I feel a certain panic as the holidays near. A “time is running out” sort of feeling. It isn’t as if I haven’t spent entirely too much on a ridiculous amount of gifts to adorn the nether regions of my Christmas tree. It isn’t as if I don’t have a fridge stocked with the makings of a fine Christmas dinner. No, and it isn’t as if we’ve missed any of the pre-Christmas church services, celebrating the “reason for the season.”
I think it’s just that there is all this hype – this extreme behavior that demands attention no matter how badly we’d like to look away. The commercial on the TV today, the one for Target, really gave me heart palpitations. Santa is running at full throttle through the Target parking lot, racing against the clock. Despite the fact that I am done with my shopping, I subconsciously glanced at the present-hiding places in my house, noting that they were all there, and silently chanted “Go, Santa…Go…”
My anxiety is likely related to this feeling of rush, excitement and beat-the-clock mania that begins with Black Friday and continues to Christmas Eve. The mad dash, for me, anyway, began at 1:30 Black Friday morning, and has continued producing dark circles under my eyes up to the present moment. Christmas Day comes, the wrapping paper is shed, the meals are consumed and then…it’s over. I now understand why this was all so magical as a child. As kids, we didn’t feel the panic, the stress. We felt only the excitement, the build-up of adrenaline that leads to the finale: Christmas Morning. 5 a.m. Only the glow of the Christmas tree and the shimmer of ribbon, so skillfully twisted and crafted, begging to be ripped. The ultimate joy of getting “just-what-I-wanted”, and the sweet reassurance that not only is there a Santa Claus, but, boy, he sure knows his stuff. When I was a kid, we piled into the car and headed to family’s houses for more festivities, more food, and inevitably, more gifts. We didn’t know what the heck was going on. We were on a ho-ho-high. All the preparation, all the lack of sleep, all the empty bank accounts that our parents and grandparents suffered….we didn’t know, and I am not sure we would have cared at that moment.
I now know what it feels like to be penniless, stressed, and overwhelmed. I know that I’ve worked desperately hard to make Christmases special, and to somehow out-do the previous year. I find it to be an unwritten rule that many parents follow. You’ve gotta have the “wow” factor, so this year isn’t the same as last year. This, friends, is why I panic. And as I write, I realize how very stupid that sounds. I have fallen victim to this materialistic controversy that has overtaken the meaning of Christmas, and replaced it with greed.
This year we’re staying home on Christmas day. It’s an ill-favored decision, especially among family members who disagree. I am trying, (‘though it may be in vain) to re-introduce peace into the day. No rushing, no greedy ripping of paper and a “more, more, more” attitude. I am hoping for a casual day of togetherness, enjoying the thoughtfulness of one-another’s gift giving, and the sharing of a meal prepared slowly and with love…at whatever time we decide to eat.
I’m not saying I’ve made the perfect choice. That remains to be seen. All the same, I’m looking forward to it.
What I am not looking forward to, however, is the panic that strikes between Christmas and the New Year. The “it’s all ending” feeling. The entertainment shows that showcase the highlights of the year, in a bittersweet culmination. It’s a little bit depressing, thinking of another year gone by. It’s a little hopeful, thinking of a fresh new start. Either way, for me, it induces a little anxiety.
Then again, we know by now that the way I view things might be slightly different than most normal, sane people. Just slightly.
To my friends and family, and to those I don’t even know…I wish you a Merry and Blessed Christmas. I wish you peace, comfort, and joy. I wish you all of the delights you had as a child, and then some.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
How it happened:
Perhaps the holidays have become a time for subtle brain wash. At this time of year, there is a certain lenience to eating the majority of one's diet from the "use sparingly" section of the food pyramid. We listen to raucous music about hippopotamuses, two front teeth, and the suggestion that Mommy is having an affair with Santa Claus (which, if Santa looked like Channing Tatum, Mommy's act of indecency is surely understood, wink...wink). We also justify bank-breaking purchases, and, as long as there's a little "giving" in the bag, too, those gratifying "these are for me" purchases can be easily acceptable. Maybe I'm just talking about me, here. Truth is, friends, I've never rocked around a Christmas tree, nor have I been kissed under the mistletoe. I just suffer from HBH. Holiday Brain Hiatus. Yes, I just made that up.
This drain on my brain, this weakness of my willpower is certainly a mystifying effect of the holidays. I refuse to think it is due to any other reason. I stare at the television mindlessly without watching the programming, I read the same pages of my book over and over again, and then, just today, an all new low:
I was looking into the refrigerator, trying to decide on what we might eat for dinner. It started off in the harmless, non-invasive way that the "fridge contemplation" typically does. Door open, one foot crossed over the other, left hand braced on freezer, furrowed brow. Everyone does it like that, right? Yes...until suddenly, the freezer door was ajar, and the left hand traveled all by itself to the inside and removed (without my notice, I assure you) a frozen Snickers bar. Then, ol' Righty chimed in, and helped it's partner open the wrapping, and lift the dreamy ice cream treat to my lips. My mouth did what it knows best, after that, and promptly consumed the Snickers...but here's the amazing part: I can't remember my eyes ever leaving the contents of the fridge.
