Christmas Break
Laundry, groceries, dishes, clean bathrooms, clean self, clean child. Sleep. Make dinner. Make breakfast. Make lunch. Do the dishes.
Order the Christmas cards and stamps. Sign each card. Lick the envelope, add the stamp, check the mail. Buy gifts, organize gifts, wrap gifts, ship gifts. Decorate, add eight million new tchotchkes to the house. Do you have the right wreath? Did you bake cookies yet?
Use only the Santa mug. Make sure all of the family is invited and feels welcome. Do we have gifts for everyone?
It’s pajama day, it's the book fair, it's the Winter Recital. It’s ugly sweater day. Pack a lunch, take a test, turn in homework.
Walk the dogs, feed the dogs, pick up after the dogs, give the dogs their medicine.
Do the dishes, do the laundry.
Think about making art. Think about how much screen time he’s getting. Think about how tired you feel, how stiff your joints are. Go to the dentist. Get your mammogram.
By the way, it’s a holiday! It’s time to relax. Ha!
My son is 8 ½ this Christmas. He’s funny and smart and likes all the same snacks that I do. Bud was home for over a year during Covid and we really learned to be with each other. I actually love when he is home. But, I am a person that needs to be alone a lot. I like quiet coffee and uninterrupted work. Motherhood has made that desire feel unreachable. I often feel like I am a cartoon robot who spins around, hits the wall, then does it again. Over and over. It feels like I could use some help redirecting where I go.
Our rhythm has been set by the school year. I know that when Bud is in school I can create and work and draw and attempt this artist's life. But half days sneak on to the school schedule, and winter break is THREE WEEKS LONG. So the creativity and brainstorm that is always brewing has to be shuttered for a few weeks multiple times a year.
Winter break always seems to hit the hardest. It’s the end of the year and I am consistently struck by the feeling that I am supposed to have done something, I am supposed to have met a goal. Year after year I am met with rejections, but doggedly keep submitting. Some nostalgic part of me feels like this last part of the year should be for finalizing, for putting a period at the end of the year. It feels like I should be reflecting and patting myself on the back for how far I have come. It often just feels like failure. It feels like another year without moving forward.
And so I am stuck. I want to be the loving domestic mother that makes cookies and is able to wrap weird shaped gifts. I also want to be the artist that makes progress and sets goals that WILL HAPPEN (!) for the new year. Instead I am tired. Bone deep tired.
Who am I if I don’t meet these goals? Who am I if I am not making? Making art, making progress.
