Immunity

A Christmas Story

"Your poetry is bad and you blame the news"

-Lana del Ray

In the end we did what we always did: we got used to it. We had gotten used to headlines, to the breaking news jingle that caused Pavlovian sweats. The small talk among distant relatives who playfully tried to target everyone’s everyday stress and yet avoid it, which made it impossible to switch off even in those trivialities. The lack of compulsive friendliness in public spaces did the rest. We had gotten used to the constant loss of confidence in the government and its representatives. A democratic society that was more than the sum of its parts still felt possible yet only in a rudimentary way. We had gotten used to a lower standard of living – sunken to a level that still allowed the idiots to deny the expressed concerns of others, to devalue them as 'first world problems'.

We had gotten used to interacting with ourselves or with frustrated people on the Internet, who tried to play off different forms of suffering against one another as if pain wasn't an expression of a lack of attention, as if a child's screaming was alleviated by pointing to another kid who had fallen from an even higher seesaw, as if your nose stops running when you bump your foot. Everything had become a zero-sum game: condos downtown, work or day-care centers. In some cases we even adjusted to things.

I now own different types of sweatpants: those for video conferencing, nicer ones for official work occasions, and those for purposes that used to be the responsibility of all my older sweatpants. Our evening plans had risen into unimagined spheres of creativity. We watched films sorted by topic or creator and had rediscovered old board games that, at the beginning of our relationship, served as pseudo-ironic pauses to regain some strength between sex. Now we sat fully clothed on the couch, a red wine glass in one hand and a couple of Jacks from a deck of cards in the other, grumbling at each other when the other took too much time. There was coolness between us that I could never have allowed myself before my 30th birthday. In my best moments in the last few months, I always felt a vague pride in the three of us, a pride that I usually only know from sports. A pride in what we had achieved. Proud that the wine now was from the double-digit price shelf and tasted like it. But I was just as proud of the simple and fundamental observation that bitterness had still not gained the upper hand. Fatigue, yes. Dark circles under our eyes, thinning hair, oily skin, a regular inability to have a conversation at the breakfast table – absolutely. But nothing that I would like to call bitterness, an unavoidable certainty, a self-fulfilling prophecy in the triumphant march of neoliberalism, an evil cliché of declining youth and routine in the second decade of marriage. Bitterness as the opposite of control. And in my good moments, I was still the architect of my own’s deep sleep, even without Melatonin since election night.

“Does she want to see me again?” I ask Christian when he comes out of the nursery.

"Always," he says with a slight grin, which still has a slight effect on me. "But not tonight." Christian goes to the refrigerator, opens a beer, and falls onto the couch.

"Unpacking presents makes you tired, apparently,” he says while looking at the Christmas tree. "Do you think she'll believe us next year that Santa Claus exists?"

"I think she already doesn't believe us anymore," I say, get up with a groan and get myself a beer. When I present this to Christian in a somewhat theatrical way, he wordlessly shows the palms of his hands to prove his remorse.

"No? She told me all of last week where and how I should send Santa her wish list."

"Your daughter still misses her friends from kindergarten and is already playing you like her recorder."

“Is she doing that?” Christian asks, an unexpected irritation in his voice. His mother has suffered from depression his whole life and whenever he feels he is accused of falling into a stereotype of masculinity, a guilt seems to rise that he doesn’t care enough for her. A guilt that, I decide, makes him a good father.

"I don’t think you realize how early girls start flirting with the men in their life," I try to change the topic. A gag about recorders and their phallic early education is buzzing in my head, but I suppress it.

"So you mean that soon, I’ll finally be able to be the ‘shotgun father’ that I always wanted to be?"

“Let’s let off some steam,” I reply, seeing an unwrapped present under the tree. “Have we forgotten something?” I ask:. “Is that something for me ... something that has to wait until the kid is in bed” My flirting is rusty but so what. It's Christmas, damn it.

