Ho Ho Ho
Oh man, the weekend has barely started and I’m already writing. Buckle up, it’s already starting to get serious.
So last weekend we all piled into cars and went to see my metamour, C, cross the stage and earn a degree. It was interesting having come with my boyfriend and his wife and meeting my husband there as the partner to C, watching her son little T. It was probably one of the most surreal moments in poly I’ve experienced so far, and blows me away that we were both quite capable of handling it.
I found myself once more in a sort of flow in between. At times I sat next to my husband and felt like his partner, but when C then came around I was able to step back and just go where needed. In the photographs, my arms are around the Bs eldest daughter, K. For someone who hates ambiguity, I sure am finding a comfortable spot in the most ambiguous place when we’re all together. I attribute this to my own sense of independence. I remain Poison Ivy, going as I please, willing whatever reality I want into existance. “I am not afraid to eat alone.” Indeed.
And so fresh off of those feelings we dive into the biggest holiday. The one they write songs about and the one that structures nearly six months of the year. I have celebrated Christmas in a secular fashion since I was 16ish, it’s religious connotations long since expired on my damned soul. So I take no umbrage with singing carols and hymns and belting out a Hallelujah chorus, because they still make me feel like I did as a kid. It was never about the stuff behind it, it was about the memories singing it.
Christmas with my family growing up has interesting and mixed feelings. As a baby and up until my early teens, we were a large family on a single income. We made each other gifts, often knitting or crocheting for the girls and some wood worked project from the boys. Jewelry boxes and scarves were rampant. We’d get one large gift a year. A Barbie we really wanted, or a special doll. Once, my sister and I got a Barbie Dreamhouse, and that was a combined gift... and also our birthday gifts. Whatever they said worked, I don’t remember complaining.
During these years my parents bought us all matching pajamas, often with stuffed animals attached. We’d put them on, line up and take pictures in them on Christmas Eve, then crawl into bed and sleep. Once or twice we attended the candlelight service at the church in the village, but that was extremely rare as those were midnight services. We’d leave milk and cookie for Santa on our way, and I recall always finding a bit of white fluff as is from Santa’s beard near the gifts the next morning.
Many times I woke on Christmas Day before dawn had even broken, and my siblings and I sat at the top of the stairs, daring each other to go down and wake mom and dad. We bartered and begged, convinced and connived. Inevitabley we’d wait till 7 and then could wait no more. Groggily they’d get up and come to the living room where we’d wait for Gramma to make the 15 minute drive over. That 15 minutes felt like eternity.
Then we’d sit in a semi circle around the tree and one of us played Santa, handing a gift to each of us. We’d go in order, youngest to oldest, watching each other open the gifts so we could ooh and aah and thank the giver. I’m sure this worked in some ways but I recall plenty of “Oh. Nice.” Reactions that were less genuine. It still counted though.
As we got older and siblings moved away and my dad moved up, money flowed more freely. We got several expensive gifts, almost nothing homemade, and because we were getting what we wanted, the reactions tended to be bigger. N64s, stereo systems and furniture sets stand out in memory. It became a lavish tradition, and around here we began watching Muppet Christmas Carol every Christmas Eve. The songs still take me back.
And then things got hard. The Christmas I spent engaged to Jason was the last bright one I can remember before it all went dark. It was the last of the family reunions that didn’t involve a funeral. It was the last of Yuletide joy.
Jason forbid me to celebrate with my family after the wedding. I was too broke to afford gifts anyway, working 80 hours a week but having no control of finances. I never asked for anything tangible, just missed my family. We’d spend the holidays up in the freezing upper peninsula with his family and friends, snowmobiling and hunting. It was never on the table to negotiate, we did what he dictated.
My divorce was finalized on December the 5th, 2003. I was free, but it would be a while yet before I felt it. I was depressed and sad, struggling with this world I had created and unsure of what I was meant to do with it. I met my husband the following year but by the next Christmas we were not talking, and over the next few years my family grew more destitute and my place with Matt remained largely ambiguous.
On December 16th, 2008, I stood in the living room of the farmhouse that had held so many cherished memories, screaming at my sister with the last box of what I could carry in my arms. The sun was setting through the giant windows and our breath hung in the air with the words we turned on each other in pain, fear, and discomfort. The electricity had already been turned off and the ability to see was dimming by the minute. We were out of time. Our last moments were in anger. Another scar.
