Entry Seven- Holiday Jitters, Diabetes, & The Holy Spirit
What did “holiday magic” look like in your childhood?
Who created it?
And now—who are you creating it for? How is it similar to your own childhood? Do you feel like you’re doing enough? Or are you still that little kid deep down, waiting for someone else to show up and make it magical?
And if so… Maybe that someone’s you now.
The nerves. The anticipation. The overwhelming “oh my god, I can’t wait to see what is going to be under the Christmas tree this year?” panic that kept you wide-eyed in bed like a cracked-out Elf on the Shelf.
Or , “What is the Easter Bunny going to add in my overflowing, tooth-decaying, choco-holic, white and pink Easter basket from Grandma Jimenez this year” accompanied by the ultimate Easter holiday war crime: shredded green basket filling…
Honestly, fuck that shit. It gets everywhere– your carpet, your crotch, your soul. Worst invention known to man.
My grandmother was equally generous to each of her grandchildren with the amazing amount of pre- diabetes and serotonin that were added in those over flowing baskets. Mindfulness or giving any shits wasn’t her forte.
All of four and a half feet tall, that woman poured more love into every single holiday with her family – and any given Sunday, for that matter. It showed in her welcoming demeanor when accepting anyone who would walk through her door just to say a quick hello, then ultimately leaving with a Country Crock tub of food and filled bellies.
Mom dressed us in our Sunday Best, which included the ultimate white patent leather Mary Jane’s with the quarter-inch chunky heel, including the lace ruffle fold-over socks that were meant to ruin my life. All to complete the hideous and incredibly itchy laced cotton-blend fabric monstrosity of a dress my Grandma Esther purchased ‘just for me’ on her last trip visiting Puerto Rico.
Oh lucky me.
Sometimes I felt as if I was put on this earth just to be a walking punchline. IYKYK- If you don’t, I don’t know what to tell you.
Our family would then meet and walk the boardwalk together, as is tradition in our town. Then head over to the bumper cars that somehow managed to never seriously maim a rider… yet.
I never once road the rollercoaster whose two-by-fours looked as if were about to collapse if an ounce of weight was over the recommended limit. Unsafe doesn’t begin to cover what that roller coaster looked like.
Fast- forward to yesterday:
I tried to relive the magic. I lasted ninety seconds and paid ten buck for parking.
Just like my last situationship – the cost of travel was more than he was worth, finished in under two minutes, and left me staring at the ceiling wondering why I faked joy for something that couldn’t find my G-spot if there was a neon sign pointing right at her. I wish I saved that performance for someone that had a dick circumference larger than a quarter of an inch.
I’ve tried recreating those kinds of holidays for my own kids. And honestly? We did pretty damn well. Of course we have new traditions now – like baking an comically illegal amount of desserts for Thanksgiving and participating in a Secret Santa because as much as I love my entire family, it’s not enough for me to blow all my money at Target and go bankrupt around the holidays.
We also play Rummy 500 the Jimenez way– which makes no sense to anyone else. And obviously deemed superior to all other ways played.
As the kids got older I stopped giving a shit about baskets. I upgraded to gift bags because I refuse – REFUSE – to keep buying grass filler that will haunt anyone like a post-Christmas pity fuck accompanied by an STD from your hometown crush – and once stud.
I grew up Catholic. Not aggressively Catholic. More like “we only go to church on holidays and funerals, but Jesus is still watching you masturbate” Catholic.
I vividly remember when my aunts passed, my family held seven straight nights of prayer which felt like three hours too long. The children were absolutely NOT TO BE HEARD. I can’t keep my mouth shut for more then three minutes without hearing my own voice.
Imagine the quiet death glares Mom shot in my direction that roared at me in ominous silence, “IF YOU DON’T SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH, YOU WILL BE THE NEXT ONE WE ARE PRAYING SEVEN STRAIGHT NIGHTS FOR” for each time I would open my mouth for the most absurd question or just to make sound that NEEDED to be released from deep within my soul.
Fake Catholics, is what I call us. We preach that we believe in God. How our Jesus was watching us.
Like – why??
That’s such a creepy thing to tell a child. Especially one with anxiety. I 1000% believed the HOLY SPIRIT Himself was watching me suck dick. And worse, saw how much I enjoyed performing the act. Not enough to stop me, but it was a fleeting thought more than once, or a few hundred times.
Or how Santa ‘knows when you are sleeping’... Whyyyy? Ugh don’t get me started – just know, I never once opened my bedroom curtains on Christmas Eve. Terrified from what I might find staring back at me.
But here’s the thing…
As we get older, holidays don’t hit the same. We’re not the kids anymore. We’re the parents, the memory-makers, the emotional support elves.
The matriarchs are gone. Some family members stop showing up – or worse, start talking politics. And the magic gets a little harder to find.
And although we grew up at a poverty level, my family always made the holidays seem… magical.
It was a struggle but my parents made it work. They did a fabulous job at hiding any ‘lack’ we may have had.
Making it normal to eat Soda Crackers smeared with Hellmans. The most disgusting, yet delicious mouth-watering childhood snack I vehemently wish my intestines would allow me to nosh on without causing a violent IBS flare-up.
They never made it seem as if we weren’t as wealthy as some of the other families that lived in the same town as us. Until we aged and as I became a hyper aware middle schooler of my choice in clothing. Asking to shop at DOTS instead of K-Mart was blasphemous. My mom refused to entertain the idea of looking at another store that wasn’t ‘department store’ worthy, with ALL OF THE SALES.
My father worked his ass off when he was out of the house as my mother did in the household. She made sure dinner was on the table for him when he got home, the house was clean, the kids were bathed, homework done, and she would even have time to toke on a joint – completely and utterly unbeknownst to her children. She was that coy.
Sneaky little bitch and truly an icon.
Point is, we didn’t need to be rich.
Because what we had was loud, loving, chaotic, and ours.
Even if it came in K-Mart bags.
Even if DOTS was a pipe dream.
Even if everything we had was a half-priced miracle.
Till next time…
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