I have a confession to make. I suck at Christmas.
Not many people can admit it, but I can. I’m very bad at Christmas. My anxiety starts building at the mere thought of what it takes to spread Christmas cheer. Hanging Ralphie, the three-legged reindeer on my tree, simply confirms the obvious: I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m terrible at it.
Before you send me mail cleverly addressed to the Grinch, let me explain. I didn’t say I hated Christmas; I just said I’m very bad at it. Being bad at something doesn’t always mean you hate it. For instance, I’m very bad at dancing. I have been told my dancing looks like Elaine’s from Seinfeld: a full-body dry heave. But I still love dancing. I suppose this could be because I don’t have to look at myself dancing as other people do. Anyway, Christmas is like dancing for me. I love it, and I’m jealous of anyone to whom it comes naturally.
As an adult, I’ve discovered that Christmas, like many things in life, requires skills that some of us (namely me) never acquired growing up. Unlike most of my friends, I could always relate to Charlie Brown, as my attempt at all things Christmas has yielded astonishingly sad results over the years. For example, while wrapping gifts, I accidentally sliced our carpet, a bedspread, and the tip of my finger on separate occasions, only to produce packages that looked like they were sent by the Unabomber. In my Christmas cards, the sentiments I come up with are never clever, and a four-year-old using a crayon has better handwriting. As for Christmas candy, I’ve been assured it’s hard to make because it requires certain weather conditions. Judging by the results, I have always chosen the wrong conditions.
So why is there so little emphasis placed on preparing kids for the inevitable grown-up responsibility of pulling off Christmas?
I remember taking many classes in school, most of which were filled with information I never use today. For instance, calculus. Well okay, I didn’t take calculus, but many people who are smarter than myself did. My husband did, and I know for a fact he doesn't use it today. My point is that neither of us uses calculus. Google took calculus so I didn’t have to.
Why did all those classes teach unnecessary subjects like calculus instead of useful topics like the finer points of crafting Christmas? This seems crazy when you realize how much material there is to cover: shopping, ordering, wrapping, baking, caroling, and decorating.
But if I’m being honest, I’m not certain years of instruction would have been helpful enough for me. Am I the only one who feels that if schools did offer a class on creating Christmas magic, I would immediately have been identified as special needs? All signs point to me being a Christmas dyslexic.
Instagram is full of videos showcasing Christmas cabins located in what appears to be Narnia. Trees that rival the elegance and splendor of the ones in the store windows lining New York’s Fifth Avenue. Gifts wrapped in whimsical paper with matching ribbons and bows. A Christmas dinner table that could inspire Norman Rockwell. So I’m not surprised when I observe the homes of my neighbors, friends, and coworkers who somehow have developed real talents when it comes to the holidays and who come across as Christmas overachievers.
After visiting my friend Stacey, I realized she must have not only taken a class on Christmas but somehow had gotten into the AP class and graduated Magna Cum Laude. Her home at Christmas resembles a live Hallmark movie, with front doors draped in a beautiful display of real fur wreaths, warm twinkle lights, and giant silver bows. (How does she keep those branches so green? If I can’t keep a cactus green, I sure can’t keep dismembered limbs looking fresh.) Inside her home, her dining room table is set with Christmas China and more crystal than a window outside of Tiffany's. Christmas scents waft from candles all over the house, a different one in each room. Her rooms display not one, but three trees that I feel certain she must have grown herself with a proprietary blend of low-calorie, protein-rich fertilizer. Each tree is pruned to the perfect height and width, and trimmed in all the right places with large swirling ribbons, warm twinkling lights, and matching ornaments. These trees, supermodels of the Christmas tree world, are runway ready.
My best attempts at decorating never seem to result in anything close to Stacey’s display of Christmas magic. I would instead call my attempts, Christmas tragic. It's not like I don’t try. Every year, I head down to the local Christmas tree lot and spend hours searching, comparing, and measuring. Aware of my ineptitude, I even get others' opinions. Does this tree make me look fat?
