Christmas Dinner

Christmas Dinner I left my son’s father in the fall of 94. I left him in Austin and went to Houston for a much better job, and I took our son. The reasons I left him are numerous, and I know he has his arguments (not even saying they don’t have some merit) about me. I do think I can say something we would both agree on, though, which is that I believe in recovery and he does not. I don’t want certain mind altering things as part of my daily life. Also, truly, I needed that job. It’s hard to believe that my salary at my first teaching job, to which I commuted an hour each way WITH a toddler, was 17,000 a year. Yes, that’s right. Seventeen. But it was. That job I took in Houston was an exponential jump in salary as well as benefits, career growth, etc. Our family needed it. So, I left. I loved it. I loved my job, having my own place, raising my son, making new colleagues who are still friends, making new recovery friends, being closer to other family, including mom. It’s an interesting thing to realize that just because someone is homeless doesn’t mean they don’t have a home. My mom lived somewhere. She lived in Houston. That Christmas, I invited Mom over for Christmas dinner. I really thought I was being gracious. I mean, she needed food and a place to be, right? And I could provide that. Now, I am ashamed of my arrogance. I made the works, all rich foods. You know, par for the course for a southern Christmas dinner. What was I thinking? I really must have been in denial to a certain degree myself, at that point. Mom was sicker than a dog. I know now that she was the gracious one. I did know that in her current state I couldn’t let her live with me and my son. Her unpredictable violence, blackouts, and overall drunkenness as well as other decisions she made were quite literally dangerous for my small boy to live with. At the same time, she was my mom, my family, and there was no graciousness or generosity in loving on her in every way possible. I made the works, all rich foods. You know, par for the course for a southern Christmas dinner. What was I thinking? I really must have been in denial to a certain degree myself, at that point. Mom was sicker than a dog. I know now that she was the gracious one. Funny that I was disappointed that she smelled of alcohol when she got there. Oh – at that point she still had a car to reside in. I didn’t even think about the fact that she probably could have used some gas money, and that even that would be humiliating for her. Mom barely toughed her food. I had thought she would love it, need it, gobble it up! But she couldn’t, I now know. The latter stages of alcoholism, including cirrhosis were literally eating her alive. She excused herself and went to the restroom. Her retches were quite audible through the door. I doubt she kept anything down. Me? I was annoyed. Only in restrospect did I get it that she was violently ill, not just a little too much drinking for the evening which is what I thoguht at the time. Maybe it’s what I hoped. Maybe it was too hard to realize the cold truth at the moment. In any case, Mom came to visit me and Zachary. I’m certain that she gave all that she had to be able to do that. She got herself together, spent much needed money on gas, drove, ate food she couldn’t handle, and didn’t make a big deal of being wretchedly ill. That is gracious. That was the last Christmas dinner we had together.