I have been doing Christmas for thirty-three years now and I can do it in my sleep. I have the routine down. However, this year there was a marked difference. My brain picked this year to take a vacation. I wish I knew where it was so I could have gone too.
I became aware of it when I wrote the traditional Christmas letter. I always read the letter to the family before I send it in case they have any strenuous objections on my take of their activities for the year; like it would really matter.
“Mom,” Garret said after I read the first line. “Don’t you think you have a minor detail wrong?”
I read the first line again. “Dear friends and family, in case you haven’t noticed, 2012 is right around the corner. What’s wrong with that?”
Rick shook his head. “Honey did you go this whole year thinking it was 2011 or are you trying to rewrite history? I'm getting worried about you.”
OK, so I accidentally left out a year. It’s only a number after all. Are people going to take my word on what year it is and cause an international incident? My family worries about the most trivial things.
The next day I took some packages around to a couple of friends. At the first house, I forgot my umbrella. The next house I left my coat. Then I went to the grocery store and the cashier chased me out to the parking lot rattling my keys.
Alright, I’ll admit it. I’m a little forgetful but I am busy doing Christmas in my sleep. Besides, people enjoy babysitting my brain. It makes them feel better about themselves.
Later that night I went to do the final grocery shopping with Ariana. She was going to fill up with gas then pick me up out front of the store.
Inside Safeway, I saw my friend Melanee. We chatted for a second then I picked up all the groceries, without forgetting a thing I might add. Proving I can still remember important things. Like my friends names and anything having to do with food.
I checked out my grocerie and headed outside into the rain. I was excited to see Ariana’s van pulled right up to the curb. I grabbed the bags out of the grocery cart and headed her way.
Suddenly I heard a horn honk and honk a bunch of little beeps, like a melody. I paused. It was coming from a white van in to the side of me.
Who was honking at me? Maybe it was Melanee just honking a goodbye and Merry Christmas ditty. No Melanee doesn’t drive a van. Hmm, I wondered who it was.
I ignored the horn and headed to Ariana’s van. I pulled the door open, threw the bags onto the floor and pulled myself into the seat before I turned to see an old man in the driver’s seat. He was staring at me with a strange look on his face.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry.” I stammered. “I’m in the wrong van.”
I grabbed my bags and headed to the van that was honking again. Ariana was sitting in it with her mouth stretched like a hyena laughing it’s head off.
"Mom, that van looks nothing like mine." She said when she was finally able to speak.
"It's white, thats all I know."
All I can say is the holidays are crowding a lot of important details out of my brain. Thank goodness, they are almost over and I can get back to normal. I will get back to normal, right.
Showing posts with label Christmas traditions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas traditions. Show all posts
THE TIE THAT BINDS
My friend Sue gave me a sign to hang in my kitchen that says, ‘Nobody Knows What I Do Until I Don’t Do It.’
She must have been a fly on my wall the day Garret walked into the house, gazed around the room then looked me in the eye and said, Mom what exactly is it that you do all day?”
After I restrained myself from cuffing him along side the head, I said. “Nothing Garret, absolutely nothing. I get up, I stand in this spot and look around scratching my head until someone comes home. Then I mess up my hair, throw some flour on my nose and try to look busy.”
He snorted as he nodded his head and walked away. “I thought so.”
Is it abusive to kick your grown son where he sits if you’re careful not to hit the pocket where he keeps his brains?
My children have no concept of the work I do to keep our home organized and clean. When they lived at home, Kristjana told me I was Danny Tanner on crack. In case you don’t remember him, he is the star of the ‘90s sitcom ‘Full House’ and was Mr. Clean incarnate.
At least she recognized that I cleaned the house. She just didn’t appreciate it. Some things never change.
I am in the middle of my holiday cleaning spree. I want the house perfect when my children come home to celebrate the season. To me nothing says Christmas quite like the scent of pine, Pine sol that is.
I clean all the places nobody looks, the slats on the blinds, between the slats of the vents on all the appliances, and if the dog comes too close, I run the rag inside her ears too.
I pull out the Christmas Quilt’s I have made over the years and lovingly deck out each bed. All the pillowcases are pressed. I’m not insane I don’t press the sheets. However, I do press the lace trim on the edges so they will look perfect when I fold them back over the quilts for that, ‘I can’t wait to jump into bed,’ look. These things bring me pleasure.
I like to imagine my children getting little shivers of joy as they set their bags beside the little glowing tree that twinkles a welcome. They will sigh with pleasure as they slip their tired bodies between the silken sheets.
Of course, my children have no sense of refinement, one more thing to beat myself up over. I could have saved myself a small fortune on sheets and simply spread the beds with cheap muslin.
The first thing they will do when the go into the room is to rip the bed apart and tear off the top sheet. It spends the holiday mixed in a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. The quilts are all pooled around on top of the bed like some sort of cocoon big enough to bury an elephant.
