What Mothers Really Want for Christmas

It’s not that expensive.

Christmas is magical. It’s the smell of Christmas tree, the sparkle of glitter from decorations, the light of garlands, powdered sugar from cookies on your face; it’s bubbles from the lemonade tickling your nose when you sit at the table full of your favorite dishes; it’s the gifts and laughter of your loved ones.

When we are little, we believe that Santa, Father Frost (in Soviet times), or Little Jesus (in the Czech Republic) bring Christmas presents and create a holiday atmosphere. Then we grow and learn that our mothers and grandmothers did it. We realize it when suddenly there is no one to do it for us anymore.

Or when we have our own kids and realize it’s our job now. And it is a job. A full-time, tiring job of being a good mom and grandma. I read somewhere that good parents are those who give so much love to their kids that it lasts them for a lifetime.

The love, the energy that we give — we have it until we don’t. This year, I felt I couldn’t do it anymore. Last year, I tried my best, but I only got tired and frustrated, and it didn’t end well. I thought of writing that all that mothers really want for Christmas is for it to be over. Successfully over: with everyone happy with the gifts and the food, and us mothers with the clean house and peace of mind.

I read a story about gifts for Christmas that included ordering house cleaning as a gift for mothers. It’s a wonderful gift. Do you know what’s even better? Cleaning the house with your mom or grandma. Cleaning and talking, opening each drawer, stumbling upon family photos, your ugly (let’s admit it) art projects from kindergarten and school, laughing, crying, and sharing stories and memories.

Cleaning the house was my favorite gift to give, and now it is my favorite to receive. Perhaps because I’ve cleaned so much when I was young, I hate cleaning now. When my grown-up kids clean the apartment every week and leave for the evening, or, if I’m lucky, for the entire weekend, I can’t be happier. Not just because it’s clean but because I feel their love and appreciation. They hated cleaning before I understood myself and explained to them that cleaning the house is about showing love, refilling, and maintaining the level of my and our home’s energy.

I asked my oldest son why it takes the whole day for him to clean our tiny apartment. “I could clean it in two hours, and I do when alone. But when you’re home, you tell stories, we laugh, it’s fun, and I don’t want it to end.”

In summer, we clean our big closet together. I pretend like I can’t do it by myself and that I need their strong hands to move the containers. “Oh, look, Mom, it’s my first tennis racquet! Wow, do you remember how you were my coach?” “Mama, look, it’s my violin! Oh, why is it so small?” “Mama, here’s our Lego!” “And my books!”

I look at them, smiling, and it brings back the memories of me cleaning with my grandmother, my Babushka. I spent every summer at her house in a small Moldovan village in Ukraine. It had so many traditions and rituals, and the people were so judgmental that preparations for Christmas began in summer.

It was not enough to clean but to whitewash and repaint the house. The most important ritual was cleaning the chimneys — a sole responsibility of every respected housewife. Men, or professional chimney sweeps, were not allowed. It was a competition in thoroughness, meticulousness, and “everythingfromsrcatchness.”

Whitewashing with a store-bought brush? Pffff, no way, loser. We had to find special grass that, I kid you not, grew best in the cemetery. Then dry it and make the brush. Then, slake the lime and steal special coarse sand from the collective farm to add to the lime for texture. God forbid the walls to be white. Adding a little blue coloring to the lime ensured a tone that made my grandma happy.

We went to the ravines for special clay and to the collective farm stable for straw and horse poo, which the guard allowed us to collect in exchange for a bottle of vodka. We needed that to rebuild the walls of the chimney that Babushka destroyed to reach and clean all corners. There were two stoves in the house, and the chimney of the second one was wide enough for her to climb into it and clean it thoroughly.

Dressed in my father’s old pants, ten sizes bigger, and an old grandfather’s shirt, she tied a bandanna around her head and climbed into that chimney. I had to make sure she didn’t fall, holding her big butt, praying, and trying not to laugh as she was cursing and swearing. Then she crawled out, all covered in soot and looked like a pirate. And we laughed. I bathed her, brushed her hair, and cleaned the mess.

The next day, we whitewashed and painted. When I was little, my grandmother didn’t allow me to whitewash. Each following summer, she trusted me more and more: first, to whitewash the inside wall of the stove and the wall covered by the carpet, then my grandfather’s room, then I did everything myself. In the last summer of her life, no one did it.

The third day was for cleaning, putting stuff back, and arranging the beds. Grandma liked her bed soft and high, like Princess and the Pea, with a thick mattress and several feather beds. Grandpa preferred to sleep on a hard bed, as he said, “on the ploughed field.” We laid woven carpets on his bed and put balls of socks or old clothes between them.

Some of these balls were my rompers and undershirts from when I was a baby. We knew they were there, but every time she looked surprised and showed them to me saying: “Look, your tights, see how small you were?” She told the stories from when I was little, how my parents left me, and she cared for me. Sometimes, Grandpa joined and shared his memories. Then we put those clothes back to discover them year after year, except the last summer of her life.

On the fourth day, I washed countless curtains and drapes. On each beam hung short curtains, three long framed each door, and nine curtains were on each window. I know. I asked my grandmother the same question. “Inside the window are three small white lace cotton curtains because I like them. Three tulle curtains on the cornice together with three curtains inherited from Nanasha (her godmother), according to tradition, passed on to our house and should hang here.”

If you think we used the washing machine to wash them, you’re wrong. I brought water from the well a block away from the house, heated it in large cauldrons over a fire, and washed those curtains with laundry soap in a huge trough. Then, I brought more water from the well, rinsed the curtains twice in cold water, and hung them to dry. If that is not love, I don’t know what is. I could warm the water with the heater or insist on using the washing machine, but it’s the way she wanted it, and it was important for her.

On the fifth day, I ironed those curtains and hung them under her guidance, adjusting every fold and arranging them how she wanted while she lay in the bed, telling stories, periodically switching to loud snoring.

“Babushka, I think I’ve washed and ironed enough curtains for three lifetimes. I will never have any in my house.”

And I never had.

I did whatever she asked, the way she wanted, but there was one closet I hated. It was the closet with the clothes and the stuff for her and Grandpa’s funeral. I had to take everything out to dry in the sun and put it back. And like it wasn’t enough, she’d come, sit near me, and comment on every piece I took out. “Aha, so this is my suit; make sure they put it on me. This is Grandpa’s shirt; he chose it.” He didn’t, but who cared? “Zina, these candles are for the church; I put a note. And those towels, you will put on the lid of the coffin.” “Babushka, please, I can’t. You will live forever. Please, ask someone else to do it; I can’t.” “But Zina, I will die, and I want my funeral to be perfect so no one can say that Zinova’s family didn’t care for her.” I would sit there, read the notes with her, and arrange the stuff how she liked it. Then close that damn closet, run to the vineyard, climb the cherry tree, and cry my heart out.

My mother wasn’t a good person and mother. But one year, we prepared for Christmas and New Year together. Surprisingly, she was in a good mood and told me stories about her childhood: how her mother adored her, prepared her favorite sausage for Christmas, and tied it around her neck like beads, and they laughed.

She told me stories while I cleaned her huge 5-bedroom flat with two carpets in each room and four curtains on each window, including the windows from three balconies. I cleaned it perfectly, the way she liked it. Just so that she would not yell and maybe even be happy for once. Then we went shopping, and on our way home, we saw that the Christmas tree seller had one last small and crooked tree left. “Let’s buy it,” said Mom. And we did. And she didn’t yell. Maybe because she was happy for once. Or because Christmas is magical.