There Are Children in My Living Room and They're Not Mine

I have cards. Lots of cards. Christmas cards of kids. Of friends with kids. Of friends once removed with kids. Friends who forgot to remove me from their mailing lists since we haven't talked for five years... since they had kids. Or seen each other for longer than that. Sure, there are some times when I find the kid cards both an unexpected and lovely diversion. "Oh, you have a child now. And not just one, but two! That's exciting." But what about a job, a car, a house, a husband, tivo, ambition, or a boat? I mean, I'm single. I would have lots more fun with a boat. Not that your kid isn't perfectly adorable. A wonderful addition to any family. Particularly yours. And I'm happy for you, really. Not just that you're alive. But that you have other things going on... you do, don't you? After all, you were my friend before you even had a kid. And we did things. Talked. Now there's a thought.

I joke with another single friend. Say that next year, my card will be me lying on the ground, a chalk outline of a husband and two kids next to me. My Mazeltov, as it were. Bad humor, sure. But at least it's humor. As hard as this is to say. As hard as it might be for my friends with children to hear...as happy as I am for you, as much as I'm excited about your small people, this is the deal: I'm friends with you. Or at least I was. I want to know what's going on with YOU. I want you to jot down in twenty seconds or less, "hello. crazy year. who knew? pmsing constantly, working too much, drinking too little, let's get together. let's talk." Or some version of that. Actually, any acknowledgement of prior connection is important. Connection is important. So important. You have connections. And to have them is a very lucky thing. To remember you have them, even more so. For all involved.

This Christmas sucked. I'm not going to lie. I haven't written on my blog because who wants to be a cranky, bitchy blogger? It even makes me annoyed with myself. It's not that I'm jealous. It's more that I'm sad. That I can't play Santa. That I have to work over the holidays and still have no money, that I have to spend Christmas talking to my sister and her husband about their $50,000 kitchen remodel (ostentatious), Hawaiian vacation and the fact my brother in law didn't buy my sister a Christmas present because he got her that kitchen and brought her and their children to an island. Still, she's pissed. And I have to admit that even with me not being able to pay my bills or buy gifts, I do think that my brother-in-law is being selfish re: the gifts and I'm stupid enough to try to tell him that those things (kitchen and gifts) aren't connected. That gestures and caring and sensitivity don't have a dollar amount and that he's teaching his children how to treat their mother and that he needs to see that. I repeat it for effect: A gift and a kitchen. Two different things. Even if $50,000 is involved. And he shrugs. And I feel bad for my sister and I'm not sure why because she's not working odd jobs to pay the bills because her bills are paid. And after all, she married him. And that's a choice, not a circumstance. Then my nephew gets up from Christmas dinner-- my six year old nephew-- the dinner that my seventy year-old mother spent all day preparing by herself-- to play Gameboy (no "excuse me" in sight) and my sister says that it's okay because it's his second Christmas. And that matters to my mother and me... why?

If you've read before, you know I had two Christmases growing up, too. So did my sister. Being broken home kids, that's the way it worked. But that wasn't fun for a variety of reasons. My nephew? This is not the problem. There is no yelling, screaming or inadequacy in sight. It's simply multiple celebrations. With different sides of the family. And multiple gifts. So where's the problem? Well, me? Being me, I always have to ask. Or if not ask, demonstrate. So I got up from the table, like he did. I said, if he gets to be a brat. If he gets to be selfish, then so do I. And if it's so hard for him to sit there and endure the family celebration, then what about me? Because this year? Well, it's been shit. He's only six. He has potential. Not to mention, he gets to rollerblade around in a ridiculous-looking $50,000 kitchen. Me? I get to work for $14 an hour for people who own one. Well, not really. Still, this is where my mistakes not just hit me over the head, they pummel me and with any luck, knock me unconscious. And when I wake, I realize, I've been a sap. A stupid sap focused on survival instead of my potential. And I don't want 2006 to be that way.