Ringing in the New Year: What A Difference A Year Can Make

I’m not much of a New Year’s Eve person.  I have friends who can’t wait to party and live it up...but since I’ve never been much for following the rules, I choose more low key holidays to party like a rock star. 

Like Flag Day.

New Year’s Eve has always been pretty quiet for me.  I don’t even like going out.  I’ve always favored ringing in the New Year with my fat ass on my own couch, in my own warm house...rather than freezing my giblets off outside with a bunch of strangers clutching a rum and coke from the local bar that will keep me up all night because it has no rum in it. 

I think my need to just stay home came right about the time that I realized that I was going to have to drive home using the same highway as all of those “revelers.”  And as much as I like the idea of living life to the fullest...dodging them all on the way home like some sort of drunk adult version of “Frogger” has never really sounded that appealing.

So I don’t.

Back in the day, when my husband and I were living in our first house, we were fortunate enough to have neighbors who partied “like it was 1999” whether it was 1994 or 2006.  We could just pop across the street for a fresh beer from the kegerator (I just had to Google that to find out if I spelled it right) and no driving or standing next to drunk strangers, whose gag reflex could introduce itself at any time, was involved.  We could welcome the New Year in a grown up, civilized way...which usually meant t.p.-ing the one neighbor’s house who didn’t show up.

Ahhhh...good times.  And, needless to say...my house never got t.p.-ed.

After we moved into the next house...our neighbors were decidedly more subdued.  So that was when the “fat ass on the couch” phase started and it’s served me pretty well ever since.  It’s also important to note that that’s also when I realized that it doesn’t matter if it’s New Year’s Day and you’ve been up until 2 AM the night before...the kids still get up at the same time.  That tends to slow down the reveling just a bit.

Because my New Year’s Eves since then have pretty much consisted of a bottle of champagne so sweet I don’t even want to finish it, a fire, and a movie I usually regret wasting 2 hours of my life on...they have pretty much run together for me.  There really hasn’t been a whole lot of memory-making going on.

Except for one year.

I know I’m the weird griever of the group...that’s okay...I know it...I own it...but the year my husband died...I couldn’t wait for the New Year.

I still remember being so excited to see 2007 go.  Let’s face it...it hadn’t been much of a friend to me and I was thinking that 2008 had a lot more potential.  And even though, by December 31^st, my husband had only been gone for about 5 months...I was looking forward to being able to say, “My husband died last year.”  In my newly formed “widda brain” I was hoping that would be less shocking to people than saying, “My husband died 6 months ago.”

I know it doesn’t make any sense.  But surely by this point you don’t read these blogs because you think I’m going to tell you the way you should do things, do you?

I hated 2007.  That was the year I found out what I wasn’t made of.  That was the year of avoiding breakdowns, fake smiles, and false strength.  That was the year of the last pictures I’ll ever have of my husband, the last “have a good day I love you” I would see for quite awhile, and the end of security as I knew it.

I couldn’t wait to stop writing that year on all of my checks.

So on the evening of December 31^st, 2007, I sat alone on my couch, sugary sweet champagne in hand, watching my clock and, waiting for it to turn.  Like a child waiting for Santa to pop down the chimney, New Year’s Day was my big present.  I sat there, utterly sure that 2008 would be so much better.  It had to be, right?  No more husbands dying.  No more telling the kids for the first time that Daddy wasn’t coming home.  No more funerals where I was the one everyone was looking at.

I think the main thing that I seemed to have forgotten was the fact that in 2008...I would still be widowed.  I looked at the beginning of that year as the beginning of a new life, a new outlook, a new me. 

I had forgotten that in order to make that happen...the old me still had to come along for the ride.

Now, I didn’t go to bed that night expecting to be completely transformed the next day.  But I did expect something.  And since I’m a little slow on the up-take, it was around February 1^st when I realized that a new life doesn’t just appear because you want it to.  I mean, don’t get me wrong...wanting it is a pretty damn good start.  But it was a good month later when I realized that in order to make that happen I was actually going to have to work at it.  And I really didn’t think I had it in me to make it happen.

And so...I started crying.

I mean...come on.  I had slid out of 2007, gripping hope and a bottle of chardonnay...and now I have to figure things out in 2008?  What kind of crap is that???

I cried the entire month of February.  After months of looking forward to a “new beginning” in the new year...I suddenly realized that if that was what I wanted...it wouldn’t just happen by changing calendars.  I had to change along with it.

Since my husband has been gone, I can almost give titles to the years.  The year 2008 was the “Year of Change.”  I tested myself and who I was.  I took chances so that I could figure out what I really wanted.  I stopped diving into things without thinking what would happen next.   I proactively went out and met new people who would know me as me...not just an extension of “us.”  It really was a turning point in my life.

