Christmas bragging

That’s the other term for Christmas letters.

Let’s be frank, I hate them. Here’s why:

• I never heard from that family for 12 months, they didn’t initiate any phone calls, they never e-mailed. Suddenly I end up with a letter from them explaining all the things that were more important than my family and me (purrllleasse – clipping dogs’ nails???). The good thing is that now I know why you never returned my phone calls or answered your e-mails – you were ankle-deep in toenail clippings.
• The bragging factor. I am glad that there’s something to talk about but I am not interested in the row of  “A”s that your son or daughter got or how they are the most fabulous 5 year old  violinist in the universe. Your two overseas holidays at expensive destinations. The expensive gifts your DH gave you. The promotions at work.
• The ‘sad’ note to one of the paragraphs about how they rather wish other people would write Christmas letters.  How about they think about those of us who keep in touch with care and good wishes during the year, however briefly?
• Those who try to sell us something. Yeah, lovely that you’ve started your pyramid business, but I am so not interested in that and even less sweet on the idea of you advertising it in your Christmas letter.
• The Christmas letter that turns up in late January so that everybody knows exactly how busy you were. Give up. Just do happy new year cards on the computer. Or send out a mass e-mail.

Thinking about it, there are two main points that bug me about Christmas letters. I mean, I crap on about a heckuva lot but some of these things are trivial.

The first is that I feel kind of insulted that a family has dropped me from “keeping in touch in a neighbourly fashion” to “stranger who is communicated with once a year”. They’re not sufficiently interested in me or my family to telephone, even when there has been bad news, or to send an e-mail, or (this is a true Australian thing) a pre-printed greeting card that says the words you can’t find at the time.

The second is the bragging. I am a former classroom teacher and still work as a professional private music teacher.  In some cases, I’ve seen your kids recently. You’re probably not going to convince me that your kid is the next Albert Einstein, Sofia Kovalevskaya,  Yo-Yo Ma, or Sumi Jo. Good luck to him or her, all the same. Appreciate your DD and DS for who they are, not your aspirations heaped upon them.

I have another category which I’ll call 2a. This is the self-deprecation method, often seen in the January Christmas letters but also seen in those sent out late November/early December. It consists of a list of how busy they are, how they didn’t do X or Y because of busy-ness, how they feel like a bit of a failure in some cases, and then it just gets worse. I diligently read through those letters, hoping that there will be a note of redemption at the end, where I’ll be told that the coming year will bring organisation, relief and more to that family, but frankly, I’m not holding out much hope.

And that would be why I send out mass-produced, made in Australia, commercial message Christmas cards, with my own greeting and signature.

It’s not a case of sour grapes because I don’t have any great achievements to write about. Seriously, this year, what on earth could I say that wouldn’t put a dampener on the proceedings? This year, I feel fully justified to continue my Christmas card process and keep the peace.

 

Can you see me?

No?

Seriously, I *am* here. I am hidden behind the ever-expanding piles of paperwork that have grown like topsy since my DH died. I had no idea of the huge amount of work that was involved, and that’s even with a solicitor dealing with the legal side of things.

A little part of me thinks that some things have happened faster because I have got off my tush and bravely phoned some places to get the paperwork for funds releases, etc. I have a knot in my stomach each time I do this. Why? I am not going to be judged by the bank or insurance representatives and it’s their job to give me the correct forms and information. So why am I, a grown woman with a professional background, shilly-shallying around when it comes to phone conversations?

I became ill last week. Bother. Asthma came out of nowhere and hit me for six. I am not a fan of prednisone normally but hey, something that means I can breathe properly is cool by me, even if I end up putting on weight again. Fat butt versus breathing. No competition. Not even with my butt, which looks like two Poll Herefords fighting in a tent.

DD is now sick, poor little thing. After I recovered (mostly) from my endless coughing, she has now got an asthmatic cough. Typically, my darling daughter will not use an inhaler to quickly get the remedy where it can do the most good. Instead, we had to go to the doctor’s ($75) and get a prescription for a syrup solution ($16.95).

I have been counting my dollars and cents and trying not to hyperventilate at how I must budget carefully. The annoying thing is that I do not go off spending hundreds of dollars on fashion, make up, entertainment, books, travel and so on. My one trip overseas in the past few years was achievable by careful scrimping and saving and equally careful watching of euros and pounds while travelling.

