I must confess that I haven't really been feeling ready for Christmas this year. Regardless of the fact that, climate-wise, it still feels like early September, I'm just not prepared for the holiday and its accompanying hoopla. To be perfectly honest, I'm rather stressed out at the moment. The demands over at The Job have been escalating, and I'm seemingly managing to convince one or both of my immediate superiors at least twice a week that I'm entirely incompetent. My kids aren't sleeping especially well these days -- which means no one in the house is sleeping especially well as a result. I'm drinking entirely too much coffee. I'm tired all the time and summarily grumpy more often than not. I'm starting to feel a bit like George Bailey in "It's A Wonderful Life" just prior to his fateful run-in with Clarence.
Coupled with the (normally jolly) frenzy that is part and garishly-wrapped parcel of the Christmas season, I'm barely finding time to tie my shoes. My calendar is pock-marked with oft-conflicting plans and commitments. I'm way behind on my Christmas shopping. I don't know when I'm going to squeeze in time for a haircut (it's getting to the point that if I let a cut and beard-trim go any longer, I'm going to look like a member of a Supertramp tribute band). I know, I know --Waaah! Poor me!
In terms of holiday cheer, I'm sometimes a bit of a cynic. While I was on the co-op board of my former building, we once wasted upwards of forty-five minutes in a monthly meeting, heatedly squabbling about holiday decorations for the lobby. Should we have a wreath? Should we have a minora? Should we have poinsettias? Should we have a Christmas tree adorned with Hannukah dreidls? etc. With no easy consensus reached, someone suggested going around the table, asking each member for his or her own personal recommendations. When my turn arrived -- incredulous that we were still discussing the issue, let alone getting all red in the face about it -- I suggested a giant wreath made of bleeding skulls and burning barbed-wire. I was joking, of course, but nobody laughed and I was never asked a design-related question again. Happy holidays!
Here's the thing, though. While I am a cynic, I do love Christmas and I normally love Christmas shopping. I actually enjoy agonizing over what specific, well-thought-out (by my standards) gifts to get my various loved ones. I like tracking down weird items for unsuspecting relatives. I love surprising folks with presents from left field. These days, however, I'm just not finding the time -- let alone the inspiration -- to track down the far-flung prezzie, let alone the banal stocking-stuffer. At my previous job, I had two full days off during the middle of the week to get the shopping done. Now, I'm trying to cram as much of it into the weekend and after work as possible, but that's just not coming together in a timely fashion. Christmas is weighing on my back like ten-ton gorilla, and I'm feeling way more like Krampus than like ol' St.Nick.
I even had a back'n'forth discussion with my wife (that bordered uncomfortably on "argument") about whether or not to get a tree this year. I was lobbying for the type of tidy table-top tree we had in `05. Peg, motivated by the fact that it was our first Christmas staying at home (as opposed to flying to Texas) and, more importantly, our son's first Christmas (and our daughter's first relatively cognizant Christmas, she now being 2 years old) insisted on the proper, full tree. My concern was that Oliver, now crawling with the robust determination of a Navy S.E.A.L. and keen on putting any item he can get his pudgy little hands on directly into his drooly-little mouth, would take it upon himself to explore the tree, ingest a worrying bellyful of pine needles and attempt to scale its pointy, hot-wired height. It seemed like a recipe for yuletide disaster, but of course I relented (how could I not, what with Charlotte chanting "Twithmas Twee!" like an insane little mantra?) There's a picture of me just post-purchase of the tree with Charlotte, and while I'm "smiling," it is not the visage of a relaxed Daddy.
So while I'm reeling from the pressure of Santa's fat ass figuratively crushing my spinal chord, it's my lovely, adoring wife that is keeping me sane and in check. After another long slog in the trenches yesterday, Peggy met me at the front door with our two little kids scampering behind her, brandishing a lovingly wrapped early Christmas present. I unwrapped it and found a splendidly illustrated copy of `Twas the Night Before Christmas, which she gave to me so I could start reading it to Charlotte (who is still relatively oblivious to the notion of Santa Claus, let alone Christmas). My jaw unclenched, my perma-scowl took a break and I remembered what makes the Christmas holiday important in the first place: never mind the conflicting specificities of organized religion --- it's the love of one's family that matters most. Why am I so stressed out? I'm entirely blessed and have every reason in the world to be happy and grateful and jubilant. And I am. Don't believe my inevitable scowl when you see it tomorrow. I'm the luckiest man alive.
Incidentally, reading `Twas the Night Before Christmas out loud is no easy feat -- try it sometime.
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