Christmas 2006 marks my twentieth spent with my husband, Kevin. Twenty Christmases. Frankly, I find this hard to fathom in spite of my being directly involved.
The shock of the number of Christmases stacking up is a side issue. The real issue is the years flying by. Looking down the road two decades and seeing myself with this guy I met at a Denver apartment complex swimming pool summer of 1987 would have been mentally and emotionally impossible for me at the time of the meeting.
During summer 1987 I was a stockbroker for downtown Denver's Merrill Lynch. Though my stint as a broker lasted only a year, I traveled important bends in the roads of my life that year.
I was able to extricate myself from a painful relationship that had dragged years. I managed to gather personal insight that changed the way I saw myself and my future. I gave up living alone. Maybe for good. Children came into my life.
My husband was married young and had three children during his first marriage. When I met him, the ages of the children that would be my stepchildren were four, six and eight. I had always viewed divorced men, particularly those with children, with caution, even reluctance. Having grown up in what is today called a "blended" family, I knew the typical challenges and pitfalls when people with children from former mates marry. Expectations can run high and realism dangerously low. Bonding can be difficult and dynamics troublesome. I wasn't sure I was up for step-parenting.
The package deal I got when I met and married my husband was a deal I won't forget nor stop appreciating. Those children are now ages 23, 25 and 28, and I could not love them more. I am thankful.
Over two decades my husband and I dated, cohabitated, married in Parker, CO, relocated to Southern California, spent fifteen years there, adopted two newborn sons there, now ages eleven and eight, and relocated back to Colorado. We faced over the years losses that included deaths of some we loved; parents, grandparents, relatives and friends. We hit some homeruns. We sometimes struck out when the bases were loaded. We're still in the game.
This year's Christmas tree has grown dry and brittle. Its branches sag a bit. Needles are strewn, hopelessly embedded in the carpet. Bits of wrapping paper peek from under chairs. Empty stockings lay in a heap beside the fireplace. A metaphor, perhaps.
As I pack away the holiday ornaments and decorations this year, I reflect. I think most of us do during this season of sometimes unrealistic expectations. We reflect. Perhaps this is what makes the season so charged with emotions, good and bad. Counting all that is ours is expected. Counting what is gone or never came our way is inevitable. The best we can achieve, I think, is balance.
The New Year is just ahead, a tribute to resilience and hope. The New Year represents a fresh start; the season of resolutions and positive change. January 1 offers an open, welcoming gate to new roads, new beginnings for everyone. And that's no metaphor.
Happy New Year.