I’d share my to-do list but honestly, I don’t want this blog to be used for soporific purposes. Well, any more than it already is LOL!

Yes, some days I can see sunshine and make a few jokes, and then the clouds come over and darkness descends. This afternoon was difficult for quite a while, early mornings are still hard, and Sunday afternoons are dreadful.

 

Confused

And bewildered, muddled, sad, angry, sad and confused again.

There’s a reason why I’ve been away for a month.

My dear husband passed away suddenly. A heart attack while he was out on a walk. For several hours I’d worried myself silly trying to find him, phoning hospitals, getting people to drive around the neighbourhood to see if he’d broken his ankle, and finally phoning the police.

Two police officers arrived. They told me. I think I screamed. Thank goodness my DD was in bed.

I had what could be seen as a day of grace before all the relatives and phone calls started. My two dear girlfriends took me to their heart and protected me from having to phone so many people. As one left, the other arrived and we companionably cleared out the fridge and freezer. A mundane task that had waited until a moment of stillness to be completed. No conversation necessary. Just hard work of sifting through yet another packet of rissoles with freezer burn.

Then there was the trip to the morgue. Apparently it isn’t called a morgue anymore, but that doesn’t make it any prettier. I have officially listed it as Canberra’s second least attractive building.

I don’t know what happened at the funeral. I sat as though in a dream or maybe a waking nightmare.

Now I am dealing with the bits and pieces and huge decisions and unwanted and useless advice that come with such tragedies. When I get myself together, I’m going to write a post about dumb things that people say too often and that are insulting or unhelpful or patronising. That can wait until another time.

In the meantime, I am working out what I am as a widow. I liked being a wife to my DH.

 

It’s hard to travel

… when part of your luggage is worry.

Since DD was born, I have had 4 nights away from her. Two were when she spent the night at my mother’s over Christmas and I was a suburb away. One was when I eagerly went interstate for a work matter. The other was last weekend when DD had an overnight stay with another relative.

I am heading off on a considerably longer holiday and this time it’s without DH and DD but with my family and family friends. I am really looking forward to the trip but haven’t been able to get as excited about it as I have for previous trips. I know that part of it is because I am a bit depressed and sad after some sad things happening in the past couple of months. Understandable.

But the other things pressing down on me and stopping me from skipping jubilantly? Worry, fretting and more worry. I worry that DH will not be able to look after DD adequately, even though I have written down things in the past and explained and demonstrated things. He doesn’t seem interested in listening or watching or reading. What more can I do? I honestly don’t know. I guess that he will be OK and he has a list of phone numbers of people he can phone for help and ideas, and his family can come to help out. The last time DD and I went away for 5 days interstate, we came back to a filthy house and no minor housework or chores had been done at all. I was furious and even thinking about it now gives me a hot, hard knot in the chest.

He has, thus far this year, spent nearly 6 weeks away from home due to work or hobbies. I lost count of the number of weeks away from home he spent last year or the year before. And yet here I am, spending two weeks away, and I am worrying like he has never worried. I could cheerfully bop any twit who says “Oh, it’s just mother guilt.” Mother guilt, bite me. In this day and age, this is not acceptable.

 

Birth order

OK, I don’t believe in everything in your life being determined by your birth order, whether you’re first, last, middle, or only. But I know that I am also coloured by my notion that I was hard done by as the eldest (by seven years!) and had a huuuuuge amount of extra work to do as my little brothers arrived. I saw myself as a slave (yes, I was prone to exaggeration but I was also a hard worker). I had to bargain hard for any concessions. I had a lot of housework to do as well as gardening.

Then there’s baby brother. As mentioned in Beth Hering’s blog, the baby of the family can get away with almost anything. Baby brother got a car much earlier than I did (actually, I had to earn the money and buy one once I had a full-time job after uni), had more freedom to come and go, and all that. My middle brother and I would mutter darkly that baby brother was spoiled, truly a term of imprecation in our common sense, down to earth family. Almost the worst thing you could say about a cousin or a friend was that they were spoiled.

Anyway, baby brother is now a strapping young man, sensible, head screwed on the right way, earning money, doing the stuff he loves, living with a lovely, smart woman, and I adore him as much now as I did when he was a cute bubby brought back from the hospital. I still think I’m overworked, but since he’s such a good guy, I’ll get over it.