During the holidays, I begin to lose any semblance of control over my life. Late night chats with Santa’s elves cause me to lose sleep. Cheeseballs and egg nog cause me to gain weight (15 lbs this year). And for some inexplicable reason, between Thanksgiving and Christmas I steadily lose the mental capacity to accomplish even the most basic household tasks. It’s like I’m on Santa’s naughty list, and instead of putting coal in my stocking, he chooses to sabotage my life.
By Dec. 30th, I thought the holidays would never end. The home-from-college crowd didn’t have to be back on campus until Jan. 13th. And whereas hubby typically starts his business travel on the 2nd, this year his first trip was postponed by two weeks. With the little ones missing so much school due to the snow, I really thought I might never get my life back in order.
Typically, I begin to make stabs at normalcy by taking down the tree on Christmas night. But this year, as I began removing ornaments, my five-year-old slid into the room, wide-eyed and frantic.“Mom! What are you doing?!”“Taking the tree down, son.”“But it’s almost my birfday! The tree is my main party decoration!!”What kind of wacky weirdo Christmas baby did I give birth to? Everyone knows that children born in December grow up bitter and resentful if their parents do not clearly distinguish between holiday and birthday. Why couldn’t he be a normal Christmas child who wants a party with Disney decor, or perhaps a safari theme? Don’t get me wrong. I love the holiday right up through 6 p.m. Dec. 25th, but then I want every last vestige removed from sight. So, of course, I would get the kid who wants all the glitz left in place.