I just watched a big, burly Dad swing his front door open and walk outside to play with his adorable toddler daughter — pigtails, pink and purple everywhere, smiles for miles. Perfection, I thought. Cute, happy little girl…must be nice snuck into my mind. And then I noticed that the dad had a big ol’ wad of cotton sticking out of each nostril. I exploded in laughter and thought goddamn, if that isn’t the perfect metaphor for that post-Christmas parenting experience. Bruised, battered, dazed. We survived, but it sure left a mark.
Christmas is supposed to be my favorite holiday. I think I’m starting to admit that Christmas as a kid was my favorite. Christmas as a parent is absolutely exhausting. Ok, Christmas as a parent of my kids is absolutely exhausting.
I’ve got two kids who need structure, consistency and routine. They do best when every day is as much like the day before as possible. And then here comes Christmas!
Let’s rearrange all our furniture, put lots of smelly decorations up, tempt ourselves with endless tins of candies and cookies and sugary snacks, put a bunch of surprises under our tree with shiny paper and pretty bows and tell you not to mess with them for weeks and weeks, and ask you to do craft and baking projects that make your blood boil. Come on, you guys, it’s supposed to be FUN! Oh, and then let’s take several long breaks from school, create a revolving door of guests in our home, add lots of social gatherings to the calendar, and tell you to wear “ugly” Christmas sweaters (that you think are lovely) to said parties so you’re deeply disturbed when people laugh at your festive attire! Let’s try to convince you that this should all be good fun and not-at-all anxiety inducing, and then let’s make a quick transition back to life without the rearranged furniture, sugary diet, endless stream of gifts and visitors, and unstructured schedule and expect that you’ll adjust swiftly and seamlessly. It’s Christmas — so much joy!
It’s madness. Why in the hell do I do it?
On Christmas Eve, my husband asked me what my best and worst childhood Christmas memories were. (Full disclosure, I was in full Grinch mode when he asked the question, and I had to pause a few moments to defrost my frozen heart before responding.) Try as a might in my stubbornly crabby state, I could think of exactly zero bad Christmas memories as a child. Not a single one. So I suppose that is why the hell I do it. That is why, year after year, I pour so much energy into creating a Christmas season for my children that I would have loved. Problem is what I would have loved is neither what my children love nor what I love as a parent, which means Christmas leaves all of us feeling like we just got our asses handed to us (after our wallets were cleaned out) in a dirty street fight.
The wounds are too fresh. I’m not ready to sort out the ways in which I can end the madness for holiday seasons to come. For now, I’ll settle for a quick post-fight recap — a “good fight” handshake with all my fellow parents; bandaging of injuries we sustained; an edit to the play book, striking any disastrous moves never to be attempted again.
We’re still standing. The kids are more than alright. But maybe next year can be less of a fight.
