Well, the big day has arrived. In a few hours, a dozen guests will arrive at my home. There will be Bing on the record player (two thrifted albums!), pitchers of cocktails and festive glasses, middle school kids acting moody (but secretly excited because under the tree there are gifts with their names). Three dogs will run around creating chaos. The bathroom is clean, the the wreath is next to the door, the red pillow covers matching the festive plaid blanket draped across the sofa and the stockings. I'll light all the candles, and there will be big trays of food - and I have decided to be unapologetic (almost) about my reliance upon Trader Joe's frozen foods. Since it's an afternoon party, it's all finger foods; since my daughter adores Rhodes rolls I'm setting up a little sandwich station so that she (and the rest) can feast on them even though it's not a sit down meal where we pass the bread basket.
And because I paid for it, there is also a new toilet (this one without a bucket to catch the drips from the intake valve!), the fence is properly upright so that the dogs can't get out, and best of all the dishwasher actually works. The guests won't notice these things at all, taking them for granted as they should, but I take some not-so-secret delight in them. My house felt like it was falling apart all around me, and I did what it took to fix it, using my resources and planning. This is no small thing: old houses are very expensive, and single mom teacher salary doesn't mean I'm swimming in cash.
But here we are.
It's Christmas Eve, and my beloved daughter is asleep even though I've been up for hours, and her father has gone out to his favorite coffee shop. And instead of freaking out and running around like a chicken with my head cut off, I'm on my walking treadmill and writing this to you. In my life, this is progress like you wouldn't even believe. I'm taking care of myself, doing what suits me, and refusing to get completely stressed out by preparations (why would I? the intended hostess decided to bail, so it's at my home and not theirs...) and this is VERY NEW for me.
It'll all come together, and it will be delightful and strange and perfect and messy and I probably forgot something and two of the gifts are being delivered late, and... and it's all fine..
***
Bryan arrived last night with the usual nothing-ness. He apologized to Katherine that under the tree would be "light" this year, as one of her gifts was too big for his carry-on bag so he's giving it to her for her birthday. (I pointed out, probably too pointedly, that he could easily mail it to her and it could still be part of her Christmas gift.) He's spending three nights in my house - his ex-wife's house! - and eating my food and drink and benefiting from my hospitality... and of course he showed up, empty handed, and at dinner time. He said, "I'd usually bring wine but it wouldn't fit in my bag for the plane" and I pointed out, perhaps unnecessarily given the obviousness of it, that there are probably five places in walking distance of my house where one can buy wine.
Every year I think, "This is the last time I do this." I feel under-appreciated and a bit used. Katherine couldn't go to an important to her party because he didn't organize his schedule with her and arrived at the time of the party. (I put my foot down for that, saying "He is not here to visit me and I'm not going to entertain him while you're gone. Work it out with your dad.") It will be a long three days for sure.
I laid in bed this morning procrastinating all of the tasks that need doing (oh shoot the bathroom isn't that clean and I need to make a pie and...) by reading Claire Dederer's book "Monsters." It asks the question if one can separate the art from the artist when the artist is a monster, and it names Picasso, Hemingway, Cosby, Michael Jackson, Polanski, and others. It's a great read, even though I can't always relate. (I'm with the author's children on this: when they went to a Picasso show and saw a portrait of one of Picasso's wives with a cigarette burn - placed by Picasso on her cheek and then painted by him - they said, in essence, that it was gross and that they wanted to leave. Same, kids. Same.) Anyway, even though Bryan isn't a monster in the way these insanely abusive men are, it got me thinking. Where do I need to acknowledge his genius - his creation of MY beloved daughter - and where do I walk away?
Obviously, I'm still working this out. The older I get, the more I love my child (not less, never less); the more I appreciate the parts of her that are still strangers to me. She would not exist nor be who she is unless he played his part; I owe him eternal gratitude for that. And yet?
And yet he is the man who shoved me against a wall and yelled at me continuously through my pleas of "stop, you're scaring me!" and he's the one who wouldn't help me when I was lying in bed in quivering pain from the most recent cancer surgery du jour. He's the one who lied, and hid, and judged, and made me feel so small and lost and alone that only cancer could shake me from my hiding places and make me grab Katherine and run for our lives.