Eventually, I decide on what appears to be the perfect Christmas tree. However, once I drag it home, somehow half the needles are missing and it leans slightly to one side, requiring me to build a kickstand out of a walking cane. Yes, my tree resembles Mr. Peanut. After I add the ornaments, the branches sag and bend more than my boobs after a jog these days. Half the lights on my tree burn out after I string them, immediately sucked back into the tree fat with no way to identify which bulb is the cause of my rolling blackouts. Instead of looking like a supermodel, my tree looks more like Jabba the Hutt
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Also, it doesn't help that I’m sentimental. I keep ornaments well past their prime, and I can’t seem to part with them. My isle of misfit ornaments includes a chinless nutcracker, a wingless angel, and a reindeer named Ralphie, who only has three legs. All are sweet gifts from my children over the years.
I’ve resorted to Christmas shopping online in an effort to make the process quicker and easier. Somehow, I still find this to be challenging. I’m constantly confused by sizes or quantities, or both. Last year, I ordered a sweater as a gift for my mother. When it arrived, I opened the package to behold three tiny sweaters for doll triplets. I know, I know! It’s the thought that counts. But even I know that nobody, not even Mariah Cary, feels that all they want for Christmas is me.
On Christmas Eve, I waited nervously for family and friends to arrive. I must admit I was feeling overwhelmed and frustrated by the less than impressive results from my efforts at creating the perfect Christmas. My daughter, who had been away at college, was the first to arrive. “Oh, the house looks great,” she marveled, as only someone who had been homesick for the past three months would do. She glanced around with delight and examined the tree I had struggled to put up. “I love it,” she said. “It’s perfect!” She reached up and touched each of her favorite ornaments with her fingers. “Look, mom! It’s Ralphie.”
“Yes, it wouldn’t be Christmas without Ralphie, the three-legged reindeer,” I laughed.
“Not for us it wouldn’t,” she agreed.
As more family arrived, we spent time eating, playing games, drinking hot chocolate, laughing together, and reminiscing about Christmases past. We sang Christmas carols, and my husband read the story of Jesus’s birth. That night, I realized something important. While it’s true I would probably never be able to pull off an Instagram-perfect Hallmark channel Christmas, why was I so worried about it? How had others' standards become my standards? Shouldn’t every family develop their own unique celebrations and traditions? I realized I had worried that my insignificant Christmas skills would result in my friends and family having an insignificant holiday.
Looking around the room, my heart overflowed as I understood that we had everything we needed to observe the perfect Christmas. We were blessed to be in a safe, warm home celebrating Jesus’s birth, surrounded by those we love and thinking of those who couldn’t be with us. Sitting near my husband, I smiled at our friends, who are now family, and I regarded my two youngest children, who had returned home, and my two older boys, who were now raising families of their own. One day, they would all be in charge of creating their own Christmases. I pray they will always remember who Christmas is really about and why we celebrate it. I hope years from now, they will remember Christmas at our home fondly.
That evening, I watched my two-year-old grandson’s eyes light up as he reached for the tree, and like his dad at his age, carefully cupped his hands around Ralphie, the three-legged reindeer. Gratitude filled my heart in that moment, and I realized no class could teach what every child already knows: the wonder and magic of Christmas.
Edited by Rebekah Crozier
Contact info: avery282@gmail.com
Kim,
We can all relate!! I laughed out loud as I read and can relate on so many levels!
Have a wonderful Christmas with your beautiful family! Ann
This piece made me smile. No, I promise you are not the only one who sucks at Christmas. I will hold that trophy high in solidarity. I grew up with a mom who loved to decorate not only for Christmas, but for every damn holiday imagined. There was a wreath for every season, a knick-knack to celebrate the bunny, turkey, leprechaun and so much more. I am not my mom and my house is filled with mis-matched items, a tree that is lopsided with not enough tinsel, and my favorite ornament from 1979. It's all I need.