There’s a scene in one of my favorite “Will and Grace” episodes where Grace has designed a Barney’s New York window for Jack and his boss Dorleen (the incomparable Parker Posey) looks over the draping, swooshing crimson curtains intertwined with white twinkle lights and says matter-of-factly. “I love it. It’s glam. It’s dark. It’s sad. It’s Christmas. ”

Somehow, that’s exactly what I feel inside my heart tonight.

~

My uproarious extended paternal family gathered at my Gran’s this year [for the first time in almost a decade] to celebrate Christmas a little early. My co-black-sheep cousin put on Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas album and I commented that when I listen to “Christmastime is Here” out of season, I feel this deep, lurching sadness in my chest. Naturally, this put the entire table of WASPs at a discomfort, but my cousin’s eyes twinkled with kindred understanding and suddenly we were talking about how Vince Guaraldi was a Yuletide genius for not only tapping into those dampered emotions of loss that everyone feels at the holiday season but chooses to ignore on a commercial level, but daring to pair this multi-leveled artistic notion with a cartoon. I was alight at the idea that something so sad could be beautiful and resonating with someone else in my family, but also that this sad, aching feeling didn’t have to mean I was alone.

~

I took my small family out to look at Christmas lights this evening to quell my childish obsession with watching them all, but there’s a part of that ritual that makes me miss alcohol all the more. I’ve discussed it before, but I used to drive around with a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream and listen to my personalized Christmas mix while riding throughout the county, gazing at light displays for hours. (Again, I realize this is stupid, dangerous, and unforgivable and I DO NOT condone drunk driving. Ever.) There’s a side to drinking that was a lot like a long-term relationship. Much like the other long-term relationship I’ve been associated with before this one at present, drinking was never healthy or honest or enriching, but I loved to live in the illusion that I was with a partner that bolstered my confidence, that shielded me from the perils of the outside world [despite the obvious perils its very presence actually caused in this world I was ignoring.] I miss the way alcohol roped me off from my noisy, rambling mind and soothed my hyperactive fears long enough for me to stop and observe twinkling lights and melodic rituals going on around me. It’s hard to rewire my mind to do that on it’s own, but having two loved ones in tow that sobriety is directly responsible for is an awfully nice adapter.

~

I am not insane tonight, not shivering in the corner of my bathroom or crying at the notion that this year has been wasted. I am just forlorn that somehow we’ve bridged the time between last Christmas Eve and this one in hardly a blink.

Last Christmas I was a heaving mass of pregnancy, ready to burst within days and giddily awaiting the imminent arrival of the greatest person I’d never met. I was excited and exhausted, sentimental and irate, enormous and glowy. I was that mythical combination of being both perfect and miserable.

This Christmas I am 70 lbs lighter (YIKES!) and still a little soft in the middle, wondering how this little person has possibly grown and changed so much and whether she’ll slow down long enough for me to catch my breath and make some memories before this fleeting childhood is said and done. I beam with pride at the countless growths she’s acheived in her short life and yet I pray that time stands still and keeps her where she is. I can’t stop taking photos of her, filling extensive folders with images of her daily activities for fear that I will miss or forget a single moment. I am petrified that the moments I’ve wasted gathering my mind are the moments I will never forgive myself for missing. I am devastated that my tiny infant is going to be a 1-year-old by this time next week. I am heartbroken that I’ve missed her first year in my unassuming ignorance and ongoing fear that I’m not doing anything right.

And then there’s the idea that next Christmas will be better. Next Christmas there will be visits and letters to Santa and Advent calendars, and songs and cookie-baking… Next Christmas will be even more wonderful than this, although I wish more than anything else that it would take its time getting here.

~

I will stay up late tonight, tracking Santa on GoogleEarth, sipping the Christmas Eve Tea that an internet friend sent me, and scribbling in my private fiction portfolio, hoping something salvageable comes out of my restless mind.

God bless us, every one.