Holiday Hustle

My children are bursting from their skins with anticipation. They wake with one thought on their minds and fall asleep each night in the same vein. They wander through the days mumbling to themselves over and over the invariable refrain, “Is it Christmas yet?” And I feel for them, I really do, because I am wondering much the same.

They are all excitement about the day, and in my heart (way in there), I am too. But, because I’m older and wiser and responsible for some of the Christmas magic, my song is a bit more lamentable than theirs. Mine often sounds like a sad, country version - whining and wailing and wishing away the days so that my chores would be done and the whole damn business of making merry would be over. And that, right there, is some of the saddest truth I’ve ever spoken.

I am not a Christmas Grinch. I love the season – the lights, the cookies, the cool, crisp weather, the sweaters and mittens (and snuggies), the songs and smiles and the way the kid’s eyes light up at the mere sight of an old guy in a red suit. Life doesn’t get much sweeter than holiday time. I love the family and friends and cheer. I love the moments of quiet reflection. I love the idea of miracles and magic at every turn. I love the new dresses and shoes, tiny boy vests and collared shirts. I love sitting silently at night at staring at the Christmas tree, chosen, decorated and celebrated with so much childish delight and care. I love all of the glory and meaning in Christmas.

Thing is, that while we’re getting ready for the blessed event, things tend to get out of hand. Things like preparing enormous meals big enough to feed entire countries, which then turn into mounds of leftovers that sit like time bombs in our refrigerators taunting us.

Things like decorating our homes with extravagant bows and garlands and entire miniature villages and lights, oh, the lights. I am proud to say my decorating was completed with very little Christmas cursing this year – okay, some Christmas cursing, but only because those lights were being highly uncooperative - damn twinkly things!

Things like grumpy people in stores waiting in lines to be rung out by even grumpier store clerks with major attitudes about those of us that have the audacity to bring in reusable shopping bags (it is either the bags they hate or something about me and since I am chronically worrying about people disliking me, I’m blaming the bags).

Things like cookies that burn and bread that refuses to rise, mostly because in the bustle to get all the holiday baking done the yeast was left out of the mix entirely (but how are we honestly supposed to keep track of that and can’t the bread just find it in its heart to rise to the occasion in the spirit of Christmas?).

Things like paper cuts from wrapping paper and that last present to be wrapped that is, of course, too big for the last shred of paper on the roll causing you to tear about the house looking for anything usable and piecing together shreds of spare paper into a wrapping paper quilt just so you can finish this last present and be done with the whole mess.

Things like going to pour a glass of wine at the end of the day and finding only a mouthful in the bottle (yes, so much worse than the empty milk carton in the fridge – oh, so much worse). These are the things that can squash the Christmas spirit right out of a gal.

And that is when it is most important for me to look to my kids for the wisdom that only a child can contain. There is a reason I celebrate Christmas. One small, magical reason filled with more love than I can contemplate in this short lifetime.

As Casey would say, “Who do you love, Mom?”

“You and Izzy and Daddy.”

“Nooooo, Mom. Who do you love?”

“My family, little man. I love my family.”

“Nope,” he says absolutely. With an enormous sigh he shakes his head like I am truly the slowest creature on the planet. Fixing me with those deep brown eyes he asks, slowly (so I can understand, I’m sure) one more time, “Who do you love?”

Quizzical look from me.

“Who was born on Christmas, Mom?” he asks in complete exasperation.

“Oh! Jesus, buddy. I love Jesus,” I answer (correctly – at last).

He smiles and nods and bounds off to play once again. I hear amazing sound effects as his superheroes tackle their supervillians once more. And I think, Where do they come up with this stuff? Then laugh and in that laughter, I feel lighter. In that laughter, I understand.

For love of a little baby, do we stand in lines at stores and nearly kill ourselves hanging lights from high places and sing tunelessly to so many carols and stuff ourselves with sweets and (hopefully – in some cases, miraculously) spend quiet minutes each day contemplating the gifts that our lives bring to us. So many, many gifts.