“Oh. That’s for Emma. Something extra… a, well, an add-on for her Harry Potter game", says Christian quickly, and to escape this suddenly-embarrassing moment he adds, “Sometimes my mom had an extra gift under the tree on the day after Christmas. It was one of her traditions. And still a surprise for me, every year.”

An envious lump forms in my throat. But envious of what? Of my own daughter and the attention she is stealing from my husband? Of my mother-in-law? That embodiment of nuclear domesticity and, by the way, a 5-foot 2-inch symbol that parents always love their children more than their partners? Whatever it was, it was primitive. Wasn't envy always a secondary feeling anyway? A placeholder, a diversion, a proxy war? It's always easier to turn the pain of your own emptiness into anger. And if this had been a good moment, I would have allowed myself to acknowledge this. Instead, however, I push, "I don't know if I think it's good that we raise Emma so she thinks Christmas is every day."

"Every day?" replies Christian with justified indulgence and now I’ve really started something..

"I always hated the spoiled girls at school."

"Huh?"

Christian is just as confused as I am while I watch myself digging the grave that I apparently want the entire evening to fall into. "We have to be careful that Emma doesn't come to school next week ..."

"The week after next," says Christian and at least here I'm awake enough to ignore it.

"... She's going back to school in the new year and I don't want her telling everyone that her Santa Claus has been giving her presents all week."

"And, just so we can understand each other, " Christian is now truly annoyed “In your opinion she is doing this because tomorrow she will be allowed to unwrap one present, the spoiled brat."

"You should have discussed this with me."

"Ah!"

"No!"

"So that's what it's about?"

"No!"

"Then what?"

I look out of the window. “I don't know.” Suddenly I feel the accumulated stress of the year. Like the flu on the second day of vacation, like a sunburn after waking up. Bodies are smart systems. Since the sixth grade I have been sick every year February, one week after final exams. Never before. Until I graduated from high school, it was my immune system’s purpose to determine when the virus outbreak occurred instead of acting against it. It always prioritized grades over my immunity.

“Whatever it is,” says Christian with sagging shoulders: “I'd rather argue about that.” He speaks with a laziness that men of the upper middle use to lend their ordinary words a sheen of intellectual authority: ‘In contrast to its name, the Cold War was anything but cold' ... 'Extremism must always be rejected, regardless of whether it comes from the right or the left' ... ‘Let’s reach across the aisle’ … ‘Time heals all wounds’... ‘Common Sense’ ‘Common Sense’ ‘Common Sense.’ The rimless glasses in the editor-in-chief, the unnecessarily expensive pen over the empty notepad – these are just a few props of the theater of the radical center. And I always have to be careful not to direct  my hatred for this ignorant world at the one person with whom I vowed to walk through it. Association and minefields are alike in that you can’t roam either without throwing up at least some rubble.

I keep staring out the window. It's still Christmas. It won't snow until the end of January and my husband went to the fridge and didn't offer me a beer. He looks at me. He's tired too. Except that his lack of energy leads to passivity. "Hm," he nods and wants me to describe what is actually going on.

“Do you think our daughter will remember today? In, let’s say, five years? Ten?"

Christian thinks. With open eyes and one hand on the hip and in front of the forehead. Thinking pose, but authentic. "Yes," he says and I can tell he wants me to ask how exactly he means that.

"What do you mean?"

"Counter question: If I asked you how you celebrated Christmas when you were six or seven years old, could you answer it?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

“Whether you ask me what gifts I got or what we had to eat. I don't remember that. "

"But?"

“But if you ask me how I felt, how Christmas felt to me at that age, then I can tell you what I remember, because I can describe a feeling."

"And what do you remember?" Christian is now sitting next to me, balancing his beer on the high edge of the couch while resting his chin on it. A disarming attitude that, well, works.

“It was good,” I say, and it is no coincidence that I am unfurling my southern accent in this moment.

"And how do you think Emma will answer this question?"

“Similarly, I hope. I think."