Despite the fact that there is an empty closet full of shelves and hangers, clothes carpet the floor and dirty socks hang in clumps from the Christmas tree.
I shake my head and wonder why I go through all the trouble then smile as I remember: the tie that binds generations together, torment.
Where would the fun of life be without a little torment? What would be the pleasure of coming into a room already dirty with sheets on the floor and blankets in a pile on the bed?
What would I complain about if everything were perfect? Not to mention the fact, that it would upset nature’s delicate balance if there were nothing for me to clean after they left.
There is a moment every year however, when I am tempted to step up the torment meter. I promise myself that I am going to take out the beds and throw a pile of loose straw onto the floor. I could create my own version of the manger scene. Since this is the season for swaddling, I would give them a pile of ticking to swaddle up in.
I would do it to, but the thought of all that straw in my house makes me hyperventilate.
She must have been a fly on my wall the day Garret walked into the house, gazed around the room then looked me in the eye and said, Mom what exactly is it that you do all day?”
After I restrained myself from cuffing him along side the head, I said. “Nothing Garret, absolutely nothing. I get up, I stand in this spot and look around scratching my head until someone comes home. Then I mess up my hair, throw some flour on my nose and try to look busy.”
He snorted as he nodded his head and walked away. “I thought so.”
Is it abusive to kick your grown son where he sits if you’re careful not to hit the pocket where he keeps his brains?
My children have no concept of the work I do to keep our home organized and clean. When they lived at home, Kristjana told me I was Danny Tanner on crack. In case you don’t remember him, he is the star of the ‘90s sitcom ‘Full House’ and was Mr. Clean incarnate.
At least she recognized that I cleaned the house. She just didn’t appreciate it. Some things never change.
I am in the middle of my holiday cleaning spree. I want the house perfect when my children come home to celebrate the season. To me nothing says Christmas quite like the scent of pine, Pine sol that is.
I clean all the places nobody looks, the slats on the blinds, between the slats of the vents on all the appliances, and if the dog comes too close, I run the rag inside her ears too.
I pull out the Christmas Quilt’s I have made over the years and lovingly deck out each bed. All the pillowcases are pressed. I’m not insane I don’t press the sheets. However, I do press the lace trim on the edges so they will look perfect when I fold them back over the quilts for that, ‘I can’t wait to jump into bed,’ look. These things bring me pleasure.
I like to imagine my children getting little shivers of joy as they set their bags beside the little glowing tree that twinkles a welcome. They will sigh with pleasure as they slip their tired bodies between the silken sheets.
Of course, my children have no sense of refinement, one more thing to beat myself up over. I could have saved myself a small fortune on sheets and simply spread the beds with cheap muslin.
The first thing they will do when the go into the room is to rip the bed apart and tear off the top sheet. It spends the holiday mixed in a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. The quilts are all pooled around on top of the bed like some sort of cocoon big enough to bury an elephant.
Despite the fact that there is an empty closet full of shelves and hangers, clothes carpet the floor and dirty socks hang in clumps from the Christmas tree.
I shake my head and wonder why I go through all the trouble then smile as I remember: the tie that binds generations together, torment.
Where would the fun of life be without a little torment? What would be the pleasure of coming into a room already dirty with sheets on the floor and blankets in a pile on the bed?
What would I complain about if everything were perfect? Not to mention the fact, that it would upset nature’s delicate balance if there were nothing for me to clean after they left.
There is a moment every year however, when I am tempted to step up the torment meter. I promise myself that I am going to take out the beds and throw a pile of loose straw onto the floor. I could create my own version of the manger scene. Since this is the season for swaddling, I would give them a pile of ticking to swaddle up in.
I would do it to, but the thought of all that straw in my house makes me hyperventilate.
O CHRISTMAS TREE
O CHRISTMAS TREE
When it comes to Christmas, I reek of tradition so you can imagine my shock when Rick and I had the following conversation.
We were at our friends Christmas party, admiring their tree when Rick turned and with nostalgia dripping from his tongue, said. “See how nice it is to have a real Christmas tree. It smells so good.”
I was wearing flats so I had to poke him in the ribs to get him to look down at me so I could glare at him. “Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who wanted a fake tree.”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t my idea.” he smiled and walked towards the food.
It must be nice to be him and be able to eat after telling such a whopper. Was it possible he had caught some virus that had wiped from his memory our trauma drama Christmas tree traditions?
First was the nagging; days turned into weeks as I tried to get him to set a date that was convenient with him and when the whole family could come together to get the tree; preferably, some time before the season ended. Rick runs on his own calendar; one with endless days of about forty-five hours each.
After we got the tree we waited another eternity for him to get the stand built. A store bought one was somehow never big enough.
Thanks to his mother, he entertained us with a tradition from his childhood. Once the tree was up, we were privileged to wait until the wee hours of the morning for him to drill holes and wire branches into perceived blank spots for the perfectly shaped tree.
