Train Wreck

My husband’s parents sold their house last year and moved to a condominium nearby.  We’re relieved that the move is behind them, and they’re no longer burdened by maintaining a home more spacious than they need.

I miss that house, though.  It was stunning.  When Andy and I got married nearly 15 years ago, his parents hosted our reception there, the elegant foyer with its wide, curving stairway providing an idyllic backdrop for toasts and tossing my bouquet.

I remember the first time I took my children to that house, on Christmas Eve a year before Andy and I were married.  I was still getting to know his parents and two sisters then, seeking my place in their family and hoping they liked me as much as I liked them.  They’d met Natalie at a family party the summer before, but were meeting my son for the first time that Christmas Eve.

The evening had all the makings of a magical Christmas, especially for my children.  The house was glowing with lights and decorations, full of welcoming family members eager to include us in their celebration.

The Christmas tree, 14 feet of Fraser Fir soaring in the two-story foyer, rivaled those on display in Marshall Field’s Walnut Room.  A life-sized stuffed tiger with a red ribbon around its neck sat waiting for Daniel under the tree.

Andy’s father had added a new component that year, an electric train set he’d always dreamed of, and set it up to encircle the tree, an engine and six quaint cars chugging along the 25 foot perimeter of the handmade tree skirt.

“We better keep an eye on Daniel around the train,” Andy murmured as we arrived at the house.  “It’s sort of Pop’s pride and joy.”

Wonderful, I thought miserably.  I was already anxious about his family meeting Daniel, my beautiful but erratic little boy, whose unpredictable behavior kept me constantly on edge.  Andy’s parents had no grandchildren, and I imagined my son barreling across their pristine, polished floors, shoes scuffing as he knocked vases from pedestals and grabbed gum drops from antique candy dishes.  Now I had to worry about him breaking an expensive toy train I knew he’d find fascinating.

But it wasn’t only Daniel’s behavior that had me so anxious that evening.  I recognize now how vulnerable I was back then, struggling to find my footing as a divorced mom, a role I’d never dreamed I’d end up playing.  My father had died a year earlier, and my mother was showing the first signs of Alzheimer’s disease.  Keeping my little family together on my own was exhausting, balancing the disparate needs of my children while trying to salvage the stability we’d rob them of when their father and I divorced.

The pressure I put on myself to make this happen was crippling, but I thought that was my role to play.  The least I could do, my most important job in the world, in fact, was making Christmas happy for my children.  Christmas had to be happy, it was supposed to be happy, and I would make it so if it killed me.

But playing my other new role at the same time was almost too much for me: the new girlfriend, this time with kids, one with special needs.  Fiercely proud of my son and daughter, I was still hyper aware of their behavior, and my own, measuring our conduct by a self-imposed standard of respectability and gentility I so wanted to achieve in the eyes of my boyfriend’s gracious family.

As the evening wore on, I was hanging by a thread, smiling, nodding, my most charming self on display for these people whose approval I sought, while inside I was screaming, breaking apart, desperate for this God-forsaken Christmas to be over so I could relax and let my guard down at last.

So much of those early years was like that for me, trying to control the events of my life but often tainting the very memories I wished to cherish.  Holding so tightly to the reins, I sometimes lost sight of where I had wanted to go.  Many times I succeeded in spite of myself, holding it together for my children, providing the experiences I had always wished for them.  But the cost to my psyche was high.  Anxiety became an integral part of me, and letting go of it, especially around the holidays, is still a work in progress.

As it happened, Daniel did enjoy the train that Christmas, watching intently as it made its way around the track, wiggling his fingers in front of his face as he does when he is happy.  He did nothing to disrupt its smooth operation.

But I did.

Leaning close to the tree to admire an ornament, my toe collided with the train’s engine, pushing it and the next three cars off track, bringing the whole happy unit to a halt.  The laugh was on me after all.

And I’m glad.  It was the first real laugh I had all evening.