It led to 2009 which was “The Year I Started Remembering The Day Before” and instead of living my life in a complete blur, I seemed to be able to recall what had happened even the week before. 

Believe me...that was a huge milestone.

The year 2010 will forever be “The Year I Started Getting My Kids To School On Time.”  I actually remembered back-to-school night and seemed to acquire organizational skills that had abandoned me the 2 years before.  For the first time that year, I didn’t get 20 texts from different friends saying, “You know the kids don’t have school tomorrow, right?”  I could, with confidence say, “I think I have that marked on the calendar."

So...now what?  2011.  Old habits die hard and I find myself, today, anticipating what will happen tomorrow.  I refuse to wish for the “best year ever” because...where’s the fun in that?  I would hate to say when I’m 80 that my best year was when I was 34.  But once again, on New Year’s Eve, I feel like I’m on the verge of a change.  That 2011 will bring unexpected joys and (hopefully) minimal sorrows.  That maybe theWiddahood.com, the site that I worked so hard on in 2010, will finally start helping people and making a difference in 2011.  Who knows who I’ll meet, what I’ll do, and how I’ll grow.

I know I constantly confuse you all with my pessimistic optimism, but today all I can say is...

...there is a lot to be said for the anticipation of a fresh start.


For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2010

Christmas 2010: The Holiday Hangover

I used to always joke with my parents, after visiting them in Louisiana, that I would come back to Colorado with a food hangover.  I’d feel bloated (I know...TMI), a little headachy, and the phrase, “I will never do that again” would roll through my mind over and over.

Of course, about 6 months later, I’d find myself in a restaurant below sea level once again, trying to set the world record for fried shrimp consumption.

I’m kind of like that with the holidays.  I swear I won’t over do, but I’ve come to realize that that’s pretty much impossible.  So today, I’m wearing jeans that I promise fit me 5 days ago, downing TUMS, and sitting on my couch as if it might levitate if I don’t.

And swearing I won’t let myself get this exhausted next year.

I don’t care what your expectations are...the holidays are exhausting.  If you’ve been wondering for the last few weeks how you are going to get through them...the anticipation and the climax of what you think could be the worst day of the year...well...I’m betting you’re kind of pooped today.  And if you were expecting something amazing and have been working your tail off trying to make it a Christmas that no one will ever forget...I’m betting you’re still in your PJs.

We all put so much pressure on ourselves during the holidays.  As a kid, I don’t remember being as crazed as we make ourselves now.  And honestly...this year...I really tried to not commit to very much.  I tried to be responsible.  I even ate a Lean Cuisine every now and then.

And today...I’m freakin’ wiped out.

I heard something this year that I had never heard before.  And that is how even kids today are affected by the stress of the holidays.

What?  Kids?  Christmas?  Stress?????

I thought they just blissfully made us crazy asking how many days?  How many minutes? Is it possible that Santa could be late?  Why did she get 557 presents and I only got 556?

But for the first time this year, I understood how this constant running around, noise, blinking lights, and forced fun can really drive our kids a little crazy.

Thank God...it’s not just me.

Here’s a pretty good example.

My nephew, one of my favorite people in the world, has what doctors call “autistic tendencies.”  He’s never been diagnosed with autism, he just does a few things that some of the rest of us don’t do.

Actually...what I should say...is that he does some things that the rest of us wish we did.  For example:  When there are a million things going on and “over stimulation” is an understatement, he’ll put his hands over his ears and sometimes hide.

I would love to tell you how many times in the last few weeks I have wanted to do that.  A TV on while 4 other children are running around and someone is carving a massive roast with an electric knife...I would love nothing more than to hide under a heavy set of curtains until things calm down.

The absolute best thing about my nephew is that he’s really smart.  You don’t always know immediately why he’s connected point A to point D but once he explains B and C, it makes complete sense.  He comes up with the best questions.  He’s always good for a zinger (even when he doesn’t know it).  And he tells it like it is.

The perfect example of this was last year, after an entire summer of not watering his front lawn, my sister’s neighbor started a sprinkler one August morning.  And my nephew walked outside and said, “Mr. Dan?  Why are you watering your dirt?”

Thanks, kiddo.  We’d all been wondering the same thing.

Now, my sister had been warned that not only could my nephew get a little overwhelmed with the holidays...he could actually regress little.  That the stress and craziness could temporarily set him back a few months with this therapy.

Oh boy.  Do I get that.

So on Christmas Eve, when we were all in the middle of complete mayhem...wrapping paper flying, kids screaming, everyone exclaiming that what they had opened was just what they wanted...he had had enough.  And he had no problem saying it.

