A Christmas Cheer

Admittedly it’s uncouth or uncool, perhaps even tacky to write about my financial straits, but it’s bugging me I can’t afford to buy my son a Christmas gift this year.

Do you ever want to give up? Well I do, but then I don’t. Give up, I mean.

I’m exhausted. Last night I woke at three a.m. and lay there trying to distract myself with visions of Colin Farrel but instead wrestled with questions rankling round my head. What’s going to happen? How will I pay this bill and that one? What’s next?

I can’t buy my son a Christmas present this year. I’ve had years in which the only person I could afford to buy a gift for was my son and now this year, not even him. I feel rotten. Actually I feel scared. I’ve spent fifteen years worried how I’ll make ends meet, and if I can’t afford to buy my son a Christmas gift, shit’s gone bad.

Right now, I hope to hold onto our house.

I also hope to continue putting food on the table.

Once every solo mom manages to escape the sinkhole of poverty, once she manages to provide everything her child needs—food, shelter, clothing—she dares hope she can buy her child something he wants.  Because between Needs & Wants is a Difference. We all want. Guilty as charged. What’s scary is feeling like maybe you won’t manage to pay for the stuff you need. Like food. We’ve been on food stamps twice, once recently, and I’m grateful for the help we received and never took advantage of it, meaning I never lied about my income or accepted assistance when we no longer qualified for it.

Some people work the system. Some of them live in our trailer park. They brag about working the system.  I bite my tongue.

Food stamps are a gift.

Maybe I could afford to buy my son a present if we were still on food stamps. Groceries, you know, are expensive.

Okay. I don’t love my son any less and am no less a mother because I can’t afford to buy my son a Christmas gift this year. Imagine if I lost our house, if I couldn’t afford groceries anymore? Still, I’m sad. What is it about Christmas that makes you feel like you should be able to go out and buy everybody you love something marvelous . . .  and if you can’t, you suck? I want to buy all my friends gifts. I have some incredible, generous, thoughtful friends. People who pulled together when I lost my job last July and provided my son and I all sorts of gift cards for food and whatnot. Incredible, generous friends. You’ve no idea how incredible these people are.

How do I return the favor?

Today my stepmom told me what a great job I’ve done raising my son. This made me feel good. Allow me to return the favor by raising the most empathetic and kind son I can because he’ll go out in the world and make a difference.  This is something I’ve taken to heart, taken serious, raising my son: I signed a contract with the universe.

Maybe that’s corny. I’m grasping at straws. Gone sentimental. It’s Christmas.

Here’s the thing: other people have bought my son gifts this year. He won’t go without. The kid got an Ipod Touch from a friend of ours. Holy shit! And my parents gave my son a hundred bucks. A hundred bucks! My son is lucky. Who said it takes a village to raise a child? It certainly takes one to spoil him at Christmas.

Once upon a time, my Granny sent me a check for $500.00 every Christmas, and every Christmas I applied a good portion of that check to getting myself caught up but always used at least a hundred dollars to buy my son presents. My Granny is currently living in a convalescent home. She’s paralyzed on one side, blind in one eye, and can’t swallow, which means she gets all her nutrients through a feeding tube. Her husband died a month ago. My Granny’s life consists of lying in bed. That’s it. She can’t do any of the things she used to love so much: cook, eat, read, paint, knit, arrange flowers, work out crossword puzzles, pat my grandfather’s cheek. He’s dead. And her family is scattered. My Granny can’t see or even hear the TV in her room. Who keeps her company? Nurses mostly. Hopefully, but who knows?

I dreamed two weeks ago my Granny recovered from her stroke. She could walk again, talk, see, hear, eat. My reaction was euphoric. It was selfish, obviously. I had my Granny back. We all want to turn back time and undo the terrible stuff age and disease and strokes do to our loved ones’ bodies. What time and age, disease and strokes will do to our own. It’s like seeing the future. A crystal ball.

Last time I saw my grandmother, I watched her sleep, and she’d jutted her chin forward and at such an angle it was as if her spirit was trying to bust free of her ravaged body.  As if she should at last, let go. Except she’d asked me to hold her down before she fell asleep. She said, “Keep your hands on my chest and press hard as you can so I don’t leave my body.” It didn’t come out clearly as that though. She spoke the way a person who’d had a stroke and now had a partially paralyzed tongue would speak. So I leaned over and held my ear close to her mouth as she spit the words out. Then I stood at her hospital bed with my arms over the bars and held my hands to her chest, all her bones sticking out, and pressed not as hard as I could because I didn’t want to hurt her or leave a bruise. She bruises easily now—black, red, blue.

“Harder,” she said despite all that. Some may say Fear of Death. Or stubbornness. Resilience maybe? Where I get it from.