Spreading some cheer? Spread some here

I get Jennie Ridyard: my Christmas bells just ain’t jingling.

This family has always had a “green” Christmas (read no money, stick tree, hand-painted stones and a gift limit of R30 each for the 14 people around that tree).

But this Christmas there won’t be 14 … just six – and I don’t blame Covid. Because the most important guest, the reason we do the sticks and stones, won’t be there: my granddaughter with her flaming red hair and the only person I allow to call me “Ouma”. And I love her because she doesn’t allow me not to love her back.

We’re fighting a very positive fight in the family court to have visitation rights put in place legally, but it’s a long, long process, with many, many hurdles, as Judge Judy told me many moons ago about impossible mothers wanting to write rightful fathers and a specific grandmother out of their child’s life.

Hardly a week ago, we heard from the same Judge Judy “you won’t see her in December”. Forget her father and her birthdays this month. She can’t call and neither can we.

Forget that the restraining order against little redhead’s dad was dropped last week: he can knock on the door again, insisting to see her. Only the “good” mother won’t open up for the “bad” father.

So we’ll just forge ahead legally – forge, a word I’m learning to hate – and just love you in our minds and memories.

And I hope, my little beautiful six-year-old girl, you still love us in your mind. What do I know about what you’ve been told about not seeing us, talking every night for the past eight months?

Personally? The law needs to move; slightly faster. I served the “how-dare-you-ignore-the-family-court” notice at mother’s doorstep two weeks ago with dad’s “restraining order” at that time still firmly in place, because Judge Judy said “it’s best; the law is busy and she needs to not use the excuse she’s getting the court order too late”.

I also dropped off a little advent calendar and R30 gifts hoping you’ll count off the days with us – and that on Christmas Eve we can take you around our suburb looking for all the best lit-up houses. But every year you tell me: “Your house is the best.”

Not this year. Merry Christmas.

Carine Hartman.

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