Christmas spirit had taken a nearly twenty year lull, maybe more. A child of divorce, there were three Christmas's a year: Eve at my Gramma Bruggners, morning at moms, afternoon at dads. The presents were awesome, but I do vaguely remember being around ten years old and groaning Christmas night somewhere, at somebody's house, "Another one?" Somehow the holiday got less exciting in adolescence, getting that coveted walkman and hiding in a corner with cassette tapes. I think I was about 22 when I came home one year from some western state that my dad and stepmother had separated. She and my brothers were living in a rental near my Gramma Doe's house. My father was in a rental someplace else. I think it was the 23rd when I came home, and I was given a choice: "Well, you can spend Christmas eve with your dad and his friends, or with you sister, her family and your mom, or your stepmother, brothers and Gramma Doe." I decided to go solo instead, and went to the beach and cried.
The years after that were characterized by flying home from Oregon or Colorado or wherever I was living at the time, my dad picking me up at the airport and taking me out for sushi. I bounced around from family home to family home, eventually settling on a routine that would last over the next ten years. It was always nice to be home and see everyone, but it was also always so hectic. The eve and morning, with my stepmother and brothers, the late morning with my sister's family and mom, the afternoon with my dad and Gramma Doe. I'd fly home with a bulging suitcase with new hats and sweaters from my three Christmas's. It was exhausting, and continued like this for years.
Skip ahead another ten seasons or so with boyfriend turned fiance turned husband. Good stuff. Always warm and lovely to decorate the tree, fun to give gifts to my stepdaughter and hang out with her before she did the split day and left for her moms, and then quiet with my husband, Annie and Zuki. In the afternoons we'd play with a new gadget or take a walk. One year we took the dog to run at a local state park. When we got there we'd discovered someone had shoveled off a rink on the pond. We raced home and got our skates, went back and spent the afternoon on the ice, Annie running and sliding between us. Best. Christmas. Afternoon.
And now, here we are, the third Christmas with our child, the first that she is cognizant of what Christmas might mean, the thrill of the tree, the awareness of all the presents underneath. This is the first year I've put Christmas music on my ipod, created playlists and intentionally listen to Johnny Mathis, Elvis, Ella Fitzgerald, etc. My nearly 14 year old stepdaughter came in the other day in the midst of my baking and singing Winter Wonderland and said "Auuugggh... I HATE Christmas music!!!" And I laughed in recognition. Cassidy in the meantime walks in circles singing, "Frosty the the snowman. Jolly Happy Soul. HEY! Frosty the snowman. Jolly Happy Soul. HEY!" When the music is playing and Ella's Frosty is on, she bellows,"Again! Again! Again!"
The Christmas spirit has been creeping up to me the past few years, and now I think I've got it. I actually don't think it's ever been this good.
Cassidy turned two, and so follows her two year check up. I put off the chicken pox vaccine last time we were there, saying no, too many shots in one visit. Actually this chicken pox thing I wanted to put off altogether. I mean, chicken pox was a rite of passage when I was a kid. It's not fatal. Why a vaccine? I argued in my head over and over, and relented. Fine. We'll get the shot.
I changed her appointment twice. One legitimately, as we were out of town. The next because it was just more fun to see a friend. I wanted to cancel again. I dread shots. I hate them. To watch my daughter go through them? Torture.
We talked about what was coming last night. "...And the doctor will look at your eyes, and your nose, and your ears... and we'll see how big you're getting when she weighs you and measures you... and then you have to get a little shot." I poked her arm. "It's just a little pinch of medicine so you don't get sick. You'll be really brave, and it will be fine."
And she was so brave. We looked at a book to distract her, the shot descended on her arm, and my girl didn't even flinch. "All finished!" the nurse said. "What? That's IT?" ... my brave girl. "Here's your papers for the lab work. It's for lead testing."
Crap. Are you kidding me? Blood work?
I told Cassidy what was coming next as she shuffled proudly with the snowman sticker on her shirt. "...another shot, Cassidy. But you'll be brave, and it will be fine. Mommy has to give blood sometimes, and Daddy has to give blood sometimes..." The whole time in my head just feeling so awful. Bloodwork is nothing like a shot. It sucks. A lot.
We checked in, waited in the laboratory waiting room, we were called. Two flobotomists went to work strapping her, tapping her, while she sat in my lap, so far, brave. They poked her left arm, jabbed and searched, and Cassidy screamed. Cried. Screamed. And no blood.
"No blood?" I asked.
"Nope, we're going to have to find a vein in her other arm."
Are you bleeping kidding me?
They finally got it. I got dizzy watching her blood course through the thin tube, while singing Frosty the Snowman to her, which we'd listened to the Ella Fitzgerald version of nine times on our way to the doctors. Her new favorite song. She screamed, she cried, and it was over. "Would you like a sticker?" the blood man asked. "Yeah," she sobbed. And picked out two.
Bandages on both crooks of both arms. And it was over. And we could leave and go home. And we don't have to do this again for a long time. And she was fine, singing her version of the snowman song to herself as we walked down the hall of the tiny hospital where our doctor's office is.
All that dread for fleeting moment, over so fast. Nine more rounds of Frosty the Snowman on the way home, a grilled cheese sandwich and some juice, and down for a nap, just another day.
I can't help but feel this certain "hmph!" of realization about time. The moments, the movement, the dread of one single moment, one that comes and goes so quickly, as they all do. All that time I spent, all the moments I spent, bracing myself for one, single moment.
Next time I won't cancel.
And now, here we are, the third Christmas with our child, the first that she is cognizant of what Christmas might mean, the thrill of the tree, the awareness of all the presents underneath. This is the first year I've put Christmas music on my ipod, created playlists and intentionally listen to Johnny Mathis, Elvis, Ella Fitzgerald, etc. My nearly 14 year old stepdaughter came in the other day in the midst of my baking and singing Winter Wonderland and said "Auuugggh... I HATE Christmas music!!!" And I laughed in recognition. Cassidy in the meantime walks in circles singing, "Frosty the the snowman. Jolly Happy Soul. HEY! Frosty the snowman. Jolly Happy Soul. HEY!" When the music is playing and Ella's Frosty is on, she bellows,"Again! Again! Again!"
