Home for Christmas

I am thirty-seven years old. I live in Texas now, but I grew up in New Mexico. For the first time since I was eighteen, I will be home for Christmas this year. 

I have been home many times, but usually in the summer, around the Fourth of July, never at the winter holidays.  ‘Home’ for my folks now is not the same home in which we had Christmas together the last time. The house is different, and the people have changed and grown (and we’ve added some Sonars), but we will all be there together. 

A lot of ugly things have happened in my family since then. Gradually, though, (stubbornly slowly, you might say), I recognized my stupidity and selfishness and did that thing where I untangled my priorities and realized what was most important in my life and who were the most important people.  I hear that song “Boots” by The Killers and that’s exactly how I feel about Christmas this year. I have been remembering the magic of my childhood Christmases and hoping for a tiny little bit of that, and for many years I’ve been working to knock the mud off my boots. This year I’ll finally have the chance to step back into home.

I am unbelievably geeked about going home for Christmas. I thought I would be nervous, worried about an upswelling of stupid emotional baggage, and while those thoughts jangle around in the back of my head a bit, they don’t upset me. They aren’t taking away my joy. 

My joy, though, is nothing compared to the excitement I see in my parents, who will hosting their grand-Sonars for Christmas for the first time, and I have absolutely no doubt, will be spoiling them silly. My dad is sending me messages every couple of days, questions, observations, little announcements that they’re ready and really excited and will we be there soon? And can we come sooner?  I love it.