Ba humbug

So this is Christmas…and what have I done? Another year over,a new one just begun.

And so this fucking Christmas—I’m not exactly having fun. My near, my dear ones…well, you get it.

A very merry fucking Christmas and a slightly crappy New Year. We can hope it’s a good one, without fear—or at least try.

I guess you catch the drift. Christmas used to be magic… until it wasn’t. Deep breath.

My mom is in rehab again—after breaking her hip for the fourth… or fifth time. I’ve honestly lost count. The general anesthesia (which I’m convinced is the real villain here) has only made her Alzheimer’s worse. I sit by her bed and remember things that feel warmer than this moment: her sea-foam green terry cloth robe—the softest hug in existence. My mother was the undisputed queen of terry cloth, because comfort mattered in our house.

I remember her playing classical piano symphonies after baking pecan thumbprint cookies and Nanaimo's that barely survived until Christmas. I remember Sunday roasts with mashed potatoes and pickled cabbage—things I didn’t appreciate until college taught me humility. I remember her perfect calligraphy, her sharp wit, her way with words.

Today is Christmas, and I sit beside her fragile body while she struggles to gather her thoughts, her words slipping away like they’re late for something. I wonder if she’s seen Ryan in her dreams—my son, who left too soon. I think about how fast life moves. The older you get, the faster it goes. And I wonder… who will I call when I’m sad? Who will I call when I need advice?

Grief has a way of bulldozing all the superficial wants and noise. It forces you into simplicity and makes you question what really matters. This Christmas, I pray to my creator to help me make sense of it all. Not just in the usual “what the fuck were you thinking?” way—yes, even about the café. I think that thought in the morning… and again at night.

Sometimes you have to let go and let the world—our creator—take the wheel. Destiny has opinions, after all. It’s like baking a scone: you follow the recipe perfectly, do everything right… and it still takes its own course. Uneven. Imperfect. Definitely not what you expected.

I am a strong woman. I know I will persevere. And I also know that being raw, honest, and truly myself is reflected in Alice’s Teapot Café. Because just because reality hits hard doesn’t mean we don’t deserve a moment to escape it.

So, with that—Merry Christmas. My gift to you is my truth, my soup, and my scones. 💛