Christian's head rises back between his shoulders. He has the answer he wanted: “Good.” Dramatic pause: “So this is about you, yes? Or us? "

I examine my fingernails in front of the bottle neck to buy time: "I'm tired."

"Hmm," growls Christian. It is better than any “me too,” even if that is exactly what he is saying.

Honesty is a far more complicated code than you might think in a marriage with a child who is learning to lie. Your own lies are also getting more and more complicated. Can the daughter be best protected by explaining the world to her, describing it to her, in all its brutality? And yet, in the battles of parenthood, we are always on defense. Every day that keeps cold and stupidity and loneliness out of our house is a day won. But the question remains: How much immunity against the world does a child need? The other day, when Zoom school had ended, Emma asked me with the directness of a seven- year-old whether we had slaves in our family. When I asked why she asked, she told me about Josh. I did not fully understand her story. Who knows what her classmate actually meant, but according to Emma's story, it sounded like Josh regularly bragged that his great-grandfather fought for the Confederacy. Later that evening I asked Christian whether Josh's father was the one who couldn't contain himself on parents’ night and who, even during small talk, mumbled “Deep State”. Christian didn't know either, but we agree that it had to be.

“I think,” Christian begins a monologue that he has been preparing in his head for the last few seconds (or days),  “I'm a little proud of us. So ... between my unemployment, worries about your parents, all the Zoom meetings and, let’s not forget, the triumph of global right-wing populism, our daughter is getting more and more annoying – she hasn't been cute for years. And we haven't been to the cinema or bar for months. I would like to just hold onto that here and now. The fact that we haven’t cut each other's throats is an achievement."

I don’t say anything, make no joke and do not reply. Christian is confused. "Don't you think so?"

"I don't know," I say truthfully. This is not a good moment.

"We managed that, despite all the shit, in 15 years Emma won’t start her second therapy session with that one traumatic Christmas story, that turned her into that bleak economics student."

“You know that this question is not answered until puberty. If at all."

"Ok, accepted. But up to this point ... "

Now he's got me and I grin. “I don't know if I can accept that. Sometimes I think we were just waiting for this moment. So, finally, we can have an excuse. I hate low standards. Every mediocre television series has to be seen, everything that is not completely insane I'm told to applaud and be grateful for. Oh, great … another news anchor feigns anger, that will solve our problems. And now everyone is clapping for the night nurses. ” I have to stop myself and do this by going to the refrigerator.

"Can we stay here in the room, please." Christian crossed his legs. He's not wrong, of course, although his tone insults me again with its arrogance.

“Ok,” I say while letting out my anger rise. “Let's stay in the room. Here! As you sit there, in a psychotherapeutic posture, and immediately tell me that all my anger at would-be dictators and boomers and climate change... and... economic-anxiety-terrorism is just a reflection of me. That it's really only about my discomfort with being personal, that I feel guilty." My anger has migrated from the bottle opener into my clenched fist: "Because... because we have a daughter who we can only protect if this world gets its shit together. Where do we draw the line, Christian? Where do we draw the line between the things that we can influence and the things that just suck, but are not in our control? I like to recycle, I really like to do it. But I'm so done pretending that it has any influence. How should I feel about this?"

Christian is too smart to answer right away. He's looking for my eye contact, but I'm not in the mood for it. “Guilt sucks,” he says finally, a little helpless and a little cocky. It fades just as one might assume. “Does it do anything if I tell you that there is no reason for you to feel guilty? And that in the end it doesn't matter what scares you."

“No idea, just give it a try,” I say while I start to cry. Christian comes into the kitchen and hugs me, which allows me to let go a little more. It's a good 30 seconds before I start again, still believing that I have to explain myself. "I've never felt so out of control."

“Me neither,” Christian says, and suddenly and fleetingly I understand again what he meant with his sentence about pride. “Sometimes it’s nice to feel no responsibility.” Usually my husband's neurotic optimism is an abomination, I find it to be inauthentic nonsense, but at this moment I don't want anything else.

