(no subject)
Ah, Christmas memories...
It's the first Christmas since my husband and I split up. My grandmother sends me a train ticket so the kids and I can travel up-Island from Victoria. I pack light, but bring the kids' gifts from the Christmas hamper we receive that year. Surgery had me off work for a few months after Terry left in September, and I needed some help from social services with rent, hence the hamper. Even though I went back to work in December, they gave me a care package full of food, a turkey voucher and a couple of wrapped presents for the kids.
The train is a novelty for the first hour and a nightmare for the four that follow. At four and six years old, the kids are going in all directions at once. They want to run up and down the aisles. I keep them boxed into the two pairs of seats we have facing each other. We look at books, play I Spy, eat all the snacks I bring by the second hour. I think for sure they will at least have a short nap. They don't. People across the aisle from us tilt their heads, smile, give me sympathetic looks.
I'm exhausted by the time we reach Courtney. My uncle picks us up and drives us to Campbell River. We reach his house a few hours before dinner; my grandparents and mother are already there. My mother and I sit on the floor with the kids and I let them open the hamper presents. Tyler receives a toy called Vacuumhead Man, the orange archenemy of Stretch Armstrong. The outside of Vacuumhead Man's body feels like rubber, but he's stuffed with something grainy that crinkles when you squeeze it, except for his head, which is hard, plastic and robotic looking. He has a built-in pump that sucks excess air out from his crinkled areas, which keeps him stretched out until you push a release button. Megan is happy with the primary-coloured Duplo (fat Lego) blocks she opens, and hauls them onto my mother's lap where she begins to play. I haven't seen my mother in months, since before Terry moved out. I start quietly talking, answering her questions, unloading to her while the kids play.
After five minutes, Tyler's not satisfied with how far he can stretch Vacuumhead Man. He pushes the toy's feet into my hands, holds the other end and backs away from me. Five feet, six feet...elongated orange limbs thin and tight. We put both ends on the ground, Tyler releases the pump and Vacuumhead Man sproings back to his original size. Rinse and repeat until it's time for dinner.
I keep talking. My mother wants to know everything, but nearly spews venom at every mention of my ex-husband's name. I shush her. I don't want to hear badmouthing. I don't want the kids to hear it either. I just want to talk, to tell her what's new, the good things going on in my life, not only the horrid mess of separation and divorce. But she's so protective it's almost claustrophobic. She is so angry with him she's not hearing what I'm saying. Her lips are a thin line pressed across her face. It doesn't matter now, I say. It's better this way, really.
Fatally, I don't notice that Tyler is stretching Vacuumhead Man farther away from me with each stretch-and-release circuit. I don't see him slip, lose his grip or pop the pump seven-plus feet away from me on the last pull. But I definitely feel the hard smash into my face. It knocks me backwards. It's the first time in my life that I think I actually see stars. You know, like the ones that circle around a cartoon character's head when an anvil falls on it. My lower face swells immediately, my lips are pierced in several places from teeth or toy. Blood drips as I sit up. I blink vacantly. Someone thrusts a towel at me. White carpets. Don't bleed on the carpet. My mother, the nurse, calls for ice. I only start to cry when the tip of my tongue feels a gap where one of my front teeth ought to be. There's a chunk missing. I think I swallowed it on impact.
Dinner goes ahead. I don't eat. There's no feeling in my lips. I cup one hand under my chin as I drink red wine to catch the dribbles I can't feel. A few droplets escape onto the white tablecloth. I gaze at the burgundy splotches, slide my empty plate over to cover them up.
It's the first Christmas since my husband and I split up. My grandmother sends me a train ticket so the kids and I can travel up-Island from Victoria. I pack light, but bring the kids' gifts from the Christmas hamper we receive that year. Surgery had me off work for a few months after Terry left in September, and I needed some help from social services with rent, hence the hamper. Even though I went back to work in December, they gave me a care package full of food, a turkey voucher and a couple of wrapped presents for the kids.
The train is a novelty for the first hour and a nightmare for the four that follow. At four and six years old, the kids are going in all directions at once. They want to run up and down the aisles. I keep them boxed into the two pairs of seats we have facing each other. We look at books, play I Spy, eat all the snacks I bring by the second hour. I think for sure they will at least have a short nap. They don't. People across the aisle from us tilt their heads, smile, give me sympathetic looks.
I'm exhausted by the time we reach Courtney. My uncle picks us up and drives us to Campbell River. We reach his house a few hours before dinner; my grandparents and mother are already there. My mother and I sit on the floor with the kids and I let them open the hamper presents. Tyler receives a toy called Vacuumhead Man, the orange archenemy of Stretch Armstrong. The outside of Vacuumhead Man's body feels like rubber, but he's stuffed with something grainy that crinkles when you squeeze it, except for his head, which is hard, plastic and robotic looking. He has a built-in pump that sucks excess air out from his crinkled areas, which keeps him stretched out until you push a release button. Megan is happy with the primary-coloured Duplo (fat Lego) blocks she opens, and hauls them onto my mother's lap where she begins to play. I haven't seen my mother in months, since before Terry moved out. I start quietly talking, answering her questions, unloading to her while the kids play.
After five minutes, Tyler's not satisfied with how far he can stretch Vacuumhead Man. He pushes the toy's feet into my hands, holds the other end and backs away from me. Five feet, six feet...elongated orange limbs thin and tight. We put both ends on the ground, Tyler releases the pump and Vacuumhead Man sproings back to his original size. Rinse and repeat until it's time for dinner.
I keep talking. My mother wants to know everything, but nearly spews venom at every mention of my ex-husband's name. I shush her. I don't want to hear badmouthing. I don't want the kids to hear it either. I just want to talk, to tell her what's new, the good things going on in my life, not only the horrid mess of separation and divorce. But she's so protective it's almost claustrophobic. She is so angry with him she's not hearing what I'm saying. Her lips are a thin line pressed across her face. It doesn't matter now, I say. It's better this way, really.
Fatally, I don't notice that Tyler is stretching Vacuumhead Man farther away from me with each stretch-and-release circuit. I don't see him slip, lose his grip or pop the pump seven-plus feet away from me on the last pull. But I definitely feel the hard smash into my face. It knocks me backwards. It's the first time in my life that I think I actually see stars. You know, like the ones that circle around a cartoon character's head when an anvil falls on it. My lower face swells immediately, my lips are pierced in several places from teeth or toy. Blood drips as I sit up. I blink vacantly. Someone thrusts a towel at me. White carpets. Don't bleed on the carpet. My mother, the nurse, calls for ice. I only start to cry when the tip of my tongue feels a gap where one of my front teeth ought to be. There's a chunk missing. I think I swallowed it on impact.
Dinner goes ahead. I don't eat. There's no feeling in my lips. I cup one hand under my chin as I drink red wine to catch the dribbles I can't feel. A few droplets escape onto the white tablecloth. I gaze at the burgundy splotches, slide my empty plate over to cover them up.