| SILE SINGLETON
I WOULD LOVE TO write, “Wow, what a year it’s been! I can’t even believe the time has gone by so fast, and I am so grateful for the things that I have.” Dammit, I suppose I wouldn’t be lying, but it all sounds a bit too damn cheery, and I feel opposed to glee right now.
It could be that I’m coming home in the “fall back” darkness of winter, and honestly, being grumpy is easy when there is a lack of sun. The truth of the matter is that this year has been tumultuous, full of intense emotion, some incredible highs and some sniffling-in-the-bathroom-stall-at-work, cursing-the-amplifying-nature-of-tile-and-metal lows. I have to remind myself that what I have just described is simply life.
You’d think as a card-carrying Christian who loves the history and tradition behind Jewish holidays, who can’t say enough about the benefits of going to retreat, meditating and praying with the Sisters of Benedictine, as a person who will take you to church preaching the “restorative gospel” of Teresa Caputo, while—mind you—my two-spirited self applauds the accuracy of Chinese New Year ideology, you’d really think I’d somehow sidestep the “Life is so much work, and sometimes it really sucks” sadness pitfall. Yeah, right. I wanna be an evolved-beyond-foolish-human-emotion super-extraterrestrial, but I am not. I’m not even a sidekick. I’m just a human, momentarily holiday blue. It happens.
This, as I think about it, is not really different from any the holiday seasons past. Maybe it’s different for the “breeder-less,” but for “Glitter Pants Jones” (that’s me at the holiday party), the old familiar whirlpool of stress starts the week before Halloween when my mom begins her, “Your Daddy and I are having Thanksgiving this year. Who’s coming? I need to get a count.” Before I know it, I’m being asked to remember where we went last year and which relative has been visited three times already this year. Excuse me? I mean I barely recall a world before candy cane drool was glistening down my favorite winter beanie. Why? My daughter begins her giddy chatter about my brother Warren’s Jesus’ birthday cooking the day after Halloween.
The day-mares soon follow with images of my son’s crinkled-at-the-corners eyes in the rear view mirror, as he repeats like a recorder playing, “Mama, where we going fa duh holler-day?” I fall for the trap. “It’s For The Holiday , honey.” Maniacal laughter muddled by some of the promised 45 days of “family-friendly Santa” music follows, and then the shouted response: “That’s what I saaayd.” For the last two years, “Where we going fa DUH holler-day!” Over and over, I hear those words.
“Mama? Did ‘dhew’ heard me?”
You know, it’s lovely weather.
Before I realize it, I drift away like flakes in a snow globe, shaken but steadfast and committed to what I know, that this pesky moment, minor in the scheme of things, too, shall pass. I’ll thaw out by June, all raring for the challenge of Pride month, and it will all be worth it. Heeyyy, we’ll both wave our rainbows high. Come December 2015, I’ll most likely be having to remind myself again that life happens, ups and downs, and I am blessed to have it. After all, in a few more years, my son will most likely be sulking that he has to hang with the family at all, and I will be the day-mare of his dreams.
“I luuub you.”
“I luub you, too, Brynt.”
“You not say lubbb right.”
“OK, Brynt, I LOVE, you.”
“Me, too, Mama.”
“Where we going fa duh holler-day?”
Sighhhhh. Merry, Blue Merry!