we kidding: Stalkbook. Or, in some quasi-dating cases: Emotional Torture Device.)

But I will get to that one later.

Because right now I don’t feel like being funny.

It’s Christmas. It’s the one year anniversary of my divorce (yeah, happy Christmas to me last year, huh?) and I am facing my first Christmas without my children.

Like toys we are supposed to share, my ex and I toggle the children every other holiday. Last year I had them. This year he does.

I am dying.

Because without my daughters I am not sure how I am going to be able to breathe.

Oh sure, the ex and I have concocted a plan that our littlest one is referring to as “the fake Christmas” because we are going to celebrate Christmas one day early at my house.

But that kid is smart. Because she’s right.

It’s going to feel phony.

When all is said and done, my daughters will pack up their favorite pillows, books, and new Christmas clothes. And drive to Minneapolis with their Dad.

And I will hit the interstate for the familiar three hour drive back home to the farm.

Alone.

I haven’t been to the farm by myself in years. Since I was 21-years-old, I’ve had a little person with me. And then later, two little people. Sometimes we would go without their Dad (duh, we ended up divorcing, we didn’t like to spend a lot of time together) but I always had my girls with me.

I always had my family.

I’ve had a baby screaming in my backseat for the entire three hour trip. And instead of losing my mind, I just marveled at the fact that I produced something that loud. I’ve had a toddler watch her favorite Barney episode on a portable VHS, over and over, the entire way. And I happily sang along, “I love you, you love me,” because I could celebrate the fact that even though yes, this was also hell, it was a few levels above that of an endlessly yowling infant.

And today, I have a teenager next to me who likes to think that the little movies she records on her camera of her Mom and sister rocking out down the highway will somehow bring her You Tube fame. (Laugh away. I make a mean Britney Spears when I am behind the wheel belting along to my Bose.)

But this Christmas.

I’ll make the drive once again. But the solitude of it will be anything but familiar.

Because when I do reach the farm, I am pretty sure the nagging feeling that I forgot something is not going to leave.

It will follow me in the wooden door. Through the kitchen over flowing with the scents of pumpkin bread, sugar cookies, and apple cider. Past the glowing Christmas tree in the living room corner. And up the creaky stairs to my childhood bedroom where my girls and I always stay together in the two big beds.

There will be no girly whoops of joy that we have arrived at Granny and Grandpa’s. No rushing back downstairs to sample the fudge. And no diving under the Christmas tree to identify who has more presents.

It will just be me.

Silently setting my suitcase onto one of the freshly made beds.

Less sheets for my mom to wash I guess.

And right now, that’s about as far as I can go with this. Because I can’t even imagine how the rest of it will play out. Christmas Eve dinner, opening presents with my parents, seeing all of my high school classmates and their intact families at church that night.

All I do know is that this will be a deafening silent childless Christmas.

And I think the only sound that will break it will be on Christmas Eve when I return home from midnight mass.

To that empty silent room.

And choke back my tears.

Because yeah, I'll have my mom's fudge and lots of gifts. But that isn't Christmas.

Christmas. Is love.

And I will be missing the biggest pieces of it in my life this year.