Do you remember how MAGICAL Christmas was as a kid? The lights. The presents. The time with my cousins and family. Endless cookies. Presents. Santa and his spectacular magic. It. Was. Amazing.
Fast forward thirty years and two kids. Holy shit…I need more moscato. Never do we ever get the lights up before it’s 9 f’in degrees…and there’s no attempted sexual favor negotiations for my husband to do it.
There’s the cleaning. Keep the house spotless for family in town…cause God forbid I let family see a stack of clothes or the box of g’damn fruit loops in our couch cushions. Don’t get me started on the pee stains on my toilet seat: husband or toddler? I’ll never know, but neither know how to clean it yet. (Ok I’ll admit, this one is basically because I have issues.)
There’s all of the presents. My daughter’s Santa list this year: a real dog, a real cat, and a real monkey. This is the kind of pressure that only moscato can help me with. First glass: “Time to learn the truth about Santa…I don’t care if you’re only 5.” Second glass: “I’ll just buy her 1853 other things and maybe she’ll forget.” Third glass: “The world is tough. She can’t get everything she wants: socks and books only.” Last glass (drunk at 12am baking for the class party tomorrow): “Maybe Zulily has a cat on two-day shipping.”
Oh and that—that was just the wine it took me to get my daughter taken care of. There’s the husband, the parents, the in-laws, friends, secret Santa at work, teachers, giving tree, and “Better throw something nice in there for myself cause this generous shit is a lot of work.” Make that two things…my husband will probably forget the only damn gift he has to buy.
The running. And not the kind that keeps the sugar cookies from accumulating on my ass. The kind that means we have three Christmases in one day. Add the guilt trip. Multiply the sugar and swear words. Minus the sleep. And divide the happy married life. There’s extra trips to the grocery store, Target, the post office, the mall, and (my favorite) the liquor store. I feel like I need a personal assistant.
The family. The sister-in-law who wants you to get the gift for the parents, then gets mad cause you spent too much. The grandma who is just a bit “too honest” or political to be able to enjoy a meal without awkwardness. My own kids, who will inevitably have a fit about a gift or another treat…or even repeat one of my favorite four-letter words and mortify me.
The lack of sleep. Am I the only one who can only wrap presents at midnight? (And no matter how hard I try they never look “pretty”…serious thoughts of putting stuff in Target bags have occurred in the wee hours of wrapping.) Schedules are off. Kids don’t sleep, and if they do it’s with their knee in my back.
The old memories Christmas stirs up. My heart aches when I think of Christmases past: cherished moments baking with my Grandma, my Grandpa cutting the ham, Carefree Christmas parties with friends. Less work. More magic. And people I adored who I can’t anymore.
There are some good things: sugar cookies and wine. Haha…I kid. There’s more: My kids eyes when they’re searching for “Twinkle” our pesky Elf on the Shelf. The look people get when you give them “the perfect gift”. Christmas Mass and teaching the littles about the nativity and the real meaning of Christmas. The tears in the eyes of the bell ringer when you bring him hot packs for his hands, a coffee, and a snickers. The music. The generousity. Uncle Eddie in a bathrobe…at least three times.
So…I guess it’s not all bad…but then again, maybe that’s the wine talking.
For real though, Merry Christmas to my crew. I love you guys…it really is a magical time of year if you open your heart to it. I hope you experience more magic than mayhem this Christmas.
Cheers.