I will spend Christmas with my adopted family in Mexico City. They treat me like an uncle and I do my best to contribute to the festivities. It will be a traditional bacalao dinner although there will be pizza for the kids.
As the oldest of eight, I celebrated Christmas with the youthful innocence of any child. My father was a white-collar salesman who brought home blue-collar wages. My mother had her hands full with a growing brood.
We passed through periods of poverty. We had so few family possessions that at one point there was a picnic table in the front room and mattresses in the bedrooms. Our situation was so dire that on an occasion all we had was a frozen package of pees in the freezer as we waited anxiously for my father to come home with food.
Despite our many challenges that we overcame through the years as we progressed economically, there was never a dearth of presents at Christmas and our stockings were will filled to capacity, apples and oranges the biggest items, but there would always be a tiny toy or two.
I don't have any idea the sacrifices my parents made to assure the holidays were a special time for us, but they never failed. And the turkey dinner, always my father's specialty, was second to one. I once called my mother to the front window and we spotted the outline of Santa Claus and his reindeer etched against the moon. When people find themselves depressed at Christmas, these memories are a double-edged sword that leave wounds that still bleed in one's heart.
Through three marriages, I took the lead in making sure my three boys and two step-children enjoyed Christmas as much as I had. Unlike my parents who stuck together through thick and thin, two of my three wives cheated on me, so there were festive seasons when I found myself alone and without the ecstasy of watching the kids open their presents.
One wife and I were going to reconciliate for Christmas Eve, but when she told me that her latest lover had ejaculated twice on her stomach in the morning, I immediately lost the holiday spirit. In her demented and debauched mind, she thought she was being generous because she didn't want me eating her pussy full of his sperm.
Regardless of the less than merry Christmases that I missed, there were others that paralleled the joyful celebrations of my childhood. They remain with me, but I carry a bitterness that results from a combination of factors.
When I think of ex-spouses who would rather open their legs to other men than sharing in the jolly moment their children were opening their presents, I try to overcome my pessimism by remembering the profound love my mom and dad experienced together as there was no tawdry temptation or cheap thrill that would ever threaten the beauty and and the bounty of the family.
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