It was early in the morning, three
days before Christmas. I was in bed with
my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more
reality. I had retired to bed late the
previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the
house snored peacefully in the background.
I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a
better place with him alive. Then I’d
turned off the TV and gone to bed.
Years ago when my children were
young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition. But ever since my four darlings had entered
puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a
black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy……no matter how many tears it
cost their mother. My husband had sided
with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual
alone.
Still in bed, I opened my eyes and
stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca. The grogginess had lifted enough for me to
realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions
bothered me. Sometime in the night I’d
assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a
ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children. I was painfully aware of them but unable to
interact with anyone. Though I stood
directly in their path, they were entirely oblivious of me.
The worst part wasn’t my sudden
ghostliness. Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t
communicate with the ones I loved. What
weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my
family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence. No one had stopped for even a second to
question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of
effort searching the house for me. They
simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish
activities each had planned for the day.
No one missed me. It was disheartening.
The fact that my entire family had
opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver. I may as well have been a real ghost for as
little as I was wanted. In truth, every
other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family
could go right on functioning without me.
My goal as a parent had always been
to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent; so I had
succeeded. That was good! But I felt miserable nonetheless.
Pulling the covers over my head, I
curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of the fact
that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.
I was jolted awake—startled
upright. A glance at the clock showed
I’d overslept by a couple hours. Five
unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me. I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking,
“Moth—er!” that had awakened me. The silence accompanying four tight stares
only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared
beneath my eyes.
“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking
at once.
“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take
me.”
“Because I can’t, Bratilda. I
told you, I’m scheduled to work…”
“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”
“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”
“No, no, no way! He hasn’t done
one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”
“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at
the mall…”
“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed? You said you’d have it ready for my concert
tonight…”
“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork
concert tonight! I have that Christmas
cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”
Just then, my husband squeezed his
head in. “Hunny? Have you seen my car keys
anywhere?”
If in reality I were to wake up and
find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to
function. But my dream had been
wrong. My family needed me, even if I
was slightly taken for granted. The
truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos. Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had
nothing on mine.
