You guys,
“Do you enjoy the holidays?”
Sam asked me this question as I put on my Christmas pajamas. Me, who loves Christmas more than anyone. It’s my favorite, most wonderful time of the year. I bake cookies, wrap presents, watch movies, decorate every nook and cranny of the house, and wear red and green all month long. I am a Christmas elf.
Yet here Sam was, asking me this ridiculous question. And he wasn’t being ironic.
Hours earlier, I may have huffed out an exasperated, “I still have to light the fucking tree,” which wasn’t exactly my jolliest moment, but it had been a stressful day. George didn’t nap and when George doesn’t nap, we ALL pay for it. It’s a barrage of nonsensical tears and screams. He tests every boundary and forces me to face my worst qualities: impatience, anger, and the need to be in control of everything at all times.
No you cannot sit on the dishwasher door. No you cannot climb out of your highchair. No you cannot push your sister. Yes you do have to wash your hands before you eat. Yes you do have to wear a bib. Yes you do have to change your diaper.
I pride myself on never saying, “Because I said so,” like my parents' generation did. But on this day, I sat up on my progressive high horse, shrugged my shoulders and said, “I don’t know what to tell you, bud.” This passivity was even worse because I did know what to tell George.
You have to listen to me… because I said so!
Agh!
It didn’t help that I forgot how to light the tree, so I wrapped four strands before I realized lights were weighing down branches and there were blobs of color here and there like I balled up the lights and shoved them deep into the tree like an insane person. I felt the pain in my neck shoot down my back and ripped the lights from the branches with no care of the millions of pine needles littering our floor.
Then George was there, in my face, asking to be picked up. I bent down on one knee and reminded him that Papa and I are trying not to pick you up as much anymore. Your speech therapist reminded us about Learned Helplessness and Papa and I are the worst offenders. Remember? Then I scooped up all the stupid Christmas lights and put them out of reach so George couldn’t stomp on them and Layla couldn’t eat them.
After I berated Sam for questioning my Christmas cheer, I waited until he and the kids were asleep to ponder his question.
Do I enjoy the holidays?
I turned up the Christmas music and let go of everything else on my to-do list. I lit the tree. Its imperfections made it feel like home. Then I carried the enormous ornament storage container downstairs. Every ornament had its perfect place on the tree, and I found each one like I was putting together a puzzle. Tonight was just me and Christmas.
The next morning, a well-rested George came downstairs and pointed at the transformed tree. “Whoa!,” he said.
I know, bud, right? That is exactly how I feel about Christmas… Whoa.
Bleecker Bombs
Our nanny was on the podcast!
I’ve previously referred to her as “Rebecca” but she has since said it’s okay to use her real name, Rachel Morris.
Rachel was only with us for a short two months this past summer, but she changed our lives. We had a chance to record a conversation before she made the move across the country to Bend, Oregon.
Listen to the episode on Spotify, overcast.fm, or Apple Podcasts.
Also, you can subscribe to Rachel’s journey here. Reading her newsletter is like drinking a cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter’s day.
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Merry Merry!
Charlie