That Christmas we had all moved into a little ranch style house we rented together. My parents, my recently divorced sister, and me. I slept on the floor with my cat Avalon curled on my chest. This house was warm, and cheaper. Only ten years old so not prone to drafts or needing maintenance. No one was talking to each other, we were all just trying to survive and adjust. It was quiet. The only vestiage of the holiday came from Matt. He sent me a pajamagram, one of those Seen on TV things. It was a red robe and it arrived the day before Christmas Eve, When I opened it, I was touched, and shared what I could with my family. Inside was a satchel of lotion or shower gel that I gave to my sister, a pretty nice wooden ‘Do not disturb’ sign that went to my dad, and the wire and fabric box it all came to went to my mom. I kept the robe. Even in my lowest points I could not bear to be selfish, giving as I could.
By the following Christmas things were at least marginally better. I had a futon, we had a Christmas tree and dollar store trinkets under it. When Matt came to propose to me, he went and bought an unseemly amount of gifts for my family, splurging and bringing Christmas back. I will never forget that generosity.
After that our Christmases were pretty quiet, just the two of us. We dreamed of having kids, of having my big holidays return. Years went by, and slowly that hope dwindled. As I sat to my Thanksgiving table last year, in our new house, knowing no one, I resigned myself to it. It wouldn’t be a terrible life, maybe we’d go for a cruise one year, or Disney, and I made my peace as best I could with it. Quiet isn’t bad.
***
And now, here I am, a year later, living life in screaming color.
I walked in the door of Hanahome, having driven here straight after work. It seemed quiet, and that was a little surprising. So we made our way upstairs and that was where Z and R was curled up on T’s bed with their electronics. On seeing me they squealed in delight.
I threw my arms out and they came to me in their matching pajamas, evoking the memories of my past so strongly that I felt my throat tighten. They hugged me, held me, fawned for a moment. We ended up on the floor, hugs and murmurs of happiness, the dog bounding around to get her own share of love. It was the kind of greeting I have longed for without letting myself know it. Better to allow them to choose and prepare in case they never do than to hope and feel sadness.
Today was a day for more memories. Back to T’s home, his grandparents who raised him. This time with S as well to narrate further. More pictures, more memories. His grandmother takes her place at the piano and I’m fascinated. Her fingers still spry enough to play over the keys, bringing them to life. Music, a language my family shares with his.
As she plays I capture a couple of videos, first of her face and her family watching, and then of her hands. At one point I touch the piano to feel the vibrations through my palm. A moment of tiny, unnoticeable connection passes between us, the physical feeling of the music binding two human bodies. What she plays, I feel. She will be here, in my mind now, until my final breath. That was it’s own gift.
I’m looking out towards the next few days. I don’t know what they will bring, only that I can’t wait to savor them. I’ve been more than ready, and being here is the only thing I could ever have asked for.
So last weekend we all piled into cars and went to see my metamour, C, cross the stage and earn a degree. It was interesting having come with my boyfriend and his wife and meeting my husband there as the partner to C, watching her son little T. It was probably one of the most surreal moments in poly I’ve experienced so far, and blows me away that we were both quite capable of handling it.
I found myself once more in a sort of flow in between. At times I sat next to my husband and felt like his partner, but when C then came around I was able to step back and just go where needed. In the photographs, my arms are around the Bs eldest daughter, K. For someone who hates ambiguity, I sure am finding a comfortable spot in the most ambiguous place when we’re all together. I attribute this to my own sense of independence. I remain Poison Ivy, going as I please, willing whatever reality I want into existance. “I am not afraid to eat alone.” Indeed.
And so fresh off of those feelings we dive into the biggest holiday. The one they write songs about and the one that structures nearly six months of the year. I have celebrated Christmas in a secular fashion since I was 16ish, it’s religious connotations long since expired on my damned soul. So I take no umbrage with singing carols and hymns and belting out a Hallelujah chorus, because they still make me feel like I did as a kid. It was never about the stuff behind it, it was about the memories singing it.
Christmas with my family growing up has interesting and mixed feelings. As a baby and up until my early teens, we were a large family on a single income. We made each other gifts, often knitting or crocheting for the girls and some wood worked project from the boys. Jewelry boxes and scarves were rampant. We’d get one large gift a year. A Barbie we really wanted, or a special doll. Once, my sister and I got a Barbie Dreamhouse, and that was a combined gift... and also our birthday gifts. Whatever they said worked, I don’t remember complaining.
During these years my parents bought us all matching pajamas, often with stuffed animals attached. We’d put them on, line up and take pictures in them on Christmas Eve, then crawl into bed and sleep. Once or twice we attended the candlelight service at the church in the village, but that was extremely rare as those were midnight services. We’d leave milk and cookie for Santa on our way, and I recall always finding a bit of white fluff as is from Santa’s beard near the gifts the next morning.
Many times I woke on Christmas Day before dawn had even broken, and my siblings and I sat at the top of the stairs, daring each other to go down and wake mom and dad. We bartered and begged, convinced and connived. Inevitabley we’d wait till 7 and then could wait no more. Groggily they’d get up and come to the living room where we’d wait for Gramma to make the 15 minute drive over. That 15 minutes felt like eternity.
