A divorce at Christmas. And my days since.
It was Christmas night. Not Eve - nighttime on Christmas, when I heard my parents arguing in their bedroom. They never argued. But this was different, heated, something even my 7-year-old brain could decipher as abnormal. My sister and I were lazing under the Christmas tree, still surrounded by wrapping paper and new toy boxes when we heard them, and immediately got up to investigate - her the older/wiser one who knew what we were hearing was off. When we pushed open the door to my parents room, there they were... my mom sitting cross-legged on the bed, and my dad propped up on the dresser, his arms folded. He was crying. I'd never seen him cry before. But even at 7, I had sensed over the weeks the tension growing in our little ranch house, him coming home later than usual, eating dinner isolated on the family room floor while Tom Brokaw spoke in the background. My parents seemed distant - foreign to each other even. But in the hype of the holidays, I'd learned to overlook it as I prepped my kid brain for Santa letters and classroom parties.
That was the last Christmas we'd all be together. The last Christmas of my childhood. My dad moved out the following day.
Christmas divorce - theCityMoms
And then shortly after Christmas, my parents divorced. From there on, our Christmas Day celebrations were split between my house and my dad's new apartment/houses/wherever he would be landed for that year. I had loved Christmas holiday planning and now it was fraught with stress and who's-going-where and the inability to enjoy my new gifts before having to pack up and move on. I longed for a lazy Christmas day in my own house with stockings and wrapping paper askew everywhere, and John Denver's Muppet Christmas album playing on the stereo. At my dad's we would politely make conversation with his new wife and her 3 daughters, and kindly smile when the five of us would receive matching socks or sweaters - a desire by my new stepmother to cement us all together as 'the Allen sisters' when really, I was a Frederick, not an Allen. And where the Allen girls had long, shiny blond hair, mine was frizzy and mousy brown. They a foot taller than my petite frame. They far more athletic and beautiful and would later go on to be 3-star varsity letter athletes while I received my academic letter my senior year in high school.
Did they know they were a product of a Christmas divorce? Did it matter?
My dad didn't really speak to us much aside from his regular visitation weekends and our standing Wednesday evening phone calls. They always started out the same: The weather, how school was going, and small talk about his dog. It was a routine that we still follow to this day although replace school with my own children and he now owns two German Shepards. His house never felt like mine, more a Museum display of glass and delicate charms hanging from a tree than an array of handmade ornaments with multi-colored lights. Perhaps this is why our family Christmas tree now is covered in more Crayola and glue than matching bulb sets or West Elm-worthy decor. I think in adulthood I've now come to accept my dad for who he is and where he is in life. He seems happy, even if my mother never fully recovered. She's long since moved from my childhood home, waiting until I left for college before relocating to be closer to her family. But even though she's now states away, I still feel at 'home' when I visit her, our kiddo-themed Christmas decorations still a strong part of her aesthetic.
My mom is my home. My dad is not. And I'm okay with that.
In the late 90s, the court system in Illinois regularly placed minors with their mother vs. their father. I often wondered what my life would have been like post our Christmas divorce if I'd had to split time much like how children do now - half of the week with one parent, half the week with another. It's 'normal' for today's kids, but wouldn't have been for me. The every-other-weekend visitation was more than I could handle, especially as my social life began to grow once I hit middle school, my stepmother always showing disappointment when I'd rather be with friends than 'part of the Allen sisters.'
MORE HOLIDAY CONFESSIONS: We're celebrating bicultural holidays. And yeah, it's tough.
And then when I shifted into high school, my dad and stepmother moved cross-country to Washington where they stayed well past my college graduation. The Allen sisters had long moved on in life by then, married, kids, and hedge funds. We still obliging send Christmas cards each year. But that's our extent as step-siblings. Washington posed its own challenges, with the difficult cell reception where my dad now lived, and the 3-hour time difference. Our standing Wednesday calls grew into occasional Sundays, me generally having to end them to cook dinner. As the holidays approach again this year, I'm reminded of what the countdown of our last Christmas when I was age 7 looked like - the bliss of hanging ornaments on the tree, spending afternoon hours wrapping gifts, and watching replays of Rudolph on tv. A FaceTime with my mom and sister will help remind me of our favorite seven layer holiday bar recipe. Having my little family create our own traditions has helped dissolve the sour I still feel from my Christmas divorce, my sons' delight in watching my husband drag our tree in to the living room... this weekend we plan to bake cookies and sing and laugh and maybe I'll call them the Williams brothers, as time continues to heal wounds.
