Then and Now: To Hold Both
I’m sitting in a silent row of empty seats. It’s 2017, a bitter Tuesday in December, and the Nursery Nativity is about to begin. From a trolley at the back of the hall, the aroma of mulled wine (spicy apple juice) wafts down the aisle and the hum of excited parents fills the spaces between us.
Peeping over my shoulder at the rows of people behind me, I clock the familiar faces of other parents from the morning drop offs. And in the less familiar faces I see glimpses of my son’s classmates, the other half of their DNA completing a beautiful puzzle. I notice many of the little boys look like their dads.
The edges of my mouth curl upwards in a polite smile. But the smile stops at my burning eyes.
While I am forever grateful to the good Lord for three year olds in costume, I am hyper aware of the not-so-empty row of seats I left behind at the library. I have an exam tomorrow and a final year dissertation due the day after, and all things sparkly are compartmentalised in a deserted, post-deadline part of my brain. It’s tucked away along with buying Christmas presents for my three year old, Reuben and sourcing heating oil for my home. Or sourcing money for the heating oil. And money for presents. Money, in general.
The chirps of excited children escape through the curtain and one by one they begin to jingle their way onto the stage. Amidst the buzz of directions from teachers and coos from parents, a precious boy with cheeky eyes walks to the right of the platform, his wiry hair bursting through the gaps in his glistening crown.
This king, my king, is already the best king in the history of Nursery Nativities. And just as I raise my hand to do my best fangirl wave, a chorus of cheers begins at the back of the hall and makes its way forward to fill my lonely row.
Beside me, a whole bunch of my closest friends take their seats to watch the best Nativity King of all time; who quickly gives them a proud, knowing grin.
Not quite his DNA, but they are most definitely his.
And he is theirs.
Five years later, I’m in an empty row again. Standing, this time. With numb fingers and freezing my butt off outside, this time. Primary school, not Nursery, this time.
Following some post-pandemic soul searching, Reuben’s school decided December shouldn’t revolve around grueling preparation for a stage performance. They decided to step out of the seasonal rat race and instead, they opted for some community carols around the campfire to celebrate the season. Personally, I miss the cute costumes, but I’m not a teacher so I’m saying nothing.
Again, I nod hello at a mass of smiley semi-familiar faces, most of whom have grown up together. And although I’ve lived here a couple of years now, I am almost certain I will always be a stranger. Or on a good day, Reuben’s mum.
Beside me, 20 month old Asher wrestles with the straps of his pram until his cheeks look as though they may combust at any moment. I grant him the freedom he craves and upon his release, I follow him across the field, my boots squelching with every step.
When I return to the group, the other parents are in huddles of friends and family, making a very merry noise. They laugh and joke in between verses of Merry Christmas Everyone, cups of hot chocolate sloshing onto the ground as they sway with arms interlocked.
Even on my tippiest tippy toes, I can’t see Reuben through the crowd anymore. I can’t see if he’s singing or eye-rolling his way through. And I can’t see if he’s looking for me, too.
A group of mums grab a friend from behind me and pull her into the group. So now it’s just me, an empty patch of field, and a restless toddler. His nap was cut short and no doubt, it will be a long mundane afternoon.
I check my phone in case Paddy, my husband, was able to get away from work at the last minute, but my only notification is from Marks and Spencer. (20% off women’s pyjamas, by the way.)
And I can’t help but think of my friends who, as much as they’d like to, can’t appear at the door just as easily this time. They can’t just pop out of the university library or make an impromptu visit. As much as we are still family, we are scattered and living or working on very different parts of this, albeit very tiny, island.
And for the very first time, I catch myself thinking those were the days. And not for the first time, I find myself wondering have I found a village here yet?
In some ways, it’s the frostbite talking. Because those absolutely were not the days. Because those days were part of a very hard December. Because I’d be perfectly happy to block out all of 2017 from my memory.
Because I am working on the whole village thing.
And because there are four stockings hanging, where for a long time, there were only two. Because at dinner time today, my children will have a dad at the table and in his genuine enthusiasm, Paddy will want to know every single tiny detail of what we did while he was at work.
He’ll do Reuben’s spelling homework with him because that’s where my patience ends, and he’ll read to us all for 20 minutes, even though I’ll probably sneakily write a blog post on my phone and the boys will have a WWE match on the floor.
Tomorrow Paddy will blow up fifty balloons to engulf Reuben’s bedroom on his birthday; a tradition he started when we were dating and one which we both prefer I stay out of. And next week, on Christmas Eve, I won’t do present duty alone.
When my boys open their gifts, I will look at Paddy and he will know exactly what I am thinking. We will hold a shared smirk for a second longer than usual, snapping a mental polaroid of the moment. And I will think about how I always wished I had someone to look at.
Then, we will de-escalate inevitable tantrums and emotional meltdowns and eat a lot of cheese in between.
But today, at this moment, just for five seconds, I feel a teeny weeny bit sentimental about the past. About the Christmas I thought I would block out forever.
I have a talent–I’m not entirely sure it can be classed as a talent but let’s go with it. I’ve had a vague awareness of it throughout my life, but it now mostly manifests itself in my marriage.
Here it is.
I can look at today’s date, and depending on how distracted or tired I am, I can usually tell Paddy what we were doing this time one, two, three, four or more years ago. It doesn’t happen with every single date, and lots of the small memories are fading (cry face).
But if I’m switched on enough, I can tell him this day last year we went for breakfast and you ordered an extra sausage for me because my avocado and eggs didn’t come with a sausage. Or this day last year, we got coffee and we talked about our budget the whole time while Asher chewed on a breadstick. Or this day four years ago you text me good morning beautiful for the first time. Or this day three years ago we did some wedding planning in your room at university and we were raging when my dad returned Reuben far too early.
I should clarify, and this won’t come as a surprise, it’s easier to recall the moments I want to hold onto. Some are a harder grab. Of course I want to remember the glory of sausage AND avocado with eggs. Of course, I don’t want to remember the heartache or the hard conversation or the loneliness or tears. There are some memories I am happy to let slip through the fingers of my mind.
But this time of year, the good and the hard seem to come jumbled up in one vivid episode. Maybe it’s the repetitive traditions jogging my memory. Maybe it’s the ever present countdown to Christmas. Every time I open the door of my chocolate advent calendar, I seem to invite a hoard of unedited movie reels, the lovely and not so lovely alike. And the closer we get to the big day, the more time I seem to spend filtering what I want to hold and what I want to let go.
I used to frantically bat away every memory of the pre-Paddy era. I liked to pretend things have always been this way, that Reuben had a dad at his Nursery Nativity and his first day of school and every dinner-table moment in between. I couldn't help but compare and feel the need to choose a winner, as if my past was in competition with my present. I liked to tell myself, in the most ridiculous black and white manner, then=bad and now=good.
But time is a powerful thing. It takes the darkest of seasons and somehow chews them up and spits them out as something totally different. I wouldn’t go as far as saying it delivers something nostalgic, but at the very least, something manageable. Something that can be held. Sometimes it blocks out what is needed (thank you, Lord). And sometimes it heals the pain of the past just enough to allow my eyes to see the Grace that was there all along.
December tells me to hold then and now and call them both good. It tells me to hold both. And it even allows me to acknowledge that at times, in their own way, both are also hard. Because when there is room for both, there is less pressure on the present to be perfect. There is no comparison or competition. I don’t have to dress today up in a fairy tale ending or tie a neat satin bow on every frustrating festive moment. One is not better than the other.
It’s okay to live it, lodge it in the memory album that will always come out in December, and wait for time to do its thing.
And then it will be possible to hold both.
P.S. How could I not include this photo?!