The tightrope of adolescence

 Reading: The Devil in Connecticut by Gerald Brittle

Listening to: "Hallelujah" by Alexandra Burke

Outside: Winter closes in with the night

A dear friend wrote to me recently, that my daughter, Lena, "walks the tightrope of adolescence," and as Christmas nears, I bolster myself for what that means. 

Lena, age 9, October 2023

At this time 10 years ago, I was waddling slow. I was still working full time, scraping the heels of my winter boots on the ground as I went from home to office to taxi and home again. I had no idea then, in the fullness of my pregnancy, how much my daughter would change my life. 

Lena, age 2, October 2016

She's gone from wrapping her tiny newborn hand around my finger, to letting go of my hand across the street, to shying way from a peck on the forehead, to questioning my every directive. We're at a stalemate over homework, her sighs heard from all over the house. Doesn't matter what room you're in. But then there's more - she towers over her little toddler brother, who drives her crazy, who drives her creativity, who brings out the best in her, who offers her a special smile every time she says "Night, night." 

Lena shows Indiana how to play Dobble, Summer 2023

Her 10th birthday approaches, and with that, her 10th Christmas. I can handle her birthday - the double digits, the foil balloons, the ever-changing request for presents. I will be staying up late the night before, breathing life into those balloons until I'm blue in the face. (The parallel of deep breathing of hard labour and the deep breathing to swell birthday balloons is not lost on me. Oh, no, it is not.) I will be arranging and re-arranging for hours, because I want everything to be just so. That I can handle. I'll be tired, wracked with perfection, but yes, I can make our tiny house a temple to Lena's disappearing youth. 

It's Christmas I can't handle. 

Image source: https://www.facebook.com/AintNothingLikeAMother

I am clinging to our usual style of Christmas, our busy-to-the-point-of-panic evening: on Christmas Eve, we listen for silence from our kids' rooms, and then we stealthily set out our children's presents, all carefully wrapped and painstakingly tagged, pretending to be the Man Himself. We'll drink the milk and take a chomp from the cookies, leaving a dutiful, recycled "Thank You" note from Mr. C. Lena, along with her little brother, will be enchanted and delighted, and will question nothing. 

But will that happen this year? Will it? 

What will happen when I have to face that question, when she looks at me with those searing blue eyes, staring right into my soul, and ask me, "Mommy, is Santa real?"

What will I say? 

I can only hearken back to what happened when I approached my mom about it. It wasn't pretty. It went something like this:

Me: "Mommy, is Santa real?"

Mom: "Santa? No, honey. No. That was me the whole time."

Me: Pause. Brain cogs turning. Stomach churning. "What about the Easter Bunny?"

Mom:  Raucous laughter

I can only put this down to the fact that I was the last in the long line of four. My mom was tired. She had already been through it three times; with me, there was no energy left for ceremony. No long talk. No gentle, comforting sounds, no letting me down easy. Emotional support, nil. I can swallow it down, now, because I can see the pains she took to create such a magical Christmas tableaux every year. Every year. And pretty much, I have to say, all on her own. (I'm sure my dad cared; his long work hours kept him from co-Santa-ing; and of course it was all of his work money which would have funded Santa's efforts in the first place.) My mom vetted our Christmas lists, budgeted, purchased, hid the loot, wrapped, bagged and tagged. She handled my questioning as best as she knew at the time. Short and to the point.

And what if I break her heart?

Will I hate myself for this myth I have perpetuated for her entire life? I don't know what I will say when she asks me, point-blank. I really don't. I balked at her asking about a toy's country of manufacture a few years ago, blindsided by a six-year-old. "Mommy, this is made in China. How can it be made in China if Santa's elves made it?" An innocent question. I don't even remember how I replied.  I blustered through something and changed the subject. That was just the beginning. 

Many parents are steadfast in their lack of Santa. Never introduced him; they don't want to lie to their children. And I can see that. I can definitely understand that. I know of parents who believe in honesty, transparency; they want their children to know that Christmas is not a free-for-all, that parents pay for it, that parents make it happen. They do not hide behind stories, or myth, or tradition.

I guess, the journey takes its own path; each child experiences Christmas in a different way, and that way is down to how the parents or carers would like to present it. 

I guess, to me, it's magic. I uphold the magic, rather than reveal - just yet - the mechanics behind it. 

I become Santa, in this story: I navigate the path, sprinkling it with candy canes along the way, hoping for the best. Call me reckless, but there it is. In my story, the child simply grows from learning about the spirit of giving in the form of a tangible person - a person equipped with reindeer and a magical ability to drop down the chimney of every home in a single night - to the spirit of giving in their hearts. They grow into that concept. Like growing into a larger pair of shoes. Uncomfortable at first, maybe, but eventually, they wear those puppies into the ground. And those puppies take them places. Wonderful places. The child learns the meaning of having plenty in a time of little, when our Northern Hemisphere is cold and brittle and unforgiving. The child learns that comfort can be had in the smallest of things - a wrapped parcel, given from the heart. The child learns the warmth that giving brings. The child learns the ceremony of giving, the beauty of it, the goodness of it. The magic of it. 

My heart broke the day my mom told me Santa wasn't real, but over time, I learned that really, in this one singular thing, my mom was wrong. Santa is real. I'm 40 years old and I still believe in Santa; I never stopped. When I was 34, right before my mom passed away, she gave me a collectable ceramic horse figurine, its snow-white mane and tail bright against its dark-blue body dotted with a snow-topped forest of pines, framing Santa's sleigh racing across its midsection. "His name is Midnight," she'd said, "He belongs to you now. You always loved Santa so much." 

Was it her way of making amends, decades later? I don't know. Maybe. All I know is, Midnight is now in a special glass cabinet I look at every day. Midnight is hope, magic, love, joy. Midnight is a light in the darkness. 

My Christmas mornings are still full of magic - even though it was my hands and my husband's hands who wrapped our children's presents and placed them under that tree the night before, by morning, some alchemy in the moonlight had rendered them unfamiliar; the wrapping paper glittered at different angles, the boxes all moved, re-stacked; it wasn't our work at all. It was Santa's. Somehow, in my crazy heart, it always was. 

My daughter is about to enjoy her 10th Christmas a la Santa. She believes, and I hope she never stops. 

Whatever happens, one thing's for sure: on this tightrope of adolescence, Babygirl, I'm here to keep you balanced, and keep you from looking down - I've been on this tightrope a while, and I might be standing at the other end, but I'm always right there with you. Baby steps, darling. We're in this together.

Lena and me, Halloween 2023

Happy Friday, everyone.