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This is my favorite time of year. It always has been, as far back as I remember, even with the presents under the tree were few.
I’m 42 years old. For half my life, one constant has been Christmas with Robyn. Sometimes it’s just been her and me. Sometimes with my parents and siblings. One year with aunts, uncles and cousins in Illinois. Many years with my ex-wife and my stepdaughter and Tatiana. But throughout the previous twenty-one Christmases the constant has been Robyn and me.
I’ve thought about that a bit recently. Robyn is twenty-two today, a number, which, according to a Patton Oswalt stand-up routine, requires no particular significance. Robyn lives roughly 770 miles away from me, with a boyfriend who I like well enough, except for that stereotypical Daddyism that he’s dating my daughter, because, of course, no one is good enough for her (but he does seem to sorta be). And I don’t know what the future holds, but I see that time in the future when Christmas will happen without the two of us together in the same place. That happens. There’s nothing wrong with it. But it sucks.
I have a audio tape somewhere around here of one of our Christmases in Germany. It consists mostly of Robyn opening presents and some conversation between the two of us. That is one of the most memorable Christmases I’ve had. There were few presents around the tree (not under it, because that year my tree was one of those desk ones that was maybe a foot tall), and I believe we ate dinner at a co-worker’s house. But there were two people who just love Christmas, and I look forward to this year, when, although the presents under the tree for her and me will be few, we will still enjoy the time together, the too much food, the watching of Tatiana finally get to realize what Santa brought her. And we’ll go watch Les Miserables together, because, really, what says Christmas more than watching the wondrous Eponine get dicked over for the vapid Cosette.
For better or worse, Robyn is definitely my daughter. I can’t wait until she is here and A Christmas Story plays constantly on TV, until she eats nearly half the mashed potatoes by herself, until one of the first things she does when she gets in the house is check the presents under the tree (sorry there’ll be so few for you, kiddo), and she bugs me to open the one present on Christmas Eve. I’ve cherished every Christmas we’ve had together. Every moment of time we’ve had together. I know the older you get and the more you have your own life and own people that those times will decrease, but I will gladly accept what time we can share.
And, uh, I’ll try not to make you walk three miles in a Chicago June to eat some pig face.
So, despite it being a birthday of no significance, I still wish a happy birthday to my little Yabbut, the best December gift I have or will ever receive.
I’m 42 years old. For half my life, one constant has been Christmas with Robyn. Sometimes it’s just been her and me. Sometimes with my parents and siblings. One year with aunts, uncles and cousins in Illinois. Many years with my ex-wife and my stepdaughter and Tatiana. But throughout the previous twenty-one Christmases the constant has been Robyn and me.
I’ve thought about that a bit recently. Robyn is twenty-two today, a number, which, according to a Patton Oswalt stand-up routine, requires no particular significance. Robyn lives roughly 770 miles away from me, with a boyfriend who I like well enough, except for that stereotypical Daddyism that he’s dating my daughter, because, of course, no one is good enough for her (but he does seem to sorta be). And I don’t know what the future holds, but I see that time in the future when Christmas will happen without the two of us together in the same place. That happens. There’s nothing wrong with it. But it sucks.
I have a audio tape somewhere around here of one of our Christmases in Germany. It consists mostly of Robyn opening presents and some conversation between the two of us. That is one of the most memorable Christmases I’ve had. There were few presents around the tree (not under it, because that year my tree was one of those desk ones that was maybe a foot tall), and I believe we ate dinner at a co-worker’s house. But there were two people who just love Christmas, and I look forward to this year, when, although the presents under the tree for her and me will be few, we will still enjoy the time together, the too much food, the watching of Tatiana finally get to realize what Santa brought her. And we’ll go watch Les Miserables together, because, really, what says Christmas more than watching the wondrous Eponine get dicked over for the vapid Cosette.
For better or worse, Robyn is definitely my daughter. I can’t wait until she is here and A Christmas Story plays constantly on TV, until she eats nearly half the mashed potatoes by herself, until one of the first things she does when she gets in the house is check the presents under the tree (sorry there’ll be so few for you, kiddo), and she bugs me to open the one present on Christmas Eve. I’ve cherished every Christmas we’ve had together. Every moment of time we’ve had together. I know the older you get and the more you have your own life and own people that those times will decrease, but I will gladly accept what time we can share.
And, uh, I’ll try not to make you walk three miles in a Chicago June to eat some pig face.
So, despite it being a birthday of no significance, I still wish a happy birthday to my little Yabbut, the best December gift I have or will ever receive.
