In December, I often feel as though I am being crushed by the Holiday Machine.
I am overwhelmed, and everyone else seems so… calm. The other day I ran into a neighbor who had just mailed her holiday cards.
“We took a family photo on the beach last summer. We all wore white – the kids looked so happy! I’m so glad I finally finished all 250!”
A sob escapes me.
I attempt to laugh. I wasn’t sobbing! Just laughing! I’m just so . . . merry!
I slink away. And then I get into the minivan and beat my head against the steering wheel.
You know what happened during our summer vacation holiday photo attempt? Mayhem, that’s what happened! And no one wore white, believe me. I haven’t bought anything in that color in years! I have enough laundry challenges as it is.
However, it occurs to me that there is that one photo. Sure, it’s a tableau of murderous sibling rage, but if I get it developed in black and white, maybe it’ll look like they’re hugging — in an arty kind of way?
Momentarily cheered, I lift my forehead from the steering wheel. There is a knock on the driver’s side window. It’s another neighbor. I roll down the window.
“Hi!” she says brightly. “I just finished mailing off the last of my packages! Wow, what’s that red bump on your forehead? Anyway, I was thinking we could all use a Girls’ Night Out, because it’s so CRAZY at this time of year! Are you free on Thursday?”
Visions of peppermint ‘tinis dance in my head. I am pretty sure I hear a celestial choir.
“Oh,” I say, “It’s just a little eczema. All this dry air. But anyway, Thursday? Sure, I’m free on Thursday!”
“Great,” she says. “We’re going to do a cookie exchange at my house. See you then!”
Whaa…? What have I done?
I get out of the car and stagger over to Giant for baking supplies. On the way, I spot a friend of mine. I throw my arms around her and hold on a little too long. She disentangles herself, and says, “Did you remember teacher gifts for tomorrow? I just bought a bunch of Starbucks cards. . .what the hell happened to your forehead?”
“Teacher gifts?” I whimper. “Tomorrow?”
“It’s really red,” she says, peering at me curiously.
I notice she grips her Starbucks cards tighter. She pats my arm and suggests I make a few extra cookies for the teachers.
I head home. My holiday cookie production sweatshop breaks many, many child labor laws. But aside from a brief melee with the flour, joy suddenly reigns. They are imagining their teachers’ delight.
I look at my children’s happy faces. Those perfect smiles might not be captured on a card. Their cousins’ presents may be lamer than usual this year. Our tree might be listing like the Evergreen of Pisa. I may or may not get a peppermint ‘tini. But I have calmed down enough to remember what really matters.
We break out the sprinkles. We eat too much batter. And soon we head to bed, visions of smiles dancing in our heads.