Every year I envisioned a happy little family like the kind they have on TV, all smiling over cups of hot chocolate and cider while we strung popcorn and cranberries.
By the time I finished untangling the lights and the kids were swimming in hot chocolate, and running through the popcorn blizzard that had blown through the house, Rick was tired and ready to hang himself with the lights. Forget about hanging them on the tree.
It was a darn safe bet that I wasn’t going to climb up and down on a chair three thousand times trying to hang them when he was tall enough to reach the top of the tree with little effort. Who asked him to be Michael Angelo and sculpt the dang thing anyway?
When the tree was finally decorated Rick took up the roll of nagging. Everyday I was grilled about the dangers of fire. Did I water the tree? Was I sure? Did I know how thirsty a tree was? How do I know the dog didn’t drink the water? No, I was smaller and closer to the ground than he was so it was obviously my job to check the water level.
The nagging never stopped. Did I have to have the lights on all day long? Had I checked to see if the needles were breaking in half yet? Then, to prove that he was the more annoying of the two of us he would jab me in the ribs just as I was dozing off to be sure I had turned the outside lights off too.
Of course I had turned off the lights, which, by the way,I had strung at great pesonal peril, all by myself. However, I had to haul myself out of bed so his highness could get enough sleep to build up enough energy to contine the strenous act of working his jaws the next day.
On a good year we enjoyed these festivities for two to three weeks before the ‘when do we take the tree down’ party began.
I wanted it gone the day after New Years. Rick was all for two days after Christmas. Apparently that was the day the needles all fell off and the tree was practically a stick.
We usually ended up pulling the decorations off the naked branches the morning of New Years Eve.
Our tree traditions always ended with Rick wading through the pine needles and badgering me on how we should get a fake tree while I nagged him for the next several months about just when he was going to take the tree off the front lawn and to the dump.
Maybe he is right. We should get a real tree. I miss those traditions.
When it comes to Christmas, I reek of tradition so you can imagine my shock when Rick and I had the following conversation.
We were at our friends Christmas party, admiring their tree when Rick turned and with nostalgia dripping from his tongue, said. “See how nice it is to have a real Christmas tree. It smells so good.”
I was wearing flats so I had to poke him in the ribs to get him to look down at me so I could glare at him. “Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who wanted a fake tree.”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t my idea.” he smiled and walked towards the food.
It must be nice to be him and be able to eat after telling such a whopper. Was it possible he had caught some virus that had wiped from his memory our trauma drama Christmas tree traditions?
First was the nagging; days turned into weeks as I tried to get him to set a date that was convenient with him and when the whole family could come together to get the tree; preferably, some time before the season ended. Rick runs on his own calendar; one with endless days of about forty-five hours each.
After we got the tree we waited another eternity for him to get the stand built. A store bought one was somehow never big enough.
Thanks to his mother, he entertained us with a tradition from his childhood. Once the tree was up, we were privileged to wait until the wee hours of the morning for him to drill holes and wire branches into perceived blank spots for the perfectly shaped tree.
Every year I envisioned a happy little family like the kind they have on TV, all smiling over cups of hot chocolate and cider while we strung popcorn and cranberries.
By the time I finished untangling the lights and the kids were swimming in hot chocolate, and running through the popcorn blizzard that had blown through the house, Rick was tired and ready to hang himself with the lights. Forget about hanging them on the tree.
It was a darn safe bet that I wasn’t going to climb up and down on a chair three thousand times trying to hang them when he was tall enough to reach the top of the tree with little effort. Who asked him to be Michael Angelo and sculpt the dang thing anyway?
When the tree was finally decorated Rick took up the roll of nagging. Everyday I was grilled about the dangers of fire. Did I water the tree? Was I sure? Did I know how thirsty a tree was? How do I know the dog didn’t drink the water? No, I was smaller and closer to the ground than he was so it was obviously my job to check the water level.
The nagging never stopped. Did I have to have the lights on all day long? Had I checked to see if the needles were breaking in half yet? Then, to prove that he was the more annoying of the two of us he would jab me in the ribs just as I was dozing off to be sure I had turned the outside lights off too.
Of course I had turned off the lights, which, by the way,I had strung at great pesonal peril, all by myself. However, I had to haul myself out of bed so his highness could get enough sleep to build up enough energy to contine the strenous act of working his jaws the next day.
On a good year we enjoyed these festivities for two to three weeks before the ‘when do we take the tree down’ party began.
I wanted it gone the day after New Years. Rick was all for two days after Christmas. Apparently that was the day the needles all fell off and the tree was practically a stick.
We usually ended up pulling the decorations off the naked branches the morning of New Years Eve.
Our tree traditions always ended with Rick wading through the pine needles and badgering me on how we should get a fake tree while I nagged him for the next several months about just when he was going to take the tree off the front lawn and to the dump.
Maybe he is right. We should get a real tree. I miss those traditions.
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