Funny that all my running got me to here - the same house we once shared. Funny that I write about running as my legs move beneath me (too slow for a run - who could type at that speed?) in the room where he once came to watch porn, thinking I didn't know, jumping and yelling at me for sneaking up on him when I tried to carry the laundry through the only door to the laundry room.
But this is that room, and not that room.
Thanks to a flood - a flood saved my house? - and insurance money, the floors are new, a warm bamboo. The paint is a color of my choosing. The porn desk given away on Craigslist long ago, I have a cheap IKEA standing desk that does the job just great. There's a floral chair and ottoman behind me - shades of blue and cream, feminine and modern, and just for me. I'm surrounded by pictures of Katherine and I, and my best friends and I, all in silver (well, silver-esque) frames. There is greenery in the windows - somehow I've become a plant lady, and they are flourishing and lovely. The bookcase is organized haphazardly, but it's full of books I love, a piece of art in motion to me, books getting loaned out, arriving, going to my classroom. The TBR shelf is wide - so many books, so little time!
No, this isn't his room at all, and hasn't been for a long time.
And despite his monstrous actions, and the havoc he wreaked on my life, and the worthlessness I felt in my marriage... he's not a monster.
He's a sad man, with his own demons, and he doesn't know how to escape them. And when he's not in my house, mostly I feel pity for him. His life did not improve much (to my eyes, anyway) when he moved out, my foot pushing against the door to keep him out. I hope he still has dreams that make his heart sing, but I wonder.
And me?
I know it's a bit unkind and more than a bit petty to focus on him here, even though he'll never see it and nor will Katherine. It's super petty. Our divorce was more than a decade ago!
But I'm going to use this moment to remember the power of rage to propel myself.
I'm going to use this moment to move myself forward, and to move a bit faster as I look back over my shoulder.
I recently read "The Future" by Naomi Alderman, and in it she reflects on Lot's wife, looking back to be turned into a pillar of salt. I wondered as she wrote it if Lot's wife - nameless, married to a man who would prostitute his own daughters for his own means - looked back on purpose, finding her only escape in turning to a statue of salt.
But I can look back without dying or freezing in time, glancing over my shoulder to judge the distance, and then look forward again and run like hell away from hell.
If someone attacks my daughter, I have the strength to fight back, not stand trapped for all time. And what's more, I don't need to follow anyone, because I have my own path.
And my legs are strong, beneath me now, clad in holiday pajamas with festive polar bears because who needs to dirty workout clothes when my workout is in my basement, with only myself as a witness?
I'm not running away from Bryan or anything else. And I'm not trying to impress anyone - bring on the Trader Joe's eggrolls, because they're delicious! And bring on the sandwich station, because same! And I'll make the baked feta covered in honey and thyme because it's easy and delicious; I'll bake the tomato gruyere tarte because same. I'll make the party the way I want to, the way that suits me, and nobody will care that I didn't hand make the mini-quiches (and the meat lovers will be glad for that, because half the quiches contain bacon, which I wouldn't cook).
Maybe in Bryan's story I'm the monster. Maybe in someone else's story I'm the savior.
But on this Christmas Eve, in my cozy home, my belly full of coffee and my legs satisfied because of their movement, my refrigerator and freezer full of treats, my guest room filled with my ex's presence, and my daughter laughing and smiling and excited for the gifts and the cousins and the Rhodes rolls and the millions of sweets....
On this Christmas Eve, I have time for myself, and still have time to nurture community. I'm making apple cider cocktails and Christmas Aperol Spritzes (they have cranberry juice!), and it will be more than enough. As a matter of fact, it might be more than ever before, this perfect imperfect life that is mine.
I'm working on my book. I'm working on my career. I'm working on my life. And there is still time to dream, to love, to make mistakes, and to course correct.
And I'm judging the monsters who deserve judgement, and trusting my own judgement. And I'm going to be gentle with the rest of us, Bryan and myself included, because this is my life and it's just too behind me to care all that much.
Maybe one day I'll come back and edit this, but for now, this is all. The workout is over, the tarte won't make itself, and I plan to be dressed in a festive outfit when my guests arrive.
Merry Christmas Eve, everyone. I hope your monsters stay hidden this holiday, and I hope that you don't feel too monstrous, too. We've come a long way, no matter how far we have to go, and that's worth celebrating.
Cheers!
xoxo
PollyAnna
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