Christmas With(out) Charlie

This December took me by surprise. I'd forgotten how incredibly taxing Christmas can be, normally, and was completely underprepared for the storm of emotions that I would feel entering the festive season without Charlie.

I seem to be frantically trying to make sure every element of Christmas is perfectly magical for Gracie and then feel completely overwhelmed and I'm completely undone. This is probably pretty common across parenthood, dare I say out loud, motherhood.

Mum's seem to have the knack of dreaming up, locating, wrapping the presents. Writing the shopping lists. Decorating the house. Playing the music. Creating the advent calendars. Writing the Christmas cards. Planning the Christmas baking. And I love it. The list of things I'm trying to juggle is overwhelming but deep down, I like doing it. And as each day draws closer to what would have been Charlie's first Christmas, a little weight presses down a little harder on my heart.

There is a magic in Christmas, that is inherently childlike. Thus, when you have children, the magic of Christmas, is kind of renewed for you again. It draws attention to the children you have, and for many, those that aren't physically present, whether it's due to infertility or baby/child loss. Charlie's absence is achingly quiet. We gather under the Christmas tree and gaze up at the beautiful lights bouncing across the walls and it feels odd only watching Gracie's face light up in wonder. There's a little presence that is so strikingly absent.

Christmas is also a time where you, traditionally, gather with family. In previous years, family gatherings, whilst sometimes a little draining, have been what we've done. This year, our perspectives, and relationships, have completely changed. Charlie's life has taught us that we don't need to settle for discomfort. We can prioritise ourselves as a family and make sure we do what is best for us. It both takes the pressure off those family gatherings but also brings a lot of angst as we await the reception of our decisions.

There's a joy in Christmas. Although maybe frazzled, Christmas last year was a time of expectation, hope, joy as we celebrated with Gracie and the baby that was weighing very heavily on my pelvis. I scramble to find ways to feel the same unfiltered joy, buy things, desperately seek a way of including Charlie, and yet everything I do, every little dopamine kick I seek out, every little token I try to include for him, feels shallow and lacking in meaning. I try to pack in more to feel his absence and everything falls short.

We've also just moved into our forever family home that we began building as we realised our family was expanding and we'd need more space. Now, we have a four bedroom house and one child. The room that we'd planned for Charlie sits vacant, a few of his memorabilia sitting on a chest of draws. His personalised stocking, that I bought in an attempt to fill some void, also empty.

I reflect on what I need as I start to hit a rocky bottom. Quiet. Stillness. Family. Magic. And the magic doesn't come from the laminated activities I've been sticking in Gracie's advent calendar. It doesn't come from the personalised Christmas baubles I've spent too much money on. Nor does it come from all the sweet treats I keep trying to whip up to make me feel like there are festivities. I think it comes from love. Those moments of wonder. Of seeing Gracie's face light up. Of remembering last Christmas when I could feel Charlie's little head buts in my tummy. Of reflecting on what we do have because the alternative feels too heavy to hold consistently. It has to drop.

Growing up, I was taught, through trauma, that I had to rely on myself for love. For safety. And sometimes when I'm being dragged along the rocky bottom, I forget to love myself. To tell myself, that it's ok. I do have myself. I am held. I can let it go. This Christmas, I endeavour to remind myself that it won't matter, if I don't put up that garland, or forget to play Christmas carols whilst I'm baking. The magic comes from being able to love purely. And that means putting down everything in our arms, just for moments, knowing that it is held. It is safe.

Gracie, in her profound, four year old (how is she so grown up!) wisdom, asked me if we could write a letter to Santa Claus the other day. So we began writing. 'Put down, I would like a book about dying.' Dying. My first reaction was concern for her focus on morbidity. 'Why dying?' I responded. 'Do you want to learn more about death?' 'No,' she replied. 'I just want a book about babies dying so that it will remind me of Charlie.' As you can imagine, my heart burst, wanting to somehow protect her from this sadness at the same time as being so immensely blown away, again, by her capacity to teach the overstimulated, overthinking adult brain a thing or two or three... Pause. Reflect. Remember. Love.

Merry Christmas, my sweet son. My first choice would be having to worry about you toddling around, pulling off the baubles on the Christmas tree. It would be wrapping your first present or watching you gnaw on the carrot we put out for the reindeer. But if I can't have that, being able to love you anyway is the greatest gift I'll ever find under the tree. I just need to soften and be still long enough to feel it fully, without the misery of grieving you.