Then we’d sit in a semi circle around the tree and one of us played Santa, handing a gift to each of us. We’d go in order, youngest to oldest, watching each other open the gifts so we could ooh and aah and thank the giver. I’m sure this worked in some ways but I recall plenty of “Oh. Nice.” Reactions that were less genuine. It still counted though.
As we got older and siblings moved away and my dad moved up, money flowed more freely. We got several expensive gifts, almost nothing homemade, and because we were getting what we wanted, the reactions tended to be bigger. N64s, stereo systems and furniture sets stand out in memory. It became a lavish tradition, and around here we began watching Muppet Christmas Carol every Christmas Eve. The songs still take me back.
And then things got hard. The Christmas I spent engaged to Jason was the last bright one I can remember before it all went dark. It was the last of the family reunions that didn’t involve a funeral. It was the last of Yuletide joy.
Jason forbid me to celebrate with my family after the wedding. I was too broke to afford gifts anyway, working 80 hours a week but having no control of finances. I never asked for anything tangible, just missed my family. We’d spend the holidays up in the freezing upper peninsula with his family and friends, snowmobiling and hunting. It was never on the table to negotiate, we did what he dictated.
My divorce was finalized on December the 5th, 2003. I was free, but it would be a while yet before I felt it. I was depressed and sad, struggling with this world I had created and unsure of what I was meant to do with it. I met my husband the following year but by the next Christmas we were not talking, and over the next few years my family grew more destitute and my place with Matt remained largely ambiguous.
On December 16th, 2008, I stood in the living room of the farmhouse that had held so many cherished memories, screaming at my sister with the last box of what I could carry in my arms. The sun was setting through the giant windows and our breath hung in the air with the words we turned on each other in pain, fear, and discomfort. The electricity had already been turned off and the ability to see was dimming by the minute. We were out of time. Our last moments were in anger. Another scar.
That Christmas we had all moved into a little ranch style house we rented together. My parents, my recently divorced sister, and me. I slept on the floor with my cat Avalon curled on my chest. This house was warm, and cheaper. Only ten years old so not prone to drafts or needing maintenance. No one was talking to each other, we were all just trying to survive and adjust. It was quiet. The only vestiage of the holiday came from Matt. He sent me a pajamagram, one of those Seen on TV things. It was a red robe and it arrived the day before Christmas Eve, When I opened it, I was touched, and shared what I could with my family. Inside was a satchel of lotion or shower gel that I gave to my sister, a pretty nice wooden ‘Do not disturb’ sign that went to my dad, and the wire and fabric box it all came to went to my mom. I kept the robe. Even in my lowest points I could not bear to be selfish, giving as I could.
By the following Christmas things were at least marginally better. I had a futon, we had a Christmas tree and dollar store trinkets under it. When Matt came to propose to me, he went and bought an unseemly amount of gifts for my family, splurging and bringing Christmas back. I will never forget that generosity.
After that our Christmases were pretty quiet, just the two of us. We dreamed of having kids, of having my big holidays return. Years went by, and slowly that hope dwindled. As I sat to my Thanksgiving table last year, in our new house, knowing no one, I resigned myself to it. It wouldn’t be a terrible life, maybe we’d go for a cruise one year, or Disney, and I made my peace as best I could with it. Quiet isn’t bad.
***
And now, here I am, a year later, living life in screaming color.
I walked in the door of Hanahome, having driven here straight after work. It seemed quiet, and that was a little surprising. So we made our way upstairs and that was where Z and R was curled up on T’s bed with their electronics. On seeing me they squealed in delight.
I threw my arms out and they came to me in their matching pajamas, evoking the memories of my past so strongly that I felt my throat tighten. They hugged me, held me, fawned for a moment. We ended up on the floor, hugs and murmurs of happiness, the dog bounding around to get her own share of love. It was the kind of greeting I have longed for without letting myself know it. Better to allow them to choose and prepare in case they never do than to hope and feel sadness.
Today was a day for more memories. Back to T’s home, his grandparents who raised him. This time with S as well to narrate further. More pictures, more memories. His grandmother takes her place at the piano and I’m fascinated. Her fingers still spry enough to play over the keys, bringing them to life. Music, a language my family shares with his.
As she plays I capture a couple of videos, first of her face and her family watching, and then of her hands. At one point I touch the piano to feel the vibrations through my palm. A moment of tiny, unnoticeable connection passes between us, the physical feeling of the music binding two human bodies. What she plays, I feel. She will be here, in my mind now, until my final breath. That was it’s own gift.
I’m looking out towards the next few days. I don’t know what they will bring, only that I can’t wait to savor them. I’ve been more than ready, and being here is the only thing I could ever have asked for.
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