bread

My mood got better after Christmas, just before New Year.  Right through the first part of the holidays, however, I was like a spider in water.  The discharge of my responsibilities over the festival was not the catharsis for which I was hoping, but I coped externally.  My mother-in-law-to-be, sensing perhaps some of my disquiet, called out to me as I left her home on Boxing Day, “Everything you do is socially acceptable to us.”  It was a kind thought.

This was of course the first Christmas I spent with the señor’s family as well as my own.  As the day approached I knew I was worrying unnecessarily–had I not had any number of happy evenings with them this year already (including that staple of extended families worldwide, drinking in the kitchen)?–and yet I still worried.  I wanted the gifts I’d had a hand in choosing to be appropriate.  “Of course they will be,” said the señor, “they’re from you”, and yet I couldn’t quite accept the idea that whatever I did would be fine.  I need not have worried–the prediction was correct–but I didn’t enjoy the feeling in the days before that I was worrying far too much about everything (when not worrying at all would have been the best way to approach things) and not quite being able to stop it.

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