Christmas
As I mopped up my one-year-old granddaughter’s puddle of pee, excreted from her after she ran through the living room naked, I wondered if I would receive a medal for surviving Christmas.
This Christmas was very different from the previous Christmas. My youngest daughter, her husband and their one-year-old had planned to visit us in Florence for Christmas, but my daughter, nor her husband could get away from work until Christmas Eve.
“We will fly Christmas day. Emi is too young to realize. We will be there for Boxing Day!” my daughter declared. Her husband, added: “You can’t understand how much this means to me I was in Florence for my college term abroad. It was a very special time.” I wondered if he was an art fan or bar fan and which memory lane he hoped to revisit in Florence. Regardless, of the date and doubts about the reason to visit, when we had the conversation last August, we were excited that we would have a Christmas in Italy with them, and we agreed. But two weeks before Christmas I had second thoughts.
“Peter, they’re not arriving until the 26th. This is absurd. We are going to be alone for Christmas! I want to cancel and return to the States immediately for Christmas.” My niece who is British and visiting from England was standing next to me when I made this announcement to Peter.
Jill, you can’t do that,” she declared.
“Why not?”
“Because you have said yes, and they have their tickets and plans. Book yourself a fancy Christmas lunch at a posh hotel and drink.”
What a logical British solution.
Regardless of my niece’s advice, I spun in an emotional vortex of regret at not having planned to return to the states for Christmas. But my niece was right, and I needed to take her advice. A week before Christmas, I arranged for us to have dinner with friends at a restaurant on Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve is the main celebration day in Italy. Families gather for dinner at home or go together to a restaurant. We arrived at 8 pm at the restaurant I had booked, early by Italian standards and we were the only ones in the restaurant. The other couple who joined us bought their fox terrier along. The fox terrier goes everywhere with them and to my disapproval, dogs are allowed in restaurants in Italy.
It was fortunate, we had the best table in the restaurant, it was unfortunate that it looked out onto a walkway where people were passing with dogs. Every time a dog passed the terrier charged to the window and growled. I’ve never had pets. It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s just I have never had time for a pet.
The restaurant owner politely descended on us and commented to the terrier, “I hope you are not going to growl at the window all night?”
Our friends chucked with pride at the owner acknowledging their terrier. Peter took the terrier’s lead and tied it around the leg of his chair with the dog’s face looking into the restaurant.
Since it was Christmas Eve, regardless of health, we were all going to indulge in a four-course meal and wine. The appetizer appeared first: anchovies and butter. We all declare that we were taking statins and might need to double our medication as we spread the butter thickly onto a piece of bread and placed an oil-soaked anchovy on top of the butter and happily devoured it.
Anchovies were followed by fresh crab pasta followed by grilled fresh fish. The food was delicious, but the restaurant was new and had room for improvement. When we asked for utensils to crack the crab the waiter replied that the restaurant did not have any but could bring us more napkins. With determination to enjoy the meal, we grabbed the crab and cracked it with our teeth, praying that none of our implants would fall out. Next, the waiter brought the whole fish to the table where he would fillet the fish.
The fish was moist, and we could smell the aroma of fresh herbs. As he removed the fillets leaving the head and tail on the plate the terrier appeared to fly through the air, grabbed the fish’s head, without landing on the table and descended to the floor. Proud of his accomplishment the terrier stared at me with the head in his mouth. I stared back at the head of my main course clamped between the teeth of a fox terrier.
‘Oh you are so cute,’ commented his owner. Peter, I, and the waiter looked in horror.
The Italians have this way of accepting high levels of chaos and this was one of those moments. The head was retrieved, and we proceeded to enjoy the fish. Taking my niece’s advice, we washed the meal down with a couple of bottles of wine.
On Christmas day, Peter and I were alone. I have a secret to share: we thoroughly enjoyed the day. Peaceful, serene, and quiet, are the words that come to mind. We took a hike and then came back to our Airbnb read and sipped tea. The tranquility was perfect. I come from an animated British stock and Christmas was always filled with too many pub celebrations, charades, and one too many glasses of wine and always a family quarrel.
My daughter, her husband and my granddaughter arrived on December 26th. They stayed for 10 days. Why ten, I have no idea. My sister-in-law is right: dead fish and guests should not exceed three days. But this was family, they were traveling from far away, and it should be wonderful, we should want to spend masses of time together. I also have this martyr issue with my daughters. I am like a pelican mother and like a pelican mother I would rip my stomach open to give them food, regardless of the fact that they are both comfortably financially independent. Anything they want I give. A topic for my therapist. They want to stay ten days; they can stay ten days.
A close friend advised me to plan. “Fail to plan Jill, plan to fail. Ten days is long.” I took her advice and spent hours reading reviews about cooking classes and food tours. The first week included an activity daily followed by me offering to babysit. It was wonderful to see them the first five days, and we did keep ourselves busy for all ten. There were moments that were precious; my granddaughter climbing onto my lap to read, and shopping with my daughter. Then there were the moments that were hard. The meals around day eight where we had nothing left to talk about.
On the last day, we woke at 4 am to take them to the airport. Back at our flat, after saying farewell, Peter and I looked at each other exhausted. My mind kept repeating the evening song that was played non-stop to my granddaughter every night.
“We were with them 24/7 for ten days. I’m numb.” I declared as I brushed the cookie crumbs off the couch and collapsed, continuing to focus on getting the song out of my head.
“I need to recover,” mumbled Peter. And then he proceeded to stretch out on the couch only to press against the farm animal toy they had forgotten. Moo moo, quack, quack, baa, baa echoed from under his bottom.
“Ten days. I don’t feel normal. I no longer have any sense of who I am. Baaa, Baaa Moo, Moo,” he mumbled in chorus with the toy.
I started to laugh, but dear Peter was not there yet.
We needed sleep and both curled up on different sections of the couch and fell asleep.
Tradition is hard to break. Now with hindsight, I have no regrets. I learned that Christmas Day can be peaceful and as I had mentioned I did not grow up in a peaceful family. The traditional demands I placed on myself can change and that is okay. I have also learned that I love my daughter and granddaughter dearly, but it is okay to want my own life at this age and I do not have to say yes to all requests. I’ve heard this stage referred to as an ‘older woman’s past caring freedom’. I do not agree. The freedom does not come from ‘past caring’ the freedom comes from putting our needs first at this stage of motherhood.