Dear Christmas,
Ah, I can smell you coming. I know from looking at my budget that it does not seem like it will be quite as merry as I’d like, but gosh darn it all (nope, I really don’t carry off not swearing well, do I?), I want you to be grand.
Every year, I get this picture in my head of what I want you to look like. Ever since I was a little girl and not getting anything even close to what the Sears Wish Book showed me was possible. This year, you’re looking a little different than usual.
There will likely be no large familial dinner, because the desk we used as a table two years ago has been taken to the dump, and the familial aspect is, shall we delicately say, non-existent. So, Isobel and I will probably do our own variation of a festive dinner, wherein I will do something creative with poultry and potatoes and veggies. As long as the individual feast bits don’t touch each other on the plate it’s served on, it will rock.
There will not be a closet full of presents because a lack of funds and forethought to start before Halloween has brought the realism of the bankroll into view. Additionally, the decisions that it taking two days for Isobel to open presents is a lot ridiculous and wanting to keep her somewhat grounded as to what you should really be all about, and the lack of necessity to tell her that X amount of gifts are from Santa – because we’re not doing that whole Santa sham thing – have all led to what I think will happen: you’ll end up seeing Isobel get to open one cool present on your eve and a big one on your morning, as well as a stocking of little bits of crap that two year olds appreciate.
Also, I should mention, I no longer have a closet to stash presents in, anyways.
There won’t be a tree, like there was last year – because that client is no longer my client and I’m pretty willing to bet that even if I was ballsy enough to ask to borrow it two years in a row and they didn’t need it for the second year in a row, then really where the fuck would I put it? What we could do instead for you, Christmas? Is make a tree out of individual leaves on the walls and decorate the entire apartment with bobbles and tinsel and place a star at the top of the TV – where it really should go. It could be like something out of a Hunter Thompson novel about doing Xmas while huffing ether.
We’ll still go out, like we did last year, with Isobel in stroller, clad in a Santa hat over her touque, and we’ll hand out goodies to the folks without homes that got a fresh hot meal on your eve and then were left with nothing on your actual evening. People seemed to appreciate the star-foiled brownies and turkey sandwiches and packages of instant hot chocolate (with marshmallows!). I think one of the worst things about you, Christmas, is that a lot of people, only show they care leading up to your day. Once you’re done, they are too. If they ever started being charitable, at all. I won’t teach Isobel that that’s okay. Especially if we’ll have most of a turkey to throw away, anyway.
There’s so much to do and tackle in the next month ahead – cards to make and address, stamp and mail; tutus to craft and box and wrap; an afghan to weave and sew; love to spread; money to pull out of my ass. It could be overwhelming.
But I think this time, Christmas, you will be different.
Because as you know, every time you came before, I went overboard, and then I got overstressed and anxious. And snapped at the very people I invited to my desk table. And cringed over the new presents Isobel would eat not give a shit about play with so contentedly. And felt a failure because the stuffing was dry, the potatoes lumpy and the gravy mug boat empty before half the desk table was served.
This year, Christmas, I will make you everything that you’re supposed to be. And that is simply special for Isobel and I, and anyone that we choose to include in it.
Every year, Christmas, I get excited for your return. And every year, I disappoint me, trying to make you something that you’re not. This year, I’m going to accept you for what you are – wondrous and sparkly and amazing. That’s it.
Love,
Me
