It was our first Christmas as a stepfamily.

 My 9-year-old son, Travis, and I had just finished decorating our Christmas tree with a half-dozen of “our” ornaments--eggs hand-painted with pastel colors. We were about to add our strings of popcorn and cranberries. Bill and his kids, 6-year-old Chris and  9-year-old Emily, worked the other side of the tree, adding “their” Christmas tree ware: blinking, multi-colored lights, tinsel, and  glossy, striped and sparkled orbs.

 “My mom says she’ll have a seizure if you keep those blinking lights on the tree,” Travis told Bill.

 Bill rolled his eyes.

 “What’s a seizure, anyway?” Travis asked.

 “Your  ‘natural’ cranberry strings are going to rot and stink up the house,” said my stepson, Chris. “I don’t think we should use them on our tree.”

 “I like Lisa’s and Travis’s hand-painted eggs,” said my stepdaughter, Emily. “With our sparkly ornaments and Lisa’s and Travis’s hand-made stuff, this is the best tree ever. My mom will really like it when she comes over and opens presents here with us on Christmas morning.”

 When I heard those words, I squished one of my precious egg-ornaments in my palm. I glared at Bill.

 Bill took a breath and adjusted the belt of his bathrobe.

 “Lisa, remember last year, on Christmas, you visited us at our old house?” he said.

 I tightened my jaw as Bill continued.

 “First, Chris and Emily opened their presents from me, and then Linda came over and spent the day with us,” he prompted. “Remember?”

Now I remembered. When Bill’s ex, Linda, arrived, she said she’d only stay a little while, then spent four hours assembling a toy car for Chris. Bill said he needed his ex-wife there; he wasn’t so handy with a screwdriver. He, his kids and ex-wife all laughed about that, then exchanged presents with one another.

All day long I pushed away the ache that kept creeping into my heart. As a non-member of Bill’s “family,” I was useless, invisible; extra at holiday time.

I gazed at Bill now, as he lifted Chris onto his shoulders. Chris leaned forward and deposited a star at the tip of the tree, our first tree.

I knew that more than anything, Bill wanted a Christmas that felt like his mom’s and dad’s Christmas: “A real “Leave It To Beaver” holiday, he liked to say. He wanted his kids to feel as loved and treasured as he did as a child; he wanted no hassles, no arguments. Just one big happy family.

And that meant, at least until now, his ex-wife had joined him for Christmas.

Throughout the month of December that year, I puzzled over the meaning of Christmas. Everywhere I was inundated with Hallmark images of Christmas: the nuclear family’s Christmas. I read no silly stories, identified no joyous books and watched no happy movies about kids who travel from Mom’s house to Dad’s house on Christmas day, eating two turkeys and opening two sets of presents. Nowhere did I find posters of dads sitting on Santa’s lap surrounded by their children, second wives, stepchildren and ex-wives.

Every night, Bill and I donned scarves and mittens and strolled around our neighborhood, brainstorming about Christmas. We ambled past our neighbors’ illuminated displays of reindeer and Christmas trees; we admired front doors adorned with wreaths and holly. In front of each home overflowing with Christmas spirit, I sighed, wishing for the Norman Rockwell holiday of my childhood.

At some point, I realized what made my own childhood holidays so special: My parents knocked themselves out trying to make my little-girl dreams come true. They donned wool coats, crammed their frames onto toboggans and sledded with us after each snowfall; they filled thermoses with hot chocolate and accompanied us while we sang Christmas carols. And on Christmas Eve, my dad and uncle bumped around on the roof, vowing that Santa was near, preparing to deposit our gifts on the rooftop.

My dreams came true as a child; who was I to stand in the way of a 9-year-old girl’s dream about Christmas?

And so, not that first year, but a year later, I invited our ex-spouses to a Christmas party. To my surprise, both our exes embraced the idea.

The preparations began. Bill insisting on buying only the best of food for his ex-wife.     

 “No Kraft cheese. It has to be Jarlsburg cheese,” he said, as we picked our way through the gourmet section of the grocery store.   

“What’s the matter with individually wrapped slices of American cheese?” I asked. “That’s what you feed the kids.”

“I want Linda to feel welcome and comfortable when she comes over,” he said. “That means preparing foods she likes.”

“Maybe we should cater the event,” I said. “Then you could spend less time preparing food and more time primping for your ex-wife.”

The next hurdle was the party itself. After our guests arrived, it seemed every conversation led to disaster. When our new baby cooed at my ex-husband, in swooped my stepdaughter, Emily, to deposit the baby with her mother.

“You like Momma Linda, don’t you?” she asked our baby.

Next, Bill began a dangerous conversation with Tripp, my ex-husband, about his role in our recent remodeling disaster: He reminded Tripp that he had recommended a (once well-respected) builder who happened to suffer a nervous breakdown before our baby’s new room was completed.

“How is old Bob, anyway?” Bill asked.

I rushed to my ex-husband’s defense.

“Once Tripp and I designed and built a house together,” I said. “People used to sneak into our lawn and peak in the windows, they thought the design was so cute.”

“Cute,” said Bill. “So cute.” He fluttered his eyelids.

Finally, the kids took over, offering a tour of our new home that focused on the “his” and “hers” features.

“Hey Dad,” said Travis. “Look at our new couch. It’s supposed to go with some of the scary art Bill brought from his old house.”

“Hey Mom,” said Emily. “Check out our two refrigerators: one for our milk and chocolates, the other for Lisa’s and Travis’s soymilk and tofu deserts.”

Finally, we all stopped talking and started to sing. The plan was for Christmas carols, but I decided to insert a small amount of mayhem into the order of the day.

“How about we sing “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands?” I said.

Linda launched immediately into the song, and our littlest one clapped along, swinging her legs.

“Okay, how about BINGO?” said Linda.

“There was a farmer, had a dog, and Bingo was his name, oh...”

“Great!” said Linda, pulling a camera from her purse. “Why don’t you all pose with the baby?”

Next we sang Jingle Bells. As Bill, the kids and our ex-spouses belted out the song, a few tears spilled onto my cheek. It felt like a moment of happiness, among family members.

Five years later, we continue to celebrate our stepfamily Christmas with our ex-spouses. None of the adults dance around on the roof, yelling to Santa. None of the adults hug a toboggan or endure below-freezing temperatures to sing Christmas carols, like my parents once did.  But our stepfamily Christmas, with its unlikely guest list and fancy cheeses, is a tradition just as important--and hopefully as enduring--as singing in the cold, Santa-on-the-roof and sledding in the snow.

 

Lisa Cohn is co-author of One Family, Two Family, New Family: Stories and Advice For Stepfamilies (RiverWood Books). Contact her by visiting www.stepfamilyadvice.com.