“Wait! Don’t go downstairs yet!” we told four-year-old Lilly, who’d unapologetically woken Francis and I up at six, raring to go. Never mind that I’d only slept four hours after wrapping a gazillion presents and preparing the perfect Christmas morning.
“Go wake your brother and sister up so you can all go to the bathroom and brush your teeth,” I stalled.
“The kids are up!” I poked Francis, “Get downstairs and light the fire, turn on some Christmas music, too. I’ll get the hot cocoa going, turn the tree on and feed the cat. We can’t let them go down until we’re ready!”
“Huh? Wha?” Francis snorted, the reality of the monumental task ahead slowly setting in.
We heard the kids’ erupting in excited giggles, their pajama’ed feet padding through the bathroom and toward our bedroom.
The door burst open, and there they squirmed, each wearing the footed fleece PJs they’d received on Christmas Eve, after a full day of baking cookies, singing carols, dressing up for Christmas mass, eating a prime rib dinner with all the trimmings, decorating a gingerbread house, putting goodies out for Santa and his reindeer, and reading “T’was the Night Before Christmas” together by our twinkling self-cut tree.
“Daddy?” Hayden, age nine, asked Francis, who was groggily pulling on a pair of pants, “Did Santa come last night?”
“I’m not sure, buddy, but I heard something up on the roof last night,” Francis fibbed. “Stay up here with Mom a minute, and lemme go downstairs and check.” Anna, age six, who couldn’t contain her delight, reached over to squeeze her little sister. “Don’t do it, Anna!” Francis warned, knowing Anna bit when she was over-excited. Anna gritted her teeth and grinned, dimples carving deeply into her cheeks.
Francis and I scrambled to get things ready while the kids squirmed at the top of the staircase, waiting for the go-ahead. Lights, fire, music, cocoa, camera — Action!
The kids clamored down the stairs toward the family room, pausing at the doorway to take in the scene. Under and all around the tree, as far as their widened eyes could see, were presents. Stacked, tumbling, overflowing, in boxes and bags, wrapped in colored paper, bedecked in ribbons and bows, spilling halfway into the room. Nothing but presents.
For the next three hours, Francis and I managed the chaos while our three children opened scores of gifts, from us, Santa, uncles, aunts, grandparents and godparents. There were so many gifts, we had to take a break in the middle for nap time, continuing after lunch.
“C’mon back in here!” Francis shouted to Lilly who was hiding in the kitchen playing with a new Barbie doll. “You have more left to open,” he said as if she hadn’t done her chores.
When it was finally done, Francis and I collapsed from exhaustion onto the couch. “How did Christmas get so over the top,” I wondered?
In the early years, our Christmases were simple and sweet. Babies only like bows anyway, right? But once our kids developed memories, I mistakenly believed I had to make each Christmas better than the last. Even when money was tight, I did whatever was necessary to exceed our children’s expectations. I bought toys at thrift shops, clipped coupons, drove hours to outlet sales, managing it all on a complicated spreadsheet.
Before I knew it, Santa was overtasked, overfed, overworked, overwhelmed, hungover and on the brink of a psychiatric event.
Like a wet grocery bag full of canned peas, the bottom eventually dropped out. One year, I waved the white, green and red flag of Christmas surrender, admitting that I could no longer create a the perfect holiday for my family.
Considering that “the kids” were well over the age of 18, it was about damn time.
“Kids,” I texted in our family group chat recently, “tell me exactly what you want this year. Preferably something I can order online. In fact, just send me the links. And I’ll need some help decorating the tree. I’ll have clean sheets on your beds when you get home. Can’t wait to see you all! Love, Mom.”
The best I can do will be the best Christmas ever.
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