No one said that the 12 days of Christmas are for eating. I just sort of invented that theory. For that matter, forget 12 days. That simply isn't enough time. Why not just begin at Thanksgiving and work your way through to New Year's Day? Isn't that what resolutions are for? I'll probably end up weighing about as much as eight maids a-milking, if I continue on this holiday nosh-fest.
I do have structured events in my life, meant to keep me on track. Things like school, grocery shopping, doctor appointments, etc. are still present, and do force some routine into my day. However, during this time of year, I view those things as nuisances. They are cruel obligations that cut into my hot-cocoa and fuzzy slipper time.
Alas, my friends, do not be alarmed: I am fairly certain this HBH is completely curable, and like many viruses, will go away on its own. My guess is that it'll be over sometime in January, when the whole world comes back to reality. As for you, you may choose to fight it, or you are welcome to stop by, sample one of the goodies I am inevitably baking while I carelessly watch a sappy Christmas movie on Lifetime Movie Network. You do run the risk of contracting HBH, yourself. In fact, it's a strong possibility. Anyway, door's always open - just don't mind my drawstring pants and fuzzy slippers. You'll learn, in time, that they are pure necessity.
This drain on my brain, this weakness of my willpower is certainly a mystifying effect of the holidays. I refuse to think it is due to any other reason. I stare at the television mindlessly without watching the programming, I read the same pages of my book over and over again, and then, just today, an all new low:
I was looking into the refrigerator, trying to decide on what we might eat for dinner. It started off in the harmless, non-invasive way that the "fridge contemplation" typically does. Door open, one foot crossed over the other, left hand braced on freezer, furrowed brow. Everyone does it like that, right? Yes...until suddenly, the freezer door was ajar, and the left hand traveled all by itself to the inside and removed (without my notice, I assure you) a frozen Snickers bar. Then, ol' Righty chimed in, and helped it's partner open the wrapping, and lift the dreamy ice cream treat to my lips. My mouth did what it knows best, after that, and promptly consumed the Snickers...but here's the amazing part: I can't remember my eyes ever leaving the contents of the fridge.
No one said that the 12 days of Christmas are for eating. I just sort of invented that theory. For that matter, forget 12 days. That simply isn't enough time. Why not just begin at Thanksgiving and work your way through to New Year's Day? Isn't that what resolutions are for? I'll probably end up weighing about as much as eight maids a-milking, if I continue on this holiday nosh-fest.
I do have structured events in my life, meant to keep me on track. Things like school, grocery shopping, doctor appointments, etc. are still present, and do force some routine into my day. However, during this time of year, I view those things as nuisances. They are cruel obligations that cut into my hot-cocoa and fuzzy slipper time.
Alas, my friends, do not be alarmed: I am fairly certain this HBH is completely curable, and like many viruses, will go away on its own. My guess is that it'll be over sometime in January, when the whole world comes back to reality. As for you, you may choose to fight it, or you are welcome to stop by, sample one of the goodies I am inevitably baking while I carelessly watch a sappy Christmas movie on Lifetime Movie Network. You do run the risk of contracting HBH, yourself. In fact, it's a strong possibility. Anyway, door's always open - just don't mind my drawstring pants and fuzzy slippers. You'll learn, in time, that they are pure necessity.
Friday, December 3, 2010
A month goes by...
So begins my attempt at a series of Pre-Christmas blogs. Last year, I brought you some doozies. This year I hope to not disappoint!
The date, December 1, was blinking on the orange glow of my alarm clock, yet, I hadn't an ounce of strength, will, or heck, even ability to remove myself from beneath the covers. Although, I had removed the covers about 221 times over the night, during my frequent "night sweats." It's hell being female, sometimes, especially when you're missing some of the required parts. Besides that, I had the worst case of gastroenteritis I can ever remember, which was proudly kicked off by a round of the technicolor yawn in my cousin's toilet, during one of the debut parties for my lia sophia business. Who feels sorry for me? Come on...I left the house for the party, feeling smart in my pressed khaki pants and (supposedly) stylish, fitted denim jacket, smelling success in the air. I left in a much more humble state, as I carried my leftover Walmart plastic bags to the car with me, just in case I tossed my cookies on the way home.
The thing is, when you're a mom, you abandon the notion of "being cared for." You live and breathe to care for your children, your pets, your home. You, in fact, are a sub-creature of your own life. You're simply the body that performs the tasks that keeps everyone else thriving. When I do become ill, I remember vividly a time or two I was under the weather and staying with my grandmother. She was amazing. Have I ever mentioned that? I remember laying on her couch, drinking Sprite from yellow Tupperware cups, watching General Hospital. I remember the times I'd have to make it to the bathroom, and she'd not only escort me there, but she would stroke my hair, speak gently and, with great intestinal fortitude,clean up any mess I may have made. I never saw her flinch, or turn away, or even imply that I was too much for her to handle. That, my friends, is pure love. I suppose, however, I do that now, for my kids. I realize all of the disgusting things I've put up with; things that, as a teenager, I would've contorted my face about, and exclaimed how "GA-ross" they were. There was a time period, a long one, at that, when I swore I'd never have children. Time passes, lives change, right?
