Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [66]
HOLIDAZE
LET’S JUST DISPENSE WITH MY LEAST FAVORITE holiday right up front: Christmas. it’s not that I am Grinchy, nor am I guilt-ridden over the obvious excess required to celebrate the holiday with six children—I love giving my kids gifts and paving the house with new toys that will be dismissed and forgotten within fifteen minutes of unwrapping. I love that. What I can’t bear is the escalating expectations and ultimate pressure associated with all things year-end. There is absolutely nothing to buy for these kids; we already own every version of every toy ever made, and even coming up with a decent show underneath the tree has become a hassle. How many Batman figures does Larson really need to own? My older boys are always happy with the latest video game, but that doesn’t make much of a pile, and for my little men, it’s all about the show. Clothes? Forget it, they’d kill me on the spot. Books. Sure, if you like hearing your kid groan when he opens a package. I tear my hair out trying to come up with big stuff and lots of it. Peter tries to help, but usually comes home with the Radio Shack 200 in 1 Electronics Lab, forgetting we still have the ones he bought the previous three years in the closet.
December is the month when, regardless of how equal a marriage may seem on the outside, mom is left holding Santa’s bag, or lighting the candles, whatever her religion requires. I can’t bring myself to do the Christmas card thing; I’d have to start thinking of a setting back in August. What will best represent how fantastic we are as parents and how blissfully happy our children are? A sunny beach? A pristine white ski slope? How would I get all of our children decent-looking and smiling in front of a camera? Getting six children to sit still for.2 seconds is not as easy as it seems. Then I’d need to find a stand-in for my daughter, who is never around, and spend hours Photoshopping her face onto the surrogate, not to mention Photoshopping out somebody’s pinkeye infection and the bunny ears Peik made behind Truman’s head. The entire process is just so exhausting. I have yet to organize a database of addresses, so even if I did have the wherewithal to get a card made, I doubt it would actually be sent out. I have a friend who never sends me a card for Christmas, but instead sends one on Valentine’s Day. It’s a brilliant idea; not only does she have an extra six weeks of downtime to execute this thankless task, but the card arrives after the chaos of the holidays and I actually have a moment to enjoy it. I am seriously considering Arbor Day cards.
During the countdown to Christmas break, four backpacks enter my home every day, chock-full of announcements of school fund-raisers, recitals, end-of-trimester parent-teacher conferences (why does a preschooler need a conference?), and birthday party invitations (“I hope Truman can make it, it’s sooo hard for Christian to have a Christmastime birthday”)—a constant stream of paper working its way into my house, bent and creased and greasy and each single piece expressing its claim to a pound of my flesh. And then there are all the “Winter Solstice” events at Larson’s international preschool, because God forbid Christmas should take up all of our attention: we also have to find time each December to teach our children to be tolerant of others. Don’t even get me started on all the tipping and gifting—of teachers, teachers’ aides, teachers’ assistants, nannies, mannies, therapists, parking garage attendants, postal delivery facilitators (formerly known as “mailmen”), secret Santas, and class moms. My bank is broken along with my spirit of giving.
How did spreading holiday cheer become women’s work? How many men actually make it to a holiday singalong past pre-k? And of the few who do, is it even remotely possible that they have sewn some sequins on Mary’s blue headdress or run down to the 99-cent store the morning of the big show, praying that there are three fuzzy Santa hats left?
During this hundred-yard dash to the five-minute finish line of opening presents