Merry Christmas—Now, can you do me a favor and chill the fuck out?

Winter in Portland is always nine months of cold and rain, but that winter felt especially long. It was the winter that mom and stepdad dissolved their relationship, and the velocity at which they separated their lives from each other was just as much jarring as it was relieving. 

 Mom had always seemed like the epitome of glamour-- stoic, smart, well-read, and intimidatingly beautiful. She had dated many guys, and I thought that was impressive, even though I maintained that most of them were well below her as far as looks were concerned.

 When she met my stepdad, he seemed nice. He had a kind of gangly awkwardness about him and wore a pair of Jeff Goldblum glasses that made his 6’5” height less intimidating. He was the kind of guy who biked to work and then spent the day walking around with his pant leg still tucked into his dark wash skinny jeans. He had a savings account, no credit card debt, and a two-story house. To me, he seemed great. 

 The three years of their marriage are a blur to me. I gained a big house and a new little brother. I lost my cat (my stepdad didn’t like pets). I went on some vacations. I had a lot of arguments. 

 I knew their split was coming– Mom and I had been discussing her dissatisfaction with the relationship for years.  (In college, I would learn about “permissive parenting” and instantly recognize it as the hallmark of my upbringing.) At the beginning of my sophomore year of high school, I was relieved when it was made official. In many ways, their relationship was the defining force of my awkward middle school years that I was excited to shed. 

 Almost immediately after the divorce was decided, Mom rented a U-Haul and moved us into a two-bedroom condo less than a mile from the house we had shared with my stepdad. Mom and I spent a lot of time together during this period. Much of which was spent unpacking our strange relationship with my stepfather. The relationship deeply scarred her, and she was looking for ways to distract herself from the feeling that things had fallen apart. 

Perhaps this desire for distraction led her to buy tickets to see a local, comedic adaptation of A Christmas Carol. I was skeptical, naturally—I had no desire to be seen at a musical, especially unironically. But, as I hadn’t peaked in high school, my weekend plans were generally limited to eating out and watching TV with Mom. So, we went.

 I arrived in the car inappropriately dressed in a tube top (navy blue and white horizontal stripes), a beige cardigan from Forever 21, light wash skinny jeans, and Chelsea boots, shivering in the bitter chill of the winter wind and rain as we ran from our car to Portland Center Stage.

 The theater atmosphere was cheery, and Mom—in her version of holiday spirit—bought me a hot chocolate and herself an IPA as we wandered around before the show. She even convinced me to take a picture against a brick wall. I twisted my face into a half-smile that only exasperated her, so she told me to “look to the side and pretend I’m not here.” It's not my fault. I come from a long line of small-mouthed people born without the ability to form any impression of a fake smile. 

 As I extracted myself from my super casual half-lean against the bricks, I noticed something horrifying out of the corner of my eye– a pair of stocky, short-haired women chatting ideally at a nearby couple. They weren’t just your average Portland lesbians; they were my childhood friend’s parents. 

 I was always jealous of my friend and what I deemed her perfect family, and now, here they were, witnessing Mom and I’s stoic expressions and genetically passing down a lack of enthusiasm. I turned to Mom with panic and begged her to evacuate the upstairs area to avoid running into you-know-who. Mom, just as socially inept as me, only slightly gave a hard time before allowing me to lead her hastily away from the bar and into the crowded lobby where we could blend in with the other people in Patagonia jackets. 

On the way down the stairs, I recalled an incident that happened only a few weeks earlier in which mom, during our weekly trip to the bookstore, pointed at a new release on the shelf titled The Highly Sensitive Person, smiled, and said, “Oh, look someone wrote a book about you.”  I responded by pointing to a book titled Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents and saying, “Funny, there’s one here about you, too.”

 I am still a firm believer that when you love somebody enough, it becomes necessary to call them out on their bullshit and poke fun at their neurosis.

 Unfortunately (or maybe, fortunately), we share much of the same bullshit and gleefully enable each other’s antisocial tendencies. Unfortunately, that evening, we could not fully avoid social interaction as, immediately upon entering the lobby, we were accosted by a spritely little man in an elf costume who had the kind of hummingbird-like energy possessed by attractive gay men with rich parents.

 “Got any naughty Christmas confessions?” He asked us with a wink, handing us two strips of red and green paper on which we were to write down our dirtiest deeds of the year. As I admired the smoothness of his nailbeds, he informed us the papers would be strung into a Christmas garland string and used as part of the production. 

 I could feel Mom's sadness leaching into the space around us– probably worried that not only had her relationship failed but also that she had raised a socially stunted daughter who had absorbed mountains of insecurities passed down from generation to generation. I wanted to reassure her that I was having a good Christmas and what I wanted was to be around her. Eyes locked on the elf, I wrote down the first confession that came to my head. 

 “I was secretly happy about my mom’s divorce because it meant I couldn’t get more scholarship money for college.”

 Mom let out a little chuckle as she read my paper. I handed it to the elf reluctantly. His eyes glinted suspiciously as they glanced across the slip of paper. Quickly, I deposited the rest of the slips in a bin to his right. With delicate fingers, the elf extracted my paper from the rest. I swear I saw his long-lashed blue eyes sparkle as we turned and walked away. That should have been my first clue about what was to come. 

 As we took our seats, I verified that the offensively perfect lesbian couple was nowhere near us and tried to relax.

 My initial impulse to dismiss the entire show as a bunch of corny theater crap was overridden by how silly the whole thing was. It was a gay, hipster version of a Christmas story. Sitting there with Mom, my heart was wrapped in the Pendleton cozy warmth of a blanket. The whole thing was as delightful as it was ridiculous.

 I was so absorbed in the production I almost forgot about our little slips of paper. That was until the ghost of Christmas present broke the fourth wall. He turned to the audience, hand on his ample hips, and announced he was looking at an audience of “naughty, naughty people.” 

Stepping forward, he reached into the pocket of his green velvet robe, producing a thick strip of paper, which he unfolded with the kind of confident pizzaz radiated by those who have managed to make a living doing theater. “Take this young lady, for example,” he announced, clearing his throat. “She confessed—and I quote— ‘I was secretly happy about my mom’s divorce because it meant I’d get more scholarship money for college.’ Naughty, naughty, naughty!”

I have never really believed in God, but even I must admit that his timing is exceptional.

As the audience laughed, I turned my head slowly toward Mom—a look of shock and horror on my face.

 At first, she remained motionless– the weight of what had just happened hung in the air until, as slowly as ever, a look of pure delight began to creep across her face. Her green eyes flicked rapidly from me to the stage and then back to me. I watched as her entire body began to convulse in laughter.

 It must have been delightful to see her uptight daughter get a little embarrassed in front of an audience in a harmless and silly way. It was a sign from the universe for her to stop beating herself up for marrying the wrong person or worrying that I would resent her for being an imperfect human being. It was a sign to stop being so embarrassed and loosen my adolescent fears about what other people thought of me. We were both too serious for our own good. It was time to loosen up. 

 So, even though the confession wasn’t that funny, I started laughing too. 

 We slipped into the frigid night, cheeks sore from laughing, stopping at Whole Foods for two slices of vegan cheesecake. We ate on the living room floor, feeling a little less weighed down.

 I smiled to myself. Maybe next year, we’ll finally learn to relax.

 We didn’t, but at least we’re still trying.