Well, the
Halloween candy has been condensed down to one bowl, and all of the Fun Size
Snickers have been picked out of it. You know what that means. It's time for
Christmas preparation.
Am I the only one
who dreads this time of year? I make Scrooge look like Martha Stewart.
It used to start
after Thanksgiving, but nowadays, right after CVS marks down the flammable
SpongeBob Halloween costumes and moves them next to the laxatives, Christmas
takes over.
The boxed sets of
fugly, sparkly Christmas cards. The plastic candy cane tubes filled with red
and green M&Ms and topped with the severed heads of licensed kiddie
characters. The articles in women's magazines detailing easy methods for making
festive napkin rings out of things you can find buried under the sofa cushions.
Oh, God, I'm
depressed.
There's something
about a drugstore window display with cheap foil wrapping paper stapled to the
sides, featuring a Styrofoam snowman listing drunkenly, that makes me want to reach
for the Zoloft.
Every year it's
the same nonsense. I say I'm going to get everything done early. That's always
the plan. This way I can just shuffle through the actual day of Christ's birth
in a Zen-like fog, trying to find a happy place to go to in my brain so I can
calmly rise above the sugared-out children and the sullen adults tearing paper
off of L.L. Bean gift boxes. So I can pretend to be thrilled with the ten-pack
of trouser socks.
Who am I kidding?
I'm always the idiot at the dollar store on December 23rd looking
for stocking stuffers. I buy three packs of knock-off Dove soap and cheapo
crayons that are all wax and no tint. Hair scrunchies and Brand X 500-count
packages of paper napkins.
And what do I get
for my pains? Confused looks and heavy sighs from the kids. Ungrateful
children.
Some of my
disillusionment comes from years of effort gone unnoticed. Lord knows I've
tried. I used to haul the kids off to Sears for the family Christmas portrait,
threatening them with a stocking full of coal if they didn't smile and look
happy, dammit. (I even IRONED THEIR CLOTHES beforehand so they looked less
feral.)
I've stayed up
till the wee hours on Christmas Eve assembling race car tracks that would
perplex Watson and Crick. I've suffered pine needle puncture wounds dragging
surly Douglas Firs into the living room. I once waited hours in the emergency
room for a tetanus shot after accidentally stepping on glass ornaments. Did
anyone notice? Heck, no! Did I get a thank you? Nope. Santa got all the credit.
Once upon a time,
though, I had the Christmas spirit down. I was in the game. I remember the year
I popped popcorn and strung it up with cranberries. I researched and compared different stuffing
recipes, eventually settling on a version calling for oysters and corn meal. I
took out a second mortgage and bought a huge assortment of candy and frosting
and graham crackers so the kids could assemble a "gingerbread" house. I brought
my children to the family service at church and actually sang along to "Come All
Ye Faithful." And, to my shock and delight, the Almighty did not smote me. Yup,
I did all that!
One of the
blessings of age is being able to say that I did it. And now I don't have to do
it anymore.
Part of me admires
the good-hearted folks who put Christmas wreaths on the grills of their cars.
Who get weepy at the piped-in Christmas carols blasting over the loudspeakers
at K-Mart. Who wear holiday themed sweaters with matching ornament earrings. It
must be nice to exist in their world. Or at least, exist on the medication
they're on.
But that's not me.
Now it's all about getting through the season with the least amount of pain
possible. This involves getting a fake, pre-lit tree and a lot of Bailey's.
Thank God for
online shopping. It allows me to avoid the primary-colored fluorescence that is
Toys R Us. And thank goodness for my iPod. While I'm plugged in I can tune out
"I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,"
making one more year I can avoid committing murder. Another blessing of
the season is the avalanche of Perfect Family Form Letters that arrive daily,
providing hours of mirth and merriment.
All that aside, I
think the main thing that drives mothers nuts this time of year is seeing the
true nature of the monsters we are raising. Greed, gluttony, sloth...my darlings
are the poster children for the seven deadly sins. Can I have this? I want
that! Are those ALL the presents? Aren't there any more?
The only thing
that will combat that is having them sweep through their playroom, the one
filled with wonderful toys they've never even opened. I'll make them collect a
few and take them down to the post office where they are collecting toys for
needy families. From families like mine who are needy in a different way.
We need something
more during the holidays. It's not another cheap pashmina wrap or another gift
certificate to the local day spa. Don't worry; I'm not getting preachy. But the
only thing that makes me feel good this time of year is giving something,
anonymously, to someone who really needs it and appreciates it.
That, and finding
a way to unload the platter of Hickory Farms crap that I just received in the
mail.
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Quirkee Voices 
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