If Only Life Were Simple

So I survived my second Christmas as a single parent.  It was touch and go, but I made it.  Hurrah for me.

Christmas Eve started badly and got steadily worse.  There were two contributing factors.

The first being that someone seemed to have stolen my happy-go-lucky Johnny Drama overnight and replaced him with the Grinch. After one hour of his company I would have quite happily sold him to resident drug dealers without as much as a second thought or a backward glance.  He didn't want to do anything.  He didn't want to go anywhere.  We went to see friends and he was so badly behaved that I was torn between racing home to stamp all his presents to smithereens and just wrapping myself in cling film from the neck up to put an end to my misery.  How we both survived the day intact is a true Christmas miracle.

The second factor was the discovery that ex was not in fact coming to the house, as planned for weeks, to put the boys to bed.  Instead he'd made alternative plans to go to a party in the suburbs.  I could barely speak for rage when he told me.  I was all the more upset because I had just handed over my Christmas card...where I had stupidly expressed my ongoing love and sadness that we weren't still together.  It was all I could do to not rip the card out of his back pocket and shred it into tiny little pieces and then shove them down his throat and choke him with it.  Love you?  I fumed internally.  Love you?  I fucking hate you, you selfish little prick of a man.

But behind all the rage of course was the true emotion.  I was simply hurt that he didn't want to share that moment with me.  That he had prioritised a party over his sons.  That there was yet more proof just before Christmas that we just weren't enough for him any more.  The sting of rejection.  More deadly than a scorpion's tail.

Finally bedtime rolled around (cue massive bloody sigh of relief) and I sat on the sofa - same as every other night - alone save for the company of a bottle of red and a vast quantity of chocolate.  I ate and drank myself into a self-pitying stupor watching for the umpteenth time, of all things, the film Love Actually.  There ought to be a law against me watching this film, stranded in Chicago, on Christmas Eve of all nights.  I really should have known better.  How did Richard Curtis manage to get London looking so beautiful in every single scene?  The man is a cinematic genius.  I don't remember it ever looking like that in real life, although of course it's now been so long since I have had a Christmas at home that now I am convinced the film is a true reflection of London, which left me feeling more homesick and meloncholy than ever.

I went to bed incredibly sad and dreading the day ahead.  I dutifully binned the cookies the boys had left out for Santa, save a few crumbs, chewed a piece of carrot intended for the reindeer and drank the, now luke warm and particularly disgusting, snowman mug of milk.  I dreamed of using ex's head as a punching bag and had vivid, wild thoughts of how I was going to ultimately destroy him like I feel he has destroyed me.

I woke up at 4.30am and couldn't for the life of me get back to sleep.  Bad thoughts returned.  I tried meditating on fluffy kittens and adorable puppies to calm my vengeful inner harridan, but my vengeful harridan had other ideas and simply drowned them all in a big sack filled with bricks.  HO! HO! HO!  Merry Christmas everyone!

I was finally startled out of my introspective gloom by the sound of a huge crash from downstairs, which could only signal the premature demise of the Christmas tree and possibly several hundred dollars worth of 'Santa Gifts'.  I crept down the stairs, expecting to see a disaster area of magnificent proportions, but the tree was, miraculously, still standing and nothing seemed out of place.  The cats looked at me innocently.  I glared back at them...yeah, I have your number, I thought spitefully.  You might not be kittens any longer but you're not too old to be shoved into sacks you know...

I sneaked out the back for a calming cigarette and when I came back into the kitchen a sleepy Johnny Drama was standing there, silently watching me.  His face was aglow.  He spoke in a whisper.  'Mummy, Santa has eaten the cookies!  Come see!  And there are footprints!  And...and...and...presents! See!  I was good after all.  Come see!  Come see with me!  Now!'

I marvelled at the cookie crumbs, nibbled carrot and half drunk milk.  I expressed true surprise at the huge sacks of presents, filled to the brim, for both boys.  And I hugged him tight, relieved that my innocent, happy child had returned.  Within minutes Captain Underpants crept down the stairs and they both continued to gaze in wonder at the true evidence of Santa's existence, both of them visibly relieved that my threats over the last few days of being on call to Santa to tell him of every misdemeanor, hadn't resulted in him passing them by.

Ex turned up just before 8am.  By this time I felt calmer, almost pragmatic.  I didn't want anything to spoil the day and we hugged and kissed warmly, before turning to supervise the instant surge of present carnage.

We (ie. the boys) opened presents, we (ie. the adults) ate breakfast, we (ie. the boys) opened yet more presents, I cooked lunch, we (ie. the adults) ate lunch and then we went to the cinema to watch Alvin and The Chipmunks The Squeakual.  It was a lovely, lovely day.  We were the perfect, perfect family.

If only life were simple.  If only ex still loved me as a wife and not just as a co-parent.

If only.

Life could be so....well, not perfect.  But certainly better than this.

And now I am back on the sofa - alone again save for two pesky cats, who appear to be quite confident that they could write a much more entertaining post than this one judging by their persistance in attacking the keyboard at every key stroke.  But I survived another Christmas intact.  And for that I am truly and honestly grateful.