I’ve never been particularly sentimental about the holiday season; my cultural heritage favors the macabre and mystical over the jolly.
Except of course I became a parent before I was an adult. To compensate for the social stigma I have always made extra efforts to guarantee that my kids are not missing out on whatever material or symbolic elements are required for a happy childhood.
I have always put in the time to give my kids a reasonably fun celebration including treats and surprises and excursions. We’ve done the standard tree lighting, parade-going, Santa photograph thing every year. I do not understand the British tradition of panto but we have incorporated theatre outings and the Frost Fair.
I put the John Denver holiday album on high rotation and pull out the Cary Grant movies. We have a good time, strictly according to protocol.
But my daughter is a grown-up, and has elected to choose her own gifts instead of letting me bungle the job. She is focussed on her own social life, on the dance later this week, on the world outside her home. In other words, she is launched.
If the younger child were here I would be on the standard holiday routine, but he is away visiting his grandparents.
This is the first December in my entire life that I have no responsibilities, no plans, nothing to tether me to the world. This feels strange and sad; I am tempted to listen to music that renders me suicidally depressed over lost youth. But at the same time I am filled with tremendous joy to have achieved this age, to have this family, to know my friends, to continue forward.
This month I can do whatever I like, exactly when I choose.
I’m going to read Orwell and ride my bicycle through the flat green countryside.