The First Christmas on Our Own

I did all I could to keep the kids in the kitchen, outside of the living room. For my oldest, he knew what to anticipate inside the dimly lit room where the Christmas tree glowed. The twins, on the other hand, were too young and knew nothing of what lay beyond the living room threshold—they simply wanted to go where the basket of non-Christmas toys sat in the corner by the couch.

When my husband got the camera ready, I set them loose. They didn’t feel any of the anger that had brewed in that room hours earlier as they ran and shrieked toward the main gift in the middle of the floor: a house big enough to play in.

The night before, once all the little ones were in bed, we put the entire structure together. “You’ll wake them,” I had hissed, struggling to hold the black roof in place. “Why couldn’t this be done before Christmas Eve?”

Maybe he growled, told me to hold the roof straighter, or pulled the trigger on the drill. I know I cringed each time the tool revved, waiting for a child to wake. By some Christmas miracle, they didn’t. I likely sighed as the final pieces, the white windows, were ready to be hot-glued on. 

“Do you think they’ll stay like this?”

I don’t know what he answered, but they didn’t. That morning, the windows were ripped off and glued back on several times until I put them on top of the fridge—where they would stay for months after. 

I’d look at that playhouse and think of the sparse gifts under the tree. Was the house enough? Was it enough for them? 

Two winters later, I climbed through the obstacle course of decor, tools, boxes, and garbage bags blocking the garage door. I knew he had used a drill on that now beat-up playhouse, and it must reside somewhere in this building. Yet after nearly falling on my face and yelling out of the door to resolve multiple fights, my eyes set on a green-handled screwdriver. I checked the tip to see if it was the right shape and sighed—it would have to do.

Inside, the kids jumped like lemurs. I picked my way through toys and pillows to the windowless house. Between its now dilapidated nature and how much space it took up for how little it was used, it was time for it to go. I placed the screwdriver in the top of the screw, where it fit perfectly. 

Am I able? Am I ready?

I watched the kids play as I began to unscrew. Twist, twist, twist. The screw popped out in my hand. The kids watched for a second here and there, then continued on with their play. 

Twist, twist, twist. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. 

Twist, twist, twist. It shouldn’t be me disassembling this. 

Twist, twist, twist. I hate this.

Twist, twist, twist. What will Christmas look like this year? On our own? 

A shaky breath escaped my lips. My weak wrist ached from prying at tight screws. 

Twist, twist, twist. The wall fell down. 

What is Christmas for kids without so many gifts that the tree is hidden behind them? It was hard enough before the separation, but after? Being a single mom who makes less than minimum wage—what could I afford for Christmas?

I held the knock-off magnet tiles in my hands, feeling the rough plastic and wishing I had bought something different for them—wishing I could buy something different for them. My cheeks and ears burned as I imagined the bare tree skirt with a few small gifts peeking out.

A memory blew through my mind. Yellowed construction paper, cursive handwriting, a picture frame on my mom’s nightstand.

I was ten years old, it was Christmas Eve. I sat on the floor next to my mom in front of the tree. “I’m bored.”

“Why don’t you write something?” She knew me so well.

“I don’t know what to write.”

“Write about Christmas,” she said. “The true meaning of Christmas.”

So I did. I wrote, The true meaning of Christmas isn’t giving or receiving gifts. It isn’t about the turkey dinner nor is it about the ornaments. The true meaning of Christmas is about when Jesus was born. He was born to save us from sin.

I smiled at the memory. A younger version of myself knew more about Christmas than I did. In the world of lawyers, division, work, and bills I had never managed on my own before, I lost sight of the true gift of Christmas my children needed, the one I often forgot to discuss each day with them. As I feared for our first Christmas without a dad, I forgot the family the Christ Baby adopted us into, the better home he had built and was building for us. 

The physical house may have come down, but the home built upon the Rock still stood.

The featured image, “Merry Christmas Wrap,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.

Lara d'Entremont

Lara d’Entremont is first a wife and a mom to three little wildlings in rural Nova Scotia, Canada. While the wildlings snore, she primarily writes—whether it be personal essays, creative nonfiction, or fantasy novels. She desires to weave the stories between faith and fiction, theology and praxis, for women who feel as if these pieces of them are always at odds. Her first book, A Mother Held, is a collection of essays on the early days of motherhood and anxiety. Much of her writing is inspired by the forest and ocean that surround her, and her little ones that remind her to stop and see it. 

www.laradentremont.com