Christmases Past

My early childhood memories of Christmas consist of getting up early Christmas morning, eating a quick breakfast, rushing through opening of presents and then hitting the road to visit all of daddy's many relatives, all of whom held open houses on Christmas Day. That night we would drag home after sampling the final buffet and, finally, I got to play with my presents. This occurred every year until I got old enough and brave enough to protest. According to my mother, I finally stamped my little foot and demanded to stay home one Christmas. After that, we limited ourselves to only a couple of open houses on Christmas afternoon.

Many of daddy's patients sent me gifts, which added to the excitement. I suppose I was just such a cute, sweet (spoiled rotten) little angel that they simply couldn't resist showering me with presents at Christmas, even though they had never met me. In spite of the fact that my parents DID know me, they half-filled the living room with presents from Santa Claus.

After I discovered the harsh reality about Santa, the number of presents went into a steep decline.

By the time I had children of my own, I was exhibiting Grinch-like qualities. Kell and Jay brought back some of the magic of the season for me, and I was able to shower them with an array of gifts that would make Santa blush, if he were real.

Kelley professed to believe in Santa Claus until she was fourteen, even though Jay continually taunted her with the truth of the matter. I admit I perpetuated the fraud by hiding all their gifts in a closet in my bedroom. I had to stay up later and later each year, as they grew older, but I always waited until they were in bed to bring the presents out and put them under the tree. It was only when Kell was caught standing outside that closet, hands clasped tightly to keep them from flinging the doors open that she finally had to admit that Jay was right. After that, some of the magic went out of Christmas, but the fun remained.

Those were the days, my friends.

Bah, Humbug

'Tis the season, again. Already. And, I don't mind telling you that I really, really, really don't like it. It's the same, or worse, every year. People run around frantically, buying, buying, buying and getting stressed out because nothing ever seems to be enough. This present is kind of cheesy, you decide, so you go out in search of something to make up for it. When you buy that person another present, suddenly, there are several more to buy because heaven forbid one of the kids should get more presents than the others.

Maybe you like to brag, as I used to, that you finished all your shopping and wrapped everything before Thanksgiving. But, then what happens? You have a whole month or more to think about what you bought, and become dissatisfied with some of it. So, a few days before Christmas, or worse, on Christmas Eve, you hit the mall searching for just one more present for everybody.

In the meantime, you've decorated your home or spent even more money hiring someone to decorate it for you. By the time you or your decorator are through, the house is lit up like Las Vegas, and every bit as garish. Even so, somehow, it doesn't seem to be enough.

And, on to the feast. Somehow, you have to find time to bake pies and cookies. You know what everyone likes, so you make all their favorites. Somehow, some ingredient is always forgotten, so it's back to the grocery store, battling the hordes of people who are also looking for something forgotten.

Christmas Eve, at last, and you sink into your chair, satisfied that you have done everything humanly possible to make sure that everyone has a great time. Something nags at you. What have you forgotten? Maybe it's not very important, you hope. You get ready for bed, anticipating all those visions of sugarplums. You toss and turn for a while, too exhausted to sleep, and before you know it, it's Christmas morning and you roll out of bed, put on the coffee, and start cooking breakfast, and get the turkey/ham/roast beast ready for the oven.

By noon, the carefully decorated house resembles an explosion in a Christmas wrapping paper factory. Most of the presents sit opened under the tree, and everyone is sitting around looking shell-shocked. At this point, the orgy of excess and greed is over. After the Christmas feast, it's nap time - but not for you. You begin to gather up all the wrapping paper and stuff the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. Finally, you stagger to your chair for that long winter's nap that you didn't get last night.

Your New Year's Resolution: We'll pare back next year. No more wretched excess. Simplify, simplify, simplify. So, cheers and Happy New Year!

And, next Christmas will be even better.