And so it’s just me and Mandy, and burnt cookies and only a splash of milk. Only a splash because we are almost out and Mandy will need some for breakfast in the morning.
It’s a chipped cup for the fictional man in red and recycled gifts wrapped in newspaper that I spent weeks drawing on to make it festive because I couldn’t afford wrapping paper.
Not this year.
When you’re suddenly jobless with barely enough money in the bank to pay the bills and eat, wrapping paper just isn’t a necessity. Especially when no one is hiring office workers right now and I’m contemplating taking an overnight job at a gas station just to put food on the table.
Except I have no one to watch Mandy. And she can’t go to school. And… ugh. Everything about this year feels impossible.
Thankfully, Mandy doesn’t seem to mind the burnt cookies as she happily smears them with green and red frosting and sprinkles.
I force myself to stop calculating how much each ingredient costs and make myself just be present with my daughter. She is the light of my life, and I am doing my best to hold onto the magic for her even if I can no longer see—or feel it—myself.
No one tells you when you’re young that you will outgrow magic. It just happens, so slowly you barely notice it until one day it’s gone. And you’ve already convinced yourself it never existed at all.
That’s the most tragic part of growing up, I’ve always thought.
And now, as a broke, scared, single mother, it’s my job to create the magic. To preserve it and guard the light of it as I pass the torch to the next generation.
And I have to admit I feel like I’m failing right now.
“We have to feed the reindeers too,” she says, once we’ve set the frosted cookies and chipped tea cup of milk on the table by our sad Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
“Feed the reindeers?” What fresh hell is this?
“Yes, it’s the law. They eat oatmeal and glitter and they won’t bring Santa if we don’t feed them.”
I stifle a groan and turn back to the kitchen, mentally calculating how much oatmeal to give up. I can skip a few breakfasts if it means the reindeer will survive Christmas Eve. Right?
We pull out the glitter and mix it into a handful of oatmeal, then take it out to the apartment balcony. We don’t have a lawn or any grass nearby so this will have to do.
Mandy very solemnly tosses the mixture onto the ground and mumbles something under her breath.
“What was that honey?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just making my Christmas wish.”
My stomach clenches. There’s no way I can give her what she’s wishing for, and I fear tomorrow morning what little magic I’ve managed to salvage will be destroyed by cold hard reality.
But I smile when she looks at me and guide her upstairs to brush her teeth and get into bed.
I tuck her in and kiss her forehead and as I’m about to leave she stops me. “You have to read the story,” she says. “It’s tradition.”
Right. Of course.
I suppress an exhausted sigh and remind myself that this is usually my favorite time of the year. My favorite part of the holidays. These quiet moments reliving comforting traditions, getting lost in the magic of a story, absorbed by the wonder of it all. The glint of lights against snow, colorful baubles and ornaments decorating the world, reminding everyone that underneath it all, we do want peace and love and joy.
Even if we, humans, often seem to work counter to that base instinct in the choices we make, but once a year a fat man in a red suit somehow reminds us to be better people.
Except I can’t find the wonder this year.
I’m spent. I have nothing left and I am pulling on reserves I didn’t know I have to keep going. It’s all for Mandy. I’m driving on fumes to keep her safe. Happy. Secure and loved.
I just don’t know how much longer I can hold on.
I read her ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and she smiles and quotes the book by memory with me. We both know the words to this poem down to our marrow, but we read it nonetheless, the very same story my parents read to me as a child, the pages worn from use, some scribbled on with crayon, whether by her or me, it’s impossible to say at this point.
This book has seen us through too many moves. Too many new beds during the holidays as I chase jobs that have any hope of paying enough to keep us fed and clothed and safe after a messy divorce that left me broke and alone.
The one silver lining of this year, as much as it’s driven me crazy at times, is I have had more time with this little girl who I love more than life.
It’s a nice change of pace after so many long days away, working late without overtime pay, for an amount that barely covers the cost of childcare and gas, only to come home exhausted and to a baby already asleep. It feels good to finally be here for her, to slow down a bit. If only the money didn’t also slow down.
I have hoarded one indulgence, one mommy treat, a gift from my job before they laid me off. “Sorry but we can’t afford to keep a paid staff while we’re shut down. But… here.” Stewart awkwardly handed me a parting gift, and through the months of this pandemic I’ve kept it safe.
I creep out of Mandy’s room, grateful I still have my own room for now. It’s very likely we’ll have to move to a studio if things don’t improve… or more likely beg my parents to let us live in their camper trailer in their backyard... I dread the day it comes to that..
But today, for right now, I have this apartment, and electricity, and one burnt cookie frosted with love, and my pandemic downsizing gift.
I tiptoe through the house, knowing Mandy is fighting sleep to hear Santa’s sleigh, and grab the bottle of red wine on the top shelf. Stewart even put a bow on it, which seemed an odd choice at the time but I had bigger things to worry about. Of course, now that I think about it, the wine had likely been a re-gift considering the festive bow on the bottle.
I lock up the downstairs, take my cookie and the wine and head up to my bedroom. I slip out of my pants, put on an old shirt and sink into my bed, then put my headphones on and reach for my phone to play my current audiobook when I realize I left it downstairs in the kitchen.
Shit.
I weigh the pros and cons of getting back up and walking all the way downstairs, and I just can’t. Cannot. I’m done.
I reach for my laptop on the dresser next to my bed instead and play the audiobook that way. Mandy will wake me up in the morning and I won’t need my phone until then anyways.
I pour a generous glass of wine and take a long drink, then a bite of my cookie.
And then I cry.
It’s a sadness that rolls through me like a storm in the sky, upending my insides and drowning me. I can’t stop. The sobs wrack my body, shaking me and crashing into me like the sea.
I don’t know how long I stay like this. But my eyes are puffy and heavy when I finally stop. I pour more wine and wipe away stuff from under my nose that I don’t want to think about. I take another bite of the cookie and close my eyes again. Losing myself to the murder mystery I’m listening to until everything around me fades away.
I don’t even realize I fell asleep until something jolts me awake.
I sit up, my heart beating against my ribs like a trapped hummingbird.
I’ve still got my headphones on, the voice of the narrator a calm presence in my ear. I look at the wine bottle. Empty. And the glass. Also empty.