Great Expectations

The Christmas that was...and wasn't.

My son was admitted to the hospital on December 19, released on December 21, and readmitted on December 22. 

This was, of course, not the Christmas I was expecting. I had great expectations for Christmas this year. This included snuggles on the couch watching movies, sipping hot chocolate, and baking cookies. Not extravagant cookies, I’m no

Melissa Cullens

, renowned for her ambitious, and yes, overzealous cookie baking, but she sent me what she claimed was an “easy” thumbprint from Barefoot Contessa. I also have a delicious lemon crinkle cookie recipe from Genius Food Tapes that features preserved lemon, and found a very simple recipe in a back issue of Bon Appetit before they went all hipster (read: I got old). 

I had visions of a slow, easy, cozy Christmas sprinkled with a little magic. This vision included me in my apron, my oldest daughter rolling dough and giving the two littles a simple task while Michael Buble croons his version of “Santa, Baby,” to us. Sipping my coffee on Christmas morning surrounded by wrapping paper and joyful grins with everyone’s favorite breakfast casserole crisping up in the oven. A dinner prepared at a reasonable pace, served at a reasonable time accompanied by a sumptuous right bank Bordeaux.  

This vision included the rest I’ve needed since October (strike that - since becoming a mother). Being slow, cozy in old sweatpants and the flannel shirt I’ve commandeered from my husband because the sleeves are too short for him. Doing my version of nothing - which is cooking, reading, walking the dog…hey, they all have “ing” in the word, don’t they? These were my great expectations for this Christmas. 

Ah, but that’s the thing with expectations, didn’t I learn anything from freshman English class in high school? Dickens wrote the book on it and we read it. Great Expectations. Pip. Estella. The Benefactor. Miss Havisham. That’s her name, because as our English teacher said, “having is a sham.” (Touché and at Christmas to boot!)  It’s the only book I didn’t rewrite the ending for because I didn’t like any of the characters. I didn’t really even like the movie remake with Gywneth, Ethan Hawke, and Robert DeNiro even though it was filmed in Sarasota, my second hometown, and very well cast. Oh Dickens, I guess you are right, that’s the whole problem with great expectations. 

It’s that while you are busy expecting something else, you can forget to look at what’s in front of you. So I gave myself a little Pip talk, “alright, Emily, Christmas looks different this year as it does for all the other families in the hospital. You are not alone. Christmas is a feeling, a spirit, a hope, a light in the dark. I like the dark. Alright, yes it is the solstice. Good on you for embracing it. I don’t feel bad about being here, it's where we need to be. That doesn’t mean it’s not hard and disruptive on everyone, and you are worried about explaining the continued wait to open presents to a seven year old when all she’s been doing is waiting. And the baby, missing putting her to bed, and the comfort she gets from having you present. And craving the time you spend on the couch with hubs at the end of the day. All of that. But we are here surrounded by an amazing, caring staff. You know we really need more angels among us here…Emily, you have one of those, he’s sitting next to you. And guess what, here in the hospital you are getting some of that slowness you’ve been craving. A little space to do nothing. Read your book. Flop around in sweatpants. There’s magic here too, you know that. I really need to try and let go of expectations, don’t I? Yes.” 

The magic was still there in the hospital, even more so at Christmas (and even more so the year we were there when the Bengals made it to the Super Bowl, a top 20 miraculous occurrence for Cincinnatians). The magic was in the joy on my son’s face watching the first responders, fire trucks, and police cars driving around the hospital’s main entrance to “light the way for Santa.” The magic was in the Snowflake Shoppe filled with thousands of brand new donated toys for families in the hospital on Christmas, wrapping paper included, and the smiles on the people responsible for running it. The magic was in my daughter bringing cookies for the staff on the unit to share, something she thought to do all on her own. The magic was in seeing my son and baby reunited in fits of giggles. The magic was in my son sleeping next to me on Christmas morning, no cords or IVs to worry about because he was getting better and close to going home. 

The truth is, I relished this Christmas morning more than I would have the one at home, a true gift to hold my baby boy who isn’t my baby anymore. There’s been a shift in our relationship this past year - the baby came along, and he’s fully realized he is his own person and we are not a tethered unit. I’m not the preferred parent anymore and I’ve mourned that untethering deeply. So I soaked up the sleepy smiles and snuggles for several hours that quiet morning, sweatpants and all. 

We got home around lunchtime on Christmas Day. Like Pip not coming to grips with the truth about Estella, I didn’t fully learn my lesson and dove right into baking an almond cake, roasting a chicken and trying to put on the meal of my dreams amid the hectic unwrapping of gifts. I was hurried and pressured to pull something off - which usually includes cooking because I love it and it makes me feel in control. The oven was off so the chicken didn’t cook on time and we ended up eating in shifts after putting the littles to bed. Yet, it all turned out. And as my best friend Amanda said, “Merry Christmas, and remember the whole Christmas story is dealing with the unexpecteds of motherhood.” Not the great expectations, the great unexpecteds. Where the magic can be if you look for it. 

“Accepting Festive Imperfection” by

Amy Abrahams

inspired this current missive. Thank you, Amy.