Christmas, Part 3, Sweater Hell!

Skipping forward a bit, and it’s more a snapshot than a tale. After toys, in the era I refer to as sweater hell; you know, that zone where you are too old for childish things like toys, yet not old enough to require those practical gifts that are more for a house than for you. You remember those years in spent in limbo, don’t you? It’s a memory set after the completion of the extension onto the back of the Hart Street house, and many years before Alzheimer’s began to creep into my Nanny’s life. I’m a teen, not a child.

It was Christmas morning. We were opening gifts. Mom wanted Dad and me to open specific gifts together, gifts wrapped in boxes of identical size and shape. I was a little nervous about that, but I opened mine the same time my father opened his. And there it is, the terrycloth robe I’d asked for. I can’t remember if I asked for a specific colour, although I imagine I was thinking white, simple basic white, like in hotels. It was not plain white, it was striped, red and blue on white; the same as the one my Dad was holding up.

We were prompted to put them on and stand together to have our picture taken. Remember, I was a teen. I’d rather die. But of course, I had my picture taken with my Dad.

He was so happy that we had matching robes.

I got over my embarrassment. I got to like my robe, over time. It broke in. It was soft. It was warm. And I got over the fact that my dad had the same robe as I did.