MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!
The girls are getting older, and I am under strict orders not to write anything that might embarrass them. I am to say nothing whatsoever about their misbehavior, bad habits, or inability to get along with one another. Working together, they have crafted the following message:
“Maj and Kallan have had a wonderful year, and have been nothing but good good good. Stories in which we appear to be less than perfect are complete and total lies. We are always always always very very well behaved. We are also very polite and always remember to say “Please” and “Thank You,” and we never interrupt. We never pester or throw tantrums or insist on getting our way. Also, we spend a lot of time playing happily by ourselves. Please call us at (707) 645-1087 if anything in the remainder of this letter would lead you to believe otherwise. Mommy will be in SOOO much trouble.”
And Mark, never big on having weaknesses or embarrassing moments paraded out in the Christmas newsletter, is insisting that if the girls get to be perfect, he gets to be perfect as well.
Which is all well and good, but which leaves me with no explanation to offer for the woman I have become. An impatient, crazed woman with wild eyes and graying hair who simply cannot seem to get her shit together. A cranky bad-tempered woman who shrieks at her daughters at home and who in public hisses threats in their ears. A tired and overwhelmed woman who occasionally hides from her children and begs to be left alone for just a few minutes. An insomniac woman who lies awake at night contemplating the choices she has made, not at all sure that life has turned out the way she intended. An overly emotional woman who takes things too personally, gets her feelings hurt too easily, and cries over things that don’t deserve tears. A stressed and worried woman who finds herself to be not quite the person she hoped to become. Not the perfect mother, not the perfect wife, not the perfect daughter, not the perfect sister, not the perfect friend . . . not the perfect anything.
Don’t let anyone tell you that turning 40’s not a bitch.
My Mom came up to visit us this past week. We talk on the phone all the time, but it had been a while since we’d seen her. I watched my Mom with Maj and Kallan, saw her take amused pleasure in Kallan’s furious tantrums and Maj’s tendency toward obsessive-compulsive behavior. Watched as she played endless games with the girls. Listened as she patiently indulged their need for endless conversation and interaction and attention. Listened as she told the girls stories about what their mom was like as a child and how she saw in each of them something of the girl I had been.
On the day of her departure, did the matter-of-fact goodbye she has always preferred to emotional scenes.
And then read the short note she’d left behind: “Kris — You know I hate the leaving part when it feels like my heart will break. I am so proud of you it hurts! You are doing a glorious job with the girls and I will miss all of you. I’ll be crying on the train as I am crying now. Love, Mom.”
Even now it makes me cry.
Wishing you, in your time of need, a moment and a note like that.
With all our best wishes for a wonderful holiday season,
Kris, her perfect husband Mark, and their perfect children Maj and Kallan
Beautiful and raw.
Real and perfect.
Sigh.
That was a hard year for me.
Turning 40 was a bitch.
A very hard year.
Oh wow. Just wow. You just described this year very well for me – turning 40 has been a bitch. That note from your Mom, I hope you framed it and keep it somewhere.
M
Mishelle -
I noticed this comment when it came in, but I was in the middle of pre-Christmas stuff. And not that inclined to re-visit the angst of this Christmas letter. And so I made a note to get back to you in a day or so. A few more days than I intended passed.
My apologies.
40 was a hard fucking year.
Caught me all off guard.
All the years before 40 passed without me paying a single bit of notice to my age. I never minded birthdays or numbers. At all.
And then came 40.
And I was completely thrown.
Completely.
All the years since 40 have been lovely.
But 40 was a bitch.
It really was.
And I have the note.
But more?
I love this letter that I wrote.
I love that I took a moment to capture how important that note was to me.
Seriously . . . teary as I remember it.
Sigh.
I am living this paragraph. Thank you for putting it into words.
“Which is all well and good, but which leaves me with no explanation to offer for the woman I have become. An impatient, crazed woman with wild eyes and graying hair who simply cannot seem to get her shit together. A cranky bad-tempered woman who shrieks at her daughters at home and who in public hisses threats in their ears. A tired and overwhelmed woman who occasionally hides from her children and begs to be left alone for just a few minutes. An insomniac woman who lies awake at night contemplating the choices she has made, not at all sure that life has turned out the way she intended. An overly emotional woman who takes things too personally, gets her feelings hurt too easily, and cries over things that don’t deserve tears. A stressed and worried woman who finds herself to be not quite the person she hoped to become. Not the perfect mother, not the perfect wife, not the perfect daughter, not the perfect sister, not the perfect friend . . . not the perfect anything.”
Ugh.
That was a difficult year.
It really was.
Much love to you if that’s the place in which you find yourself today.
It was a very difficult time for me.
Sigh.