Am I crazy (yes), or did Christmas come extra quickly this year? I know we were robbed of a week because Thanksgiving was late, and I can only assume that adding a toddler to the mix naturally increases the hustle in our bustle, but this morning even Wombat, who as a freshly minted five-year-old should feel like Christmas is always impossibly far off in the hazy distance, commented on how fast it’s all flying by. “I can’t believe how quickly December and November were! It seems like it was just Halloween!” I feel you, dude. (And if that’s true, it means I can still sneak in blog recaps of Halloween and Thanksgiving as things that did indeed happen to us this year, yes?) Of course, we’re told to cherish these moments because they are so soon behind us, but what I’ve found is that paying any amount of attention to the passage of time only serves to get my real-time nostalgia neurons turned to rapid-fire and faster than you can say “sunrise, sunset,” I’m reduced to humming through every day with giant moist Bambi eyes because it’s all going so fast and soon my kids will be big and old and acknowledging me with only a synchronized eye roll from behind their handheld gaming devices and we’re all just tiny specks in the vast expanse of space and time and what does it all meeeeeean?!?!? I never considered Christmas a time for reflecting on the nature of existence, but we don’t always get to choose the content and timing of our breakdowns, do we?
But seriously, it feels like there’s just not enough time to do all the holiday things I want to do. There’s no time to read all the Christmas books (let alone read some of them more than once), and I feel like watching Christmas movies has turned into a high-pressure job. Every day after school, I cattle-drive the kids into the t.v. room and turn on some charming holiday classic (or something new and creepy like Polar Express *shudder*), and I’ve found myself wanting to create a spreadsheet just to make sure we get everything in before it’s too late (which is silly because I’ll watch Eloise at Christmastime while lazing in a hammock in the middle of July). Still, I can’t shake the feeling that if we don’t complete our movie-watching assignments in time we’re going to catch hell from our supervisor, which is ridiculous and, thank goodness, almost certainly merely residual intensity spilling over from how much scrambling I’ve been doing during the day. Gifts to buy, cards to address, rooms to clean, suitcases to pack, all that stuff plus scheduling a dozen kindergarten tours and planning two birthday parties for January and trying to find power cords for the electronic devices that will get us through the next two weeks. When we deboard de plane in Salt Lake next Monday, I hope someone is there to greet me with a big old cocktail and a comfy recliner (HINT HINT).
For anyone who, like me, loves hearing about what other people get their kids: This year the baby’s getting hand-me-down stuff we’re pulling out of the attic (ring stacker, popper push-toy, plus a few puzzles Wombat got after he was too old for them), and Wombat has asked Santa for a fairy princess (check), jewels “for [his] fairies” (check), and a volcano kit (check). He’ll be getting some other stuff he needs like socks and p.j.s and workbooks and whatnot, mostly in an attempt to create the feeling of bounty that was one of my favorite parts of Christmas growing up. A virtual cornucopia of new underwear is better than no cornucopia. Oh, and he’s also a REAL FLYING FAIRY, which I’ve made a command decision will come from Mom and Dad instead of Santa because (a) he didn’t ask Santa for it and (b) it never hurts to remind your kids how awesome you are. I can’t wait, I can’t wait, I can’t wait!
Speaking of Santa, Wombat’s been reading enough Christmas books and seeing enough Christmas movies that he’s come to the realization that Santa is more complicated than he seems at first glance. He’s noticed how often fictional kids say they don’t believe in Santa as well as how often the Santa they visit at the mall or wherever turns out to not be the real Santa after all. This morning he was wondering aloud why the Santa at the shopping center had a straight beard and the one at the zoo had a curly beard and the one who sent him a video message had an impractically long beard, and I can only guess what will happen when we visit a black Santa this evening. For a kid who asks a million questions about everything, I can see him holding back on the Santa issue, almost as if he doesn’t want any answers because he’s afraid of what they might be. I love how keen he is to believe in magic of all sorts, and I’m trying my best not to be hopelessly maudlin that we only have a few more years before he gets wise and not even the Santa-tracking segment on the local news on Christmas Eve will be enough. *cue existential crisis #324*
Meanwhile, we’re soaking up every second. We finally got the tree decorated on December 15, I sent out our first batch of Christmas cards this morning, and I bought myself a new red and green plaid shirt. We’ve been kind of loose with our advent activities, but we’ve still managed to go ice skating, sing carols around the piano, make some dumb little crafts courtesy of the Target dollar bin, and of course watch too many yet not enough Christmas movies. Simon mixed up a batch of stovetop potpurri we’ve been simmering on and off for the last week (1/2 pot water, 2 cups apple juice, 3 heaping tbsp ground cinnamon (or a handful of sticks), 2 tsp ground cloves, 1/4 cup bourbon (optional), 4 tbsp concentrated urine (human, not cat)), and I couldn’t be more pleased with our new Christmas stockings, especially since they were on saaaaale, glorious saaaaale (see below). Every year, Simon is appalled that I’ve never seen It’s a Wonderful Life from start to finish, and every year I’m more convinced it doesn’t matter because I’ve got my wonderful life right here.