An open letter from me to you, my inner child,

More times than not, Mother was a Grinch. In public, she radiated joy while at home her demeanor turned sour. I see now that it was as if she could pump her heart up for strangers and then, for you, deflate it two sizes too small. The pain of her malevolent behavior, preferential to holding contempt for only you, must have been why we loved Christmas so much. When you unintentionally spilled your milk, the company she favored shielded us from her ill-tempered disposition. When she pleasantly spoke with others, you stood alongside so we could all feel as if we were part of the conversation. Sometimes it was as if she smiled along with us. Christmas was the season where we felt as if we had a mother instead of a Grinch.


The need for a mother’s love compelled us to accept the one we were given. This made the truth so much harder for us all to see. We were so tenacious, and I do not blame you for how strong willed you became. Believing in Whoville was such a clever way for you to cope. In the days leading up to Christmas, you hoped all you had done would finally be enough. That your kindness and goodness would have a magical effect on Mother Grinch. You cleaned the house without being asked, made sure the larger ornaments were near the bottom of the tree, and pressed every cookie to perfection. On Christmas eve you sang and looked at our perfect family through the candlelit sanctuary of the church. Sadly, you did not differ from the individual deceived by the low lights of a bar. Christmas would end, and Mother dearest would go back to being a grinch. But now, like the Whos’ of Whoville, you must not let the memories of Mother Grinch steal away our Christmas.  
 
Sincerely,
We, You, and Us