How I Learned to Skip the Christmas Parade and Love Myself Anyway

I love parades, I really do. But I’ve done my bit. Over the years I took my five kids to parades galore, they got bundled up or adorned in costumes, they marched in them or not. At least until they weighed fifty pounds, I held them high so they could catch glimpses of Santa and pieces of flying candy. They drank hot chocolate and waved light sticks. We willingly froze for the Christmas parade. We survived the brawls in the car coming and going. Come hell or high water, we gave it our all.

And now, tonight, the parade is going on less than a mile from here, I can hear the thumping of the distant bands, and some of my kids are there, my granddaughter too. I have a wonderful friend who lives on the parade route and who always cooks the best stews or soup on this night for our fabulous group of friends. I could walk back and forth from this group of peers to various groups of young adults containing at least two of my family members. Most of the time I would think this was heavenly, an opportunity I couldn’t miss. But tonight I’m staying home. And that’s OK.

Could it be a cold coming on? Or could it be THE cold outside, those measly thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit? Just one little itsy bitsy dip and it will be one degree too cold for a spoiled old soul like me. Is it the lonesome walk from group to group? Did I eat lunch too late to be fighting my way towards that stew? Am I a little too far up the scale on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs? Or too far down?

I heard there were going to be fifteen bands, and I think that’s probably it. Interlopers from far and wide are coming to compete with our very own community kids’ music, dance and flag routines. Fire trucks from towns I’ve never heard of will be there. Vendors I’ve never seen before and whom I have no reason to trust will be selling pricey balloons and light sticks. I don’t want to rain on anyone’s parade, I just don’t want to go.

Then just now, thanks to modern technology conveying loving impulses across the swelling parade crowds, I get a text from my daughter saying “Miss you.” I picture my daughter and son-in-law at the parade, holding their daughter high. I picture my other daughter and son-in-law, bundled up in scarves and hats, offering cider and hot chocolate from the parking lot of their family store site. I picture my son and his partner, handsome, stylish, funny and warm. A silver flask of brandy in the deep lined pocket of a black wool coat. I picture my daughter in Texas, who's at the gym. I picture my daughter in New York, who's at the Laundromat. I picture my semi-gray-haired friends on the parade route with their mugs of mulled cider or beef bourguignon, steam piping out of their mouths as they cheer the floats on. And then I picture my precious granddaughter, her little face looking up - holding wonder like a cup - waiting for Santa.

OK. It's not too late. There’s no way I can skip this parade. Where are my keys? Where the hell’s my mother’s old mink coat?