I watched my 5 year old nephew with complete admiration.  I had had enough too.  I was tired.  I was cranky.  Why am I getting a book when what I wanted was a train set?

How come I can’t just say it too?

After a month of “being okay” I’d finally had enough holiday magic and I just wanted to be in a nice quiet room covered in my favorite blanket, taking deep breaths, trying to calm down.  I wanted the craziness of Christmas to be gone and to be back on my normal schedule.  I wanted so badly to have things back the way they were supposed to be...a completed family that hadn’t been touched by tragedy yet.

And most of all...I wanted so badly to sit down with my nephew and say, “It's okay, sweetie.  I’m regressing too.” 

I Got Your Bah Humbug Right Here

I’ve never really had this happen before, but today I could actually feel when the Christmas spirit left my body.

It happened...as many of my near breakdown experiences do...at Wal-Mart.

Now, you all know that I have been trying to jolly not only myself but my kids through the holidays this year.  And to be honest...I feel like I’ve done a pretty damn good job of it so far.

But good ol’ Wal-Mart just sucked the Christmas spirit out right of me.  While I was standing next to the chicken broth.

First of all...let me just say...and this goes for any time of the year...widows should have reserved parking at any store they frequent.  At the time of death of our loved ones, we should be handed a form of the top 10 stores we go to the most and then have someone say, “Very well then.  You will have slot number 20 at all of these stores.”

Nothing makes you feel like you have “widda brain” more than when you walk into a store while it’s still daylight and then walk out when it’s dark, slamming your thumb on the panic button of your key thingy trying to find your car, wondering, “Did I park on the grocery side or the maxi pad side?”

If you’re a guy...that’s the dog food side.

Anyway, I made it in okay.  Got my cotton balls and my lotion and then headed over to the grocery section of the store.  I’d like to be able to say that we looked like ants at a picnic...that would have been an upgrade.  What we really looked like was...well...a bunch of people at Wal-Mart the Monday before Christmas.

The second I looked at that madhouse I felt drained.  But I gripped my cart, took a deep breath, and dove in.  The only thing that made me feel better was the poor girl who had a toddler who I think was training to be the world’s youngest stunt double and a baby strapped to the front of her peacefully sleeping.

On a side note...I often wonder...where in the hell is her husband?  Why does she have both kids with her???  And then I automatically think...

...I wonder if she’s widowed.  Weird, huh?

So.  Got my sponges.  A little butter.  Some cheese.  I’m feeling pretty good right about now.

Then it hits.  That’s right.

The bakery aisle.

Of course...at this point...I make a total rookie mistake.  I get everything I think I need only to get all the way down to the end of the aisle and realize I forgot something at the other end.

I know.  Really?  How long have I been doing this?

I started to wonder...what happened to the magic of the holidays?  I remember loving Christmas as a kid!  When December 26^th hit, I’d start making my list for the next year.  Christmas was such a magical time.  The days went way too slowly and it seemed like Christmas would never get here.  Unlike now, when I realize it’s the middle of November and I haven’t bought a damn thing and “anxiety” isn’t a strong enough word for what I’ve got.

Then for some reason, while I was contemplating the chicken broth, I realized.

Crap.  I’m an adult.

Christmases past where my mom would be sitting on a couch in a red sweater with a glazed-over look on her face and her complexion some odd mixture of green and yellow...suddenly came into focus for me.  And the fact that she would have short term Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome until about March and really not remember much about Christmas day...really made sense.

All of the sudden...I wanted out.  Out of the holidays.  Out of the responsibilities.  And ultimately...out of Wal-Mart.

I was D-U-N...DONE.  And that’s when my attitude took an evil turn.

To that woman who had her cart parked sideways in the middle of the condiment aisle...you’re lucky you didn’t get t-boned.

To the woman in front of me checking out who decided to tell her entire life story to the 17-year-old checker who could really give a crap about the name her 2-year-old calls her 4-year-old (while she had to have her cart totaled in 3 different transactions)...move along.  Some of us have wine to drink when we get home.

To all of those magazines staring at me while I waited behind that woman to check out for 30 minutes...I know you’re mocking me.  I can’t make the perfect gingerbread house.  You know what Rachel?  I’d like to tell you what to do with that perfect smile.  And to my buddy Oprah...can’t you see I’m trying to live my best life?  Stop pressuring me!

And to Mr. Holiday in general...I will beat you.  Today was just an off day.  I will wake up tomorrow with a slight headache and the Christmas spirit in my heart once again.

I’ll see you next to the chicken broth again, buddy.  You.  Me.  Christmas...2011.


For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2010