December began, like it or not, and I'll mark the day in rememberance, as the one I spent on the couch, with my new Black Friday steal, a Target Christmas blanket and my eyes barely in focus on the television. I don't really know what my kids did all day. They behaved, I suppose, and no one bled. All in all, a success. I think my oldest is finally at the age where the human in him is beginning to surface, and he can, for brief periods, be kind and considerate. I hope I am not speaking too soon, on that, but he did bring me a lemon-ice and a spoon, and he did get his sister a bottle and refrained from beating the bloody heck out of his brother that day.
Brighter days of upcoming Christmas cheer are ahead, though. I am well again, and there are only two more grueling weeks of school before a much-needed break. It's Christmastime in the city, friends, and whether you can hear Silver Bells or not, we can look at it one of two ways. In a month, not much changes. The time will pass, regardless of how you choose to celebrate, or not celebrate. Yet, everything changes. I tend to become lost in October/November/December, bulking it all together in this "holiday" package with sparkly wrapping because, well, I can. In the glimmer and glitz of the holiday mayhem, however, lives still go on: some people are more jolly, some people still suffer... I, however, try to keep some spirit alive, because just around the corner, there is still a let-down to experience...it's the ultimate disappointment that, (if you let yourself travel this road) in a matter of weeks, it'll be over. It'll be January. Either way, keep your head up. There are still 22 days to shop.
The date, December 1, was blinking on the orange glow of my alarm clock, yet, I hadn't an ounce of strength, will, or heck, even ability to remove myself from beneath the covers. Although, I had removed the covers about 221 times over the night, during my frequent "night sweats." It's hell being female, sometimes, especially when you're missing some of the required parts. Besides that, I had the worst case of gastroenteritis I can ever remember, which was proudly kicked off by a round of the technicolor yawn in my cousin's toilet, during one of the debut parties for my lia sophia business. Who feels sorry for me? Come on...I left the house for the party, feeling smart in my pressed khaki pants and (supposedly) stylish, fitted denim jacket, smelling success in the air. I left in a much more humble state, as I carried my leftover Walmart plastic bags to the car with me, just in case I tossed my cookies on the way home.
The thing is, when you're a mom, you abandon the notion of "being cared for." You live and breathe to care for your children, your pets, your home. You, in fact, are a sub-creature of your own life. You're simply the body that performs the tasks that keeps everyone else thriving. When I do become ill, I remember vividly a time or two I was under the weather and staying with my grandmother. She was amazing. Have I ever mentioned that? I remember laying on her couch, drinking Sprite from yellow Tupperware cups, watching General Hospital. I remember the times I'd have to make it to the bathroom, and she'd not only escort me there, but she would stroke my hair, speak gently and, with great intestinal fortitude,clean up any mess I may have made. I never saw her flinch, or turn away, or even imply that I was too much for her to handle. That, my friends, is pure love. I suppose, however, I do that now, for my kids. I realize all of the disgusting things I've put up with; things that, as a teenager, I would've contorted my face about, and exclaimed how "GA-ross" they were. There was a time period, a long one, at that, when I swore I'd never have children. Time passes, lives change, right?
December began, like it or not, and I'll mark the day in rememberance, as the one I spent on the couch, with my new Black Friday steal, a Target Christmas blanket and my eyes barely in focus on the television. I don't really know what my kids did all day. They behaved, I suppose, and no one bled. All in all, a success. I think my oldest is finally at the age where the human in him is beginning to surface, and he can, for brief periods, be kind and considerate. I hope I am not speaking too soon, on that, but he did bring me a lemon-ice and a spoon, and he did get his sister a bottle and refrained from beating the bloody heck out of his brother that day.
Brighter days of upcoming Christmas cheer are ahead, though. I am well again, and there are only two more grueling weeks of school before a much-needed break. It's Christmastime in the city, friends, and whether you can hear Silver Bells or not, we can look at it one of two ways. In a month, not much changes. The time will pass, regardless of how you choose to celebrate, or not celebrate. Yet, everything changes. I tend to become lost in October/November/December, bulking it all together in this "holiday" package with sparkly wrapping because, well, I can. In the glimmer and glitz of the holiday mayhem, however, lives still go on: some people are more jolly, some people still suffer... I, however, try to keep some spirit alive, because just around the corner, there is still a let-down to experience...it's the ultimate disappointment that, (if you let yourself travel this road) in a matter of weeks, it'll be over. It'll be January. Either way, keep your head up. There are still 22 days to shop.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
