>Let the Holidays Begin!
>When I was a child, Christmas break really was the most wonderful time of the year.
It was an endless stream of caroling, parties, visiting relatives, staying up late, sleeping in, and watching as much television as I wanted. It meant days of extravagant eating and plenty of gifts. It was synonymous with 20-odd days of complete and utter decadence, fun and frivolity.
And I had no idea then how hard my mom must have worked to make it that way.
I can just see her reading those words right now at her computer and smiling with great, long-awaited satisfaction as she realizes that I’m finally, finally appreciating her massive effort. But that appreciation, of course, comes at a cost.
Oh, enough dithering. I’m just going to say it.
Christmas kicked my ass.
Can I get an amen, mamas?
How could it not? From Thanksgiving on, my calendar has overflowed-eth with lists of things to buy, recipes to prepare, traditions to fulfill, freelance work to complete, events to attend, cards to mail out, parties to host, concerts, movies, ballets, choir rehearsals, church services, charity work, wrapping, baking, Bible story reading, singing, crafting, online ordering, phone calls, family hosting, school plays, school parties, school feasts, holiday pictures, and on and on and on and on and on.
As of right now, two days post-Christmas, I feel like an extra on The Walking Dead— and I’ve still got another ten days before the kids go back to school. Another ten days of memory-making, crafting, game-playing, baking, reading, singing, puzzle-working, cleaning up Moon Dough, etc., yadda, and all that stuff. Holiday, shmoliday. I NEED SOME REST.
During my first couple of years of (step)motherhood, I railed at my fate. What the hell had happened to the Christmas I remembered? Where were my cozy evenings spent with a good book by a warm fire while seasonal music played softly in the background? My mornings spent nestled deep in down blankets while snow fell in soft drifts on the ground outside? Of course, when the holidays approached my husband helped where he could, but let’s get real. Most of the gift-buying is left to the woman of the house. Not to mention the baking. And the hostessing. And the wrapping. And the moving of the Elf on the Shelf. And the decorating. And the tree trimming. And the kids’ scheduling. And the… the everything.
It took me a few years before I realized that it was time for me to rethink the holidays entirely. They were no longer the stuff of my childhood, and probably never would be again. Once I became a mom, like it or not I became the family Magic Maker at Christmas time. And the sooner I accepted my role and all the extra hours that came with it, the better for everyone.
These days, I enter the holiday season mentally girded for hours and hours of careful labor. One false move and the person who didn’t get a family Christmas card is left with hurt feelings. The child that didn’t get the sold-out Pillowpet can’t be consoled. The boy who finds the stocking stuffers in Mommy’s closet realizes that Santa isn’t real after all. For moms, the holidays are a minutely-planned, meticulously executed, enormous labor of love.
We do it, of course, because our houses and apartments really do look wonderful with Christmas lights strung up and an ornament-laden tree in the corner. We do it because it brings back memories of our own childhood Christmases. We do it most of all to see the rapturous looks on our kids’ faces as they experience the enchantment of the magical Christmas we have conjured up for them. Of course, they have absolutely no idea of all the work that went into making that magic possible. But that’s okay.
Maybe some day they’ll grow up and blog about it.
I’m tired now, yes, but despite the fact that I’ve got another week and a half of entertaining my little ones 24-7, I’m feeling pretty darn good. After all, the Mom Holiday season rolls around a few days after the New Year, and this particular Mom Holiday is a very special one for me.
After six straight years of having one or more children at home pretty much all day, every day, my 3-year-old will be starting preschool. And while I’m a little ashamed to say it, I won’t be weeping after I drop him off for the first time (Okay, I might be weeping a little. But it will pass. Quickly.) For the first time in practically as long as I can remember, I will have more than a few scraped together hours a week to myself. I’ll spend the bulk of that time working, which is the point of enrolling him in preschool in the first place, but right now it’s enough to know that I could get a manicure if I wanted to. I could go see a movie. I could shop for a new curtain rod. I could! I COULD!
The Mom Holidays are coming! The Mom Holidays are coming!
JOY TO THE WORLD.
