“Are you ready for Christmas?” The ultrasound technician was just making conversation while she worked, but I had to wonder for a moment if she was seeing something while she clicked on the screen that made her think that after I heard the results Christmas would be the last of my concerns. It seemed cruel, really—after having had ultrasounds where the technician turned the screen so we could see our baby, pointed out everything and explained what we were looking at—to have the screen angled away and to try to make cheerful small talk while what I really wanted to know was, “Is something wrong with me?”
“A doctor will read this, and your doctor’s office should have the results by Monday, or Tuesday at the latest. I would call them if you haven’t heard anything by Wednesday.” It was Friday morning. I waited and tried not to let my imagination get the best of me, even though my imagination really likes to run with things like this. I called Monday afternoon and left a message. I called Tuesday morning and found out that the results were sitting on the doctor’s desk but he was out delivering a baby. I called again Wednesday morning and left another, possibly-desperate-possibly-frustrated-sounding message. I got a call back about an hour later with the assurance that everything was fine. Just a small fibroid tumor that will always be benign and may or may not continue to be annoying.
I am incredibly thankful. I was more worried and distracted than I had thought. But now I can get on with life and attend to that question, “Are you ready for Christmas?”
No. I’m not. My semester is over, though, and I feel like I can finally start to think about Christmas. Except it's almost here. True, I’ve made large amounts of toffee and gotten my family to a record number of parties and Christmas programs, but that’s about it. I have not made a single cookie, I’ve barely started thinking about gifts, the advent calendars are still in the basement, and my husband and I can’t find our Yo-Yo Ma “Songs of Joy and Peace” CD anywhere. (And by the way, isn’t The Wexford Carol beautiful?) Oh, and I completely gave up on Christmas cards a year or two ago.
The tree, however, is decorated.
I love our tree. I am forever a fan of real trees—the smell, the imperfection, the realness of them—but our first year in Minneapolis, when my husband was going to school full time and working almost full time and we had two young children and no money, we switched to a fake one. The year before, when we were living in the U.P. and getting ready to leap into the unknown, we had helped a friend clear some trees and ended up with four fresh, fragrant Christmas trees. That first year in Minneapolis we could not afford the smallest, ugliest tree available. But a student gave my husband a gift certificate to Home Depot and we suddenly felt less miserable. We found the most natural-looking, least-gaudy tree we could and now our tree itself, as plastic and without-fragrance and from a box as it is, has something like hope attached to it.
The lights are my job. I don’t mind at all. I love sitting in the semi-dark, untangling lit strands of lights. It is too beautiful to be annoying, and I’m happy when my hands are busy.
Everybody helps hang ornaments, though. I think all three kids got to hang glass balls this year, which means they’ve all reached a certain level of maturity. Even so, I reserved the small iridescent ones for myself. I bought five of them just after I got married, because they looked so much like the ones my parents had on their tree—like frozen, oversized soap bubbles, and just as delicate. They are possibly my favorite ornaments, ever. One of them slipped out of somebody’s hands last year and shattered on the floor. As disappointed as I was, the way the shards quivered and caught the light was still breathtaking.
Also from my first Christmas after getting married are the 35 tiny folded-paper stars that I spent hours making and have hung on every tree since. Every year, my husband has dutifully checked to make sure all the stars got back into the box, mainly because I love them so much and would hate to lose even one.
This year, though, along with the ornaments from my childhood—the manger scene from a Sunday school teacher, the grasshopper from China that my neighbors brought back for me one year, the wooden duck with the scarf and earmuffs that I received from a Secret Santa in Brownie Scouts, and my husband’s childhood—the nutcracker that comes in its own box, the wooden ones that he painted his name and the year on—my kids have their own ornaments imbued with memories. There are miniature handknit sweaters, paper Norwegian woven hearts (here's a tutorial that shows how to make them), and glittery pinecones from past years when I’ve had more time for crafts and planned ahead better. There are Popsicle stick and construction paper ornaments they made in Sunday School, gifts from people they knew “a long time ago,” and ornaments they’ve received as gifts from friends. It seems that, like me, they love the flash of memory that comes with each one as they take it out of the box and hang it on the tree.
I can’t think of a single, perfect Christmas. There are always the traditions that get lost or forgotten, the worries that overwhelm, the people we miss desperately, the things we can’t have, the confrontations that leave permanent scars, the disappointments, the losses, and the demands. And yet, the beautiful things are still beautiful—achingly so—and even if I can’t experience Christmas quite the way I did as a child, the magic of it is still there. It runs deep.
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