"I think in the end all I want…"

"Mom!" Emma yells, who suddenly stands in the kitchen. She’s  dragged her blanket over her shoulders with her. "I'm scared."

"Scared? What are you scared of?” I ask without even needing a second to switch to mom mode. In one movement I wipe my cheek, get on my knees and stroke Emma's forehead. It is incredible what a power, despite all the clichés, motherhood emanates.

"I don't know," says Emma: “Monsters?" It's more of a question than an answer, which communicates that she can't sleep and needs an excuse not to stay in bed. Our evening routine, also on Christmas Eve. I pick her up and carry her back to bed, where I let her down between her stuffed animals.

“Did you cry?” Emma asks me.

"Yes," I am telling the truth.

"Why?"

"I was a little sad, but that will pass," I reply without being able to clearly say whether I am lying.

"Why?"

“I'll tell you that tomorrow,” I lie, hoping that by then she will have forgotten. I now see Christian's idea with the bonus gift on Christmas Day in a completely different light. I say goodnight to my daughter, kiss her on the forehead and because she is a smart child, she lets me out the door without further questions.

Back in the living room, Christian takes two glasses out of the cupboard and fills them with brown alcohol. And ice cubes. He hands me a glass while standing, his own leaning against his chest. “Cheers,” he says, trying to be solemn.

"Yes," I say. "I agree."

And so we stand there. The fairy lights flicker from the tree to the window and back. "Hey Google, play depressing music," I command, and for the first time tonight I think of myself as funny. The machinery obeys and Christian and I fall deeper and deeper into the couch. It takes a few songs before I have the impulse to say something: “Did I ever tell you that I wanted to run a triathlon? That was before you. I started training and it never took more than 20 minutes before it shot me in the legs or my shoulders. Endurance sports are so boring. Painfully boring. I picked it up so many times ... and after a few minutes I stopped and went back for a walk. Well ... anyway, I was never in shape and had discarded that idea. And suddenly it comes back to me, by e-mail: ‘We look forward to your participation next weekend.’ I forgot to unsubscribe and the entry fee was paid. So, I go, start a triathlon. Without training, without equipment. Without a swimming cap and with a bike from my friend. And what should I say. It was great. I wasn't the last one, on the contrary ... the last two miles I was flying. My friends were at the finish line. You know this feeling when the adrenaline takes over, controls you completely? Don't ask me about my time, but at the finish I was so ... happy. I was really happy."

Christian doesn't look at me, he knows that I just couldn't stand it if he did.

“I'm afraid it won't get better,” I say. “I don't want to get used to all of that. I can take anything, I can even enjoy everything, maybe as long as I know where the damn finish line is. But nobody knows where the damn finish line is. We invent finish lines. 'Next year' everything will be better, resolutions, with the new government... blah... when the kids are out of the house, after the promotion. ... there is no finish line. Only morons believe in finish lines. We have given birth to a child and the poles are melting. Where is the finish line there? "

Christian drinks and nods. I drink and nod. Before he gets up, he orders the machinery to play Kacey Musgraves and extends his hand. “Come on.“ I take his hand. I'm just as drunk as I am willing to throw myself further into my theatrics and we rock, our wrists twisted between us.

After a while and into complete silence, between two songs and between my thoughts that left the room a few verses ago, Christian whispers: "So... it should have been the diamond ring."

I would normally roll my eyes now. Normally I would let Christian feel that I see his cheap jokes as a minimization of my worries, my stress, my pain. Normally I would tell him that I cannot take his optimism, his neurotic tendency seriously. Normally I would argue against my bitterness at this point. Normally I would try to show strength the way I know to show strength. But maybe this is one of my good moments. Maybe I don't have to. Maybe I'm bitter. Maybe I’m just tired. I'm definitely drunk, my husband is holding my hand, and for at least a few more moments, it’s Christmas, damn it.