Negative 40 degrees. Negative 40 degrees. Negative 40 degrees.

This is the chill that we arrive to my Oma's house and home too at almost dark morning.

My father decides to have a bit of fun, after my sister fought father with cloths options.

"Father! I wish to wear my stripped leggings and shirt!"

"Have you gone mad? Do you know how cold it 'tis outside?! If the car was to stop and we would have to wave for help outside you may freeze to death!"

"It couldn't be that cold, could it?!"

Which is the reason that now my sister and myself have been insisted upon my father to try to succeed in running up the up hill driveway, more then 100 yards long. Against us the 20 miles an hour wind, already 20 below nothing.

Negative 40 degrees.

Negative 40 degrees.

The first moments outside of the car, I feel energy and power runs through me with the pounding chill.

After a few moments though, I begin to feel a bit weak.

But I still put every ounce of strength into trying to outrun the wind beating against me.

I try to overcome the wind.

But I can't.

I begin to feel weaker and weaker.

Guided by the light of the head lights, I try to turn around on the wind and bang on the door, telling my father I am ready to get back inside.

He drives on.

The wind pushes me farther away from safety, until the car is much out of my reach.

Now it begins to throw me violently.

And at the moment my clutched fists had banged once, twice, on the metal door of the car before he drove on, an overwhelming sickness had come over me.

Maybe part of it is fear.

No, call in terror.

Part of it is the shear cold that I feel, not really the thought of being left behind by my daddy.

But the sickness I still feel is much different.

I felt as if I was to vomit, my stomach leaping in bounds, my throat growing hot and red.

I try to scream to my father for help, along side my sister.

But the beating, pounding wind that is swallowing us both, takes away our screaming and crying voices before we can hear them for ourselves.

But Father does stop.

And we must run for our lives one more time before we can reach the welcoming cramped car.

I'll never doubt him again.

Nor the snow.

When we arrive to the front door, my family can immediately tell I hadn't been in the cold a long time.

I had speared my entire face with Burt's Bees, making red thick rings around my mouth, past my lips. I look like a clown.

They only laugh, and welcome me inside with hugs and laughter.

Together, we all piled into their three vans, for it was many of my tante's and their older children joined with my Oma.

Our family had rented a Swedish cottage in the middle of town for the night for the perfect family gathering, the first one in more then five years.

For this, it reminds me of another reason that we have come up North to our home country for Christmas again.

Opa is growing ill.

Opa is getting older, and weaker.

Father knows the sad truth.

We might lose him soon.

This can be our last Christmas with him.

We have come to say good-bye.

When we arrive, hugs and hugs from all around.

We are home.

Almost two dozen grandchildren.

Almost 10 great-grandchildren.

6 tantes on my father's side, plus one uncle.

The oldest tante has four children, already having children of their own, serving in the army, or her youngest, receiving countless scholarships for her national talent of sports.

My closest cousins are three years older then me.

So many older then me.

So many younger ones, too.

Seven.

Seven children.

Younger then my sister.

Younger then me.

Cousins, or second cousins, not even counting every tiny babe we love to play with on pick nick blankets.

I try to fit in, honestly, I do.

But, no matter where I go, whether school, or home, or family, or church, I am the outcast.

To young for the old.

To old for the young.

I try to dance with the children to the sound of the gay, merry music that plays in the back round.

I pick them up and twirl them around, then set them down with a kiss on the cheek.

Only one of them comes with me with open arms.

The rest run away, calling me names.

"Monster."

The first child to scream this name, is actually perhaps one of my favorites of the children, for some very strange reasons.

Have they all really forgotten me?

Everything I have done with them?

Every walk?

Every babysit?

Only 6 months before we had taken our annual vacation to our home and family.

I have known them from the days they were born.

I had watched them take their first steps.

I was once their best friends.

Why have I been forgotten?

I may know why.

This year, is the first year, I am no longer a child in my family.

When it was present time, and the children gathered around the glistening Christmas tree. Under it, dozens and dozens of Christmas presents for them.

I am not aloud to sit in the circle.

I tower over the children.

I guess am a monster.

The tantes now have made me one of them.

But I still am the one that sits alone at the supper.

I am now an old one now.

But I am still the youngest.

Why did I have to grow up?