I don’t engage in the tradition of baking Christmas cookies with my children. It’s not due to a lack of love for cookies, cooking, or my kids. One might assume these passions would make for a delightful experience. However, the reality is that the act of baking sends my heart racing, and I often find myself breathless. I rush through the process, desperately trying to finish, all while engaging in a mental pep talk: “I’m okay. It’s fine. I can handle this.” The tension doesn’t ease until the last cookie is out of the oven and the kitchen is spotless. The urgency to clean everything immediately—even with a dishwasher at my disposal—overwhelms me.
This compulsive need to restore order stems from a voice in my head that echoes my mother’s critical judgments. Although she lives four hundred miles away, her presence looms large in my mind, continuously scrutinizing my every move. In my dreams, I see her glaring at me, while in reality, that judgmental gaze feels just as potent.
When I was fourteen, my mother insisted we bake Christmas cookies as a family. We had a charming collection of cookie cutters, passed down through generations, that should have made the experience enjoyable. Instead, the process was a chaotic mix of mess and her disapproval. With every sprinkle scattered, her signature sighs filled the air, amplifying my anxiety. The hours dragged on, and the cookies, once completed, were left uneaten for weeks, only to be discovered when they had turned stale.
That year, I finally asserted myself. I declared my refusal to participate in the cookie-making process and retreated to my room with a book. My declaration was met with outrage. My parents, united in their disapproval, confronted me. My father’s harsh words cut deep, branding me as ungrateful. The confrontation escalated, and I braced myself for punishment. I was determined not to face corporal punishment again. As he advanced toward me, I instinctively took a defensive stance, remembering my karate lessons. It felt empowering for a fleeting moment until my parents, both much larger than me, overpowered me. They dragged me out of the house, locking me out until I was “ready to act like an adult.”
Standing on the porch in my stocking feet, I felt a mix of shock and defiance. My survival instincts kicked in, and I dashed to the back of the house, managing to slip inside to grab my shoes. But my father was waiting for me. I calmly stated my intentions and stepped back outside, leaving my coat behind. I wandered through the neighboring yards until I reached Hannah’s house, a former babysitter who I hoped would understand. She and her mother listened to my story, but their advice to be patient felt hollow. I returned home, knowing nothing would change.
Upon my return, my parents imposed further punishment, preventing me from singing with the church choir at Christmas Mass. I felt the weight of their decisions keenly as I watched the choir perform without me, fighting back tears. My father’s praise for my supposed dignity in bearing the punishment felt like a mockery.
So, no, I don’t bake sugar cookies with my kids. The guilt of avoidance stings, especially this year when I’m unable to sing due to my struggles with PTSD. I thought I had reconciled my feelings, but the absence of musical engagements has left me facing the truth of my avoidance. I long for the freedom to create joyful memories with my children, to embrace the chaos of baking together, but that’s simply not possible right now.
In reflection, I wonder if Hannah’s mother should have intervened during my distress. Perhaps it was for the best that she didn’t. I wish I could keep my past as mere memories, not triggers that pull me back into a state of panic. I truly want to bake cookies with my kids and to sing again, but for now, those dreams remain just out of reach.
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Summary
I’ve avoided baking Christmas cookies with my children, not due to a lack of affection for them or the activity, but because of deep-rooted anxieties linked to my past. Memories of baking with my critical mother haunt me, making the process overwhelming. My childhood experiences of conflict and punishment have left scars that affect my present. As I navigate my struggles with PTSD and the longing to create joyful memories, I grapple with the weight of those memories and the hope for healing.
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