memory bank

Christmas

I wanted to be longed for like a kid who's excited for Christmas morning. The anticipation and giddiness, knowing that in just a few hours a present waiting for you will be opened and glee would explode like a whirlwind from your chest.

Every Christmas my sister and I would sleep in the living room - her with the couch, me with the love seat squeezed like sardines into over stuffed cushions. Lights from the tree acted like embers from a burning out fire as they emanated a glow across the walls. Sometimes I would be so excited I'd wake up in the middle of the night to tiptoe around the presents. I'd count how many were from Santa and how many were from Mom and Dad. It wasn't a game or competition on who was better at giving presents, but for the hope of focused attention just for the sake of my happiness. For the giddiness of someone deciding to put forth the time and remember me.

One year, I think I was 10 or 11, I was laying on the love seat trying my hardest to fall asleep and I had heard something. I froze. It sounded like it was coming from upstairs. (Side note: The human brain has a tendency to create stories. It does this as a sense of protection - it feels that if it knows who the players are and their motives, maybe what to anticipate next it'll survive. Brains are wild). I don't remember what happened between hearing the sounds and the walking down the stairs but my brain damn sure was convinced Santa had a swagger coming down with his big bag of toys. The only problem was the back of the overworne cream leather loveseat was my front row view.

"Turn over!" My inner voice would urge me, begging to flip over and see Santa. Maybe even ask him whatever silly questions came to mind! I kept counting down from 3 to 1 and felt disappointment growing at how stuck I felt. I couldn't turn over. Something in my body would not allow me to face that potential. I mean, come on, a young kid faced with meeting one of the most famous characters of all time? That's a lot of pressure. A lot of hope, excitement, maybe some nervousness. Yet somehow the countdown kept rolling. 3...2...1... with the background track of presents being laid out creating a sense of urgency. There was only so much time before he had to go.

In the end I never ended up turning around. Something gave me pause and said I needed to take a step back and widen my view, or rather my ears. Santa came from the chimney and the fireplace was as close to me as my sister was on the couch. Santa had no reason to come from upstairs. He had no reason to come from my parents bedroom. And he definitely had no reason to walk down the stairs with the same sleep laden foot steps. Dad was Santa.

At the time I was heartbroken. How could they have lied to me? Why did they make this person up? What did they get from this? Yet when it was time to wake up I had put on my excited Christmas face in hopes that my parents wouldn't feel my confused anger. They didn't. We opened presents, shared excitement for the ones "Santa" got me. I even added a little extra pep because I realized my parents had done this for themselves and not me. This mask worked as they were so focused on taking pictures and putting together items to recognize me looking over the wrappings and counting the differences between Santa and mom and dad. Only this time through different lenses. After that year I told them I didn't believe in Santa anymore to which they appeared relieved - no more holding on to a character just for little ol' me.

As I look back now and try to see it from my parents' eyes I understand the impact of what they did. For however long they could my parents gave me the opportunity for a world happier than their own, with instances of pure joy and peace without concern of the world outside, even if just for a morning. They took the time every year to cram decorations into the living room amongst their museum of knickknacks to create a space where light feelings could only exist. The air smells like cinnamon and the tart bubbles from a mimosa tickle my nose. The cushion next to the tree is my space - I'm the passer of the presents. Romanian folk music is playing on the TV and my mom is shoving her phone in everyone's face to take pictures to show Facebook.

I thought I wanted to be desired like the present on Christmas morning. I realize that's short-lived with a little too many hopes and expectations to be dashed. Now I see I want to be desired like Christmas morning. With a sense of calm and gentle space, a place of safety from the outside world, and a focus on happiness.