I am not a fan of Christmas, or the holiday season, truth be told. I find the expectations associated with the day and the season to be overwhelming and unrealistic.
My tree never looks like those on TV, or like those in my news feed on Facebook.
And that darn elf on the shelf creeps me out — sorry, it just does.
My strings of lights are usually lopsided and I am an awful cook at the best of the times, I admit it, never mind tackling some massive bird or pig or, vegan Foturkey.
My poor mother has always adored all things Christmas and thus gave me the middle name Merry; how ironic is that?
As a mom of four teen sons, looking back the festive season has had its positive moments for me to be sure: the year I was organized enough to bag oatmeal and told the boys it was reindeer food and we spread it over the yard Christmas Eve. Or the memory of their chubby arms around my neck as I carried one or the other of them up to bed on Christmas night after they had run out of steam — awesome. Mostly though, as a parent I have felt anxious and uncomfortable the entire holiday.
When they were younger we didn’t have the money to spend a lot on the toys they saw advertised, but we always did it anyway, and went into debt to do so. Some years we went above and beyond, such as the year we got a Tickle Me Elmo when it was the it gift, by paying an extra $100 for it from some shyster who was taking advantage of desperate parents.
I think we need to be more honest in all aspects of life, but especially at Christmas. It is one thing to say the holiday is all about togetherness and love and all that, and hopefully that is true, but it also often feels like some kind of contest: who has the best decorations, the best tree, gifts, family Christmas portrait, family trip – how First World of us all.
The best Christmas I had as an adult was four years ago. It was the year my husband lost his film industry job after 25 years at the same company (during the height of #savebcfilm). By Dec. 25 our home and cars were on the market, there was no job for him on the horizon and our savings were dwindling with just my part-time job of the time to sustain us.
I gave up.
I didn’t try to impress or over-decorate. I did what I could, which wasn’t much.
We told the boys it was going to be a tight year. I didn’t dress up or make a big dinner. In my sweatpants, the boys in their pjs (not a pair of which matched, I might add) we all sat around and opened our humble, but very heartfelt gifts. The stockings were filled with things they needed, funny toothbrushes, pens, the basics. For their big gift, they got hamsters. They were thrilled. My husband gave me a ceramic gargoyle. It was an inside joke, things were pretty rough so maybe this ugly thing would watch over us and things would get better, he said.
We viewed some dumb movie and watched the hamsters roll around in balls. At the end of the night I couldn’t believe how light I felt, given all that was happening. I felt happy. My boys were happy. My husband said it was the best Christmas we’d had too, mostly because I was relaxed and not ordering people around as if on a TV set. Four years later, both now gainfully employed, we are still trying to recapture the magic of that night. Maybe this year. Now where is that gargoyle?
