Ho Ho Hum

Christmas confessions of a weary mother
Karen B. Jones

   

   If you want to suck the air right out of a room, casually mention anytime between Thanksgiving and Christmas that you find the holiday season less than magical.

   As people are gasping for oxygen, quickly add that this doesn’t mean you don’t totally embrace the religious significance of 12/25. This will aid in getting people breathing again.

   As they’re furiously inhaling, use this time to further explain that you find conquering your Christmas To-Do list about as much fun as smooshing your noncompliant ab flab into Spanx. As soon as you finish this sentence, watch as people flee from you in fear that your anti-holly-jolly-holiday spirit might be contagious.

   This is because confessing that you consider Christmas a month of hard labor is number two on the Top 10 List of Things No Mother is Ever Allowed to Divulge.

   This is not to say I don’t find moments of Christmas enchanting and life affirming.

   What I don’t find so captivating is the 21st Century pressure to create a perfect Christmas. Did my mother and her generation feel this compulsion?    

   No.

   We need to look no further then the average Christmas in 1975. Using my family as an example, let’s survey the facts.

   There was one tree, one single room festooned in evergreen finery, some outside lights strung so haphazardly by my dad that my mother informed the neighbors it was “avant garde.” The only Christmas craft I did was shove cloves into an orange to hang in my great aunt’s closet, and the presents were purchased from Sears.

   Meanwhile, family bonding occurred when I helped my grandma make all the Christmas cookies, marveling at how she could chain-smoke a pack of Virginia Slims and, yet, not get a single ash in the gingerbread dough.

   Now, compare that to the current lunacy that mothers have wrapped themselves up in.

   I’d like to blame social media for turning Christmas into a competition or at least creating a social class of holiday underachievers, but that would be inaccurate. To point a finger at the real culprit, you have to journey back to a pre-Pinterest era and there you’ll find ground zero for Christmas crazy: Family Fun magazine.

   Yep, this is where it all started. The out-of-control crafting, artisanal winter parties for children featuring an albino Rudolph made from goat cheese pre-masticated by the molars of Malta monks, with an heirloom sun-dried tomato nose. Add in decorating your fireplace mantel with snow that’s actually hand-loomed pet dander and you have the birth of holiday insanity.

   In contrast to all this nonsense (not that I don’t think a goat cheese Rudolph doesn’t sound delish), a decade ago, mothers could still fib about their Christmas creations. As in, “Oh yeah, for sure, the kids and I are going to start harvesting pet dander this weekend.”

   Today, that won’t pass muster. Oh no, in 2014, everyone is living in the show-me state. You just can’t say you did something; you have to produce a pictorial with catchy sayings and enhanced graphics.

   All this has done is create Tis the Season to Be One-Upping.

   Case in point: I don’t know of a single person who just puts up one Christmas tree. We’re in the middle of a hard core tree-palooza. Go to anyone’s house and there’s a tree in the living room, another in the kitchen, a ski lodge-inspired evergreen in the den and a personalized, themed tree for each child’s bedroom. (And to my friend with a tree in her downstairs half bath, please note I’m considering staging an intervention.)

   I’m exhausted just thinking about all the decorating, never mind the back-breaking labor of taking it all down, packing it away and hauling the boxes to the basement.

   And it’s not just the decorating. It’s the parties.

   Am I the only one who ponders the fact that genteel hospitality may be dead? R.I.P. going to a holiday party where you’re only required to bring yourself (and a little something for your hosts). Now it’s cookie exchanges, gift card tree swaps, and the very worst, Secret Santa.

   I’d stake Blitzen and Prancer’s very lives on my profound and passionate belief that Mr. Claus has no desire for his good name and legendary reputation to be soiled by the lackluster work of the Secret Santa. (FYI — This might be my only goal for 2015: the eradication of this gift grab.)

   Are people not doing the Secret Santa math?

   This gig isn’t cheap, never mind the hours spent shopping for “inexpensive but meaningful gifts.”

   Huh? You drew a co-worker’s name out of a hat; how “meaningful” can that be? Plus, in the grand cosmic design of the whole Secret Santa universe, the person who gives really good Secret Santa presents always, and I mean always, gets the lamest Secret Santa gifts in return. (Yes, I know that shouldn’t matter in this season of joyful giving, but still.)

   None of this even compares to the holiday time suck that is the Elf on the Shelf.

   Okay, folks, I don’t claim to have the best connection to the big guy surfing the celestial byways on the fluffiest of cumulus clouds. But I’m thinking that while He might be okay with sharing his birthday with Santa, this whole shady shelf elf gimmick is a no-can-do.

   Did you know the phrase Elf on the Shelf, when translated from the obscure, native, North Pole language of Ydnac Enac, means “more work for mothers?” How many times have weary, almost-to-the-point-of-tears moms finally laid down their heads to go to sleep and just as they’re about to float off to the land of blissful slumber, they are jerked awake by remembering they didn’t move that freaking elf?

   And, oh no, you just can’t move the blasted thing, to, say, the dining room. You have to create an elf tableau so impressive that your Instagram picture has the potential to go viral and get you on the “Today Show.”

   The stress from maintaining a 30-day alternate hobgoblin holiday universe is causing a new disorder called elfinsomnia. This ailment is currently linked to being responsible for two out of three maternal meltdowns in the Target checkout line during the month of December.

   I swear to you, even with all my grousing, I still hear the bell. You know, the one from The Polar Express where, if you truly believe, the bell still rings for you.

   Except, I’m afraid it’s the alarm on my cell phone telling me it’s time for my anti-anxiety meds. On a positive note, at least, they’re red and green.

   Merry Christmas!

Categories: Arts & Entertainment, Comedy

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