Its Christmas time and I can be sure of this because I just finished a peppermint mocha and the cup from which I drank it was red and festive. With the question of whether or not it is really Christmas time answered with indisputable, factual evidence, I will admit to you that I don't feel like it is Christmas time. "We saw that coming." I had all the adequate pre-Christmas buildup. A horrid school schedule. A triumphant last final. Decorating my tree and stringing lights on the little yellow farm house. In fact it felt like Christmas then but that feeling has slowly diminished. Does that happen to everyone?
This was the first year that I questioned coming home early for Christmas. "Gasp!" Yes its true. What the heck? Am I growing up? "Its doubtful." All I know is that the moment came for me to drive down to my parent's and I looked around and didn't want to leave. My house was so cozy, my tree so jolly with my pets sleeping underneath its lights and I so comfortable with the way things were that I didn't want a thing to change. Not for the hugs, not for the movie nights, not for my old room, the evening walks or even the hills. I was completely conflicted. I felt like a horrible daughter as I contemplated calling my dad and telling him I had changed my mind. I just couldn't do it. "What an egomaniac!" I know. As if the sum of my father's happiness is found in my presence or the sound of my car pulling into the driveway.
Apart from the pull of my cozy farm house there is the push of knowing that coming home just isn't the same anymore. I can spend hours with my parents and feel like we never connected. My mom is an eternal Martha, always doing. My dad reminds me of how tired and distraught Elija was in the wilderness being fed by the ravens but he never seems to become rested and restored like Elija was. I can't connect with mom because she's a moving target and dad is just too tired to connect.
Everyone changes things about the way they live when they move out of their parent's house. Its very natural. I find that those things I have changed grate on me when I'm home. I'm lulled back into old patterns and it makes me feel ashamed of myself. Its too late to try and change my parents and it isn't right for me to resent them for being just what they've always been. I love them.
The final component of wanting to stay at the farm is summarized in the word 'expectation.' I hate expectations. It isn't as if I don't have them myself because I certainly do. Who doesn't? But I hate other people's expectations of me. "What a prima donna!" Still, it is true. As soon as I feel someone's expectations I get cold and I put that person at arms length. I'm curious what kind of coping mechanism that is. I really want to tell them all how much I love them. I want to hug them all the time, meet all their expectations and be warm and loving, but instead I become a frigid bitch. I would love for someone to explain this to me.
At the end of the day I'm glad to be home. I'm glad that I love my family and that I GET to spend Christmas with them in the house I grew up in. I know I'm blessed and I know that I get to go back to my little yellow farm house and that someday I won't get to come home anymore. Its a hard balance living with the mortality of my parents, whom I cannot imagine a world without, and the reality that I have to live my life too. I guess the inner conflict of coming home for the Christmas Holiday goes a little deeper than the decision to drive a little over an hour to the West.
