Santa Claus has come and gone, the turkey has been eaten, and parents everywhere can sigh with relief: Christmas is over. The most frenetic, stressful holiday of the year is now a distant memory, and all that’s left to remember it is the fart-playing keyboard someone gave my kids. As they laugh hysterically at the various squeaks and squelches erupting from their new favorite toy, I remember to write said gift-giver a withering thank-you card. At least they didn’t send drums!
After all the shopping, wrapping, cooking, and baking, after all the effort to make sure the kids have a memorable, fun-filled Christmas, it’s time for the letdown. That bland, depressing time when anticipation has passed, and the credit card bills start rolling in. Despite our best intentions, my husband Jeremy and I spent more than we intended. But hey, it was worth it, right? To buy the kids that battery-powered car they rode for three minutes? Or the remote-controlled dinosaur that scared the dog and broke when it tumbled down the stairs? While surveying the battlefield of my living room, my mind drifts to the best parts of the holidays. Making cookies with the kids, playing in the snow, hot chocolate smiles and happy pink cheeks. These memories are what sustain me as I tackle the dismantling of Christmas.
First, the tree. How on earth did all these decorations fit into their boxes? Was this angel always in two pieces? Why is this Snoopy ornament sticky? Elves and candy canes are crammed into shoeboxes, and I ignored the ominous sound of breaking glass – that’s a problem for next Christmas. The twinkling strands of lights are wound into neat bundles and placed in bins, where they’ll tangle themselves into knots. The once glorious tree is dragged out the door and off the balcony, and ten million pine needles are vacuumed off the floor. While I’m here, I might as well vacuum everywhere; despite my vigilance, glitter has invaded the house and winks at me from the carpet. After a day’s work, after “help” from the kids, after sweating and hauling and back spasms, the house is back to its pre-Christmas form. It feels strangely bare, like a blank canvas, or an empty ice-cream carton.
January is the armpit of the year; it’s dark at three pm, miserably cold, and seasonal depression is rampant. It’s a month that you just want to end, and wouldn’t you know that my birthday’s right in the middle of it! Poor Jeremy has it rough, getting hit with Christmas, my birthday, and Valentine’s Day one after the other. What I wouldn’t give to celebrate in the summer! To wear swimsuits and sunscreen, instead of snowsuits and mittens. One year, it snowed so ferociously that out of ten kids invited, only two could make it to my birthday party! One girl called and said, “my mom can’t get the car up our driveway”, and I believed her. Her driveway was impossibly steep, and the car would’ve slid down into her living room. The two girls who made it, though, were great fun and we had a blast. There are pictures of the three of us, bundled up in snowsuits, laughing and playing outside.
As January crawls on, as the holiday decorations gather dust, it’s easy to feel subdued. Everyone’s cranky, the weather is terrible, and my birthday reminds me how far away from twenty-one I am. It’s only six months until summer; maybe I’ll start wearing my bathing suit around the house and pretend that it’s already here. A little wishful thinking never hurt anyone, did it? In fact, it might make cleaning up a little easier!
