The kids are exceptionally insane currently. Buoyed by a constant stream of gifted sugar and the commercial aspect of old mate Jesus’ birth; they have whipped themselves into some sort of Tasmanian devil frenzy that involves a lot of very early wake ups and jumping off couches. I sold some baby items last week and a lovely young lady came by to pick something up. Pregnant with her first child, she stumbled into what can only be described as apocalyptic chaos. There was yelling, crying and someone screeching about being stepped on. Phoenix decided he wanted to show her some Paw Patrol toys and thrust Chase right into her retina whilst yelling, “CHASE IS ON THE CASE!” Repeatedly. Addison started rubbing the poor woman’s stomach like she was a genie and Hendrix just stumbled around yelling. I have never had someone give me money that easily before. As she ran out the door I could smell the waft of the my kid will be different stench coming off of her. We all think the same.
You know, for someone who isn’t religious (I went to church once as I was promised Pizza afterwards) and what with Spouse being a non practicing Catholic; its tough to explain the significance of this celebration beyond presents, Santa and a red nosed reindeer to 3 very young kids. Addison came up to me yesterday, looked me dead in the eye and demanded to know if ‘baby cheezel was still alive and where is he?’ These are questions I’m not equipped to answer people. (Not to mention the fact my child can’t differentiate between Jesus and the tasty morsel that is the orange ring of Cheezel.) Sigh; I had so many grand plans of giving back to the community and making my children not appear to be ungrateful little blighters this Christmas. None of it has panned out. Next year then I guess.
Christmas is stressful and sometimes I wonder if I’m the only Mum out there who is at times, frustrated and flustered by the muchness of it all. It feels a bit like a pressure cooker, a pressure cooker that has to perform and purchase. To keep up with the fuckery on social media, the who can do Christmas better campaign. I won’t be elected. Mainly because for every white washed, filtered, curated Instagram family post there could be one of my lot covered in mud from outside, destroying the tree and each other. I found myself on Saturday traipsing around store after store searching for a plastic ball full of plastic crap that Addison will lose interest in within hours and Spouse will step on and invoke the demon of toy inflicted parental pain. I left empty handed and cranky with myself for buying into that crap. Bah!
Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas, I do. I love carols and lights and decorating the tree every night after they’re in bed. I love the end of year concerts and the happiness on their little faces as they exchange cards and receive gifts. I love it when they meet Santa and the joy they have as we bake treat after treat. I love reading Christmas books and doing my best as a heathen, to explain the story of Baby Jesus. I love remembering the anticipation of it all; how as a child you could almost taste it as you counted the hours down on Christmas Eve. I love the smell of real trees, so much so that I casually sniffed one at Erina Fair today and a woman gave me a weird look. I love the decorations that have been passed down to me and will go onto my kids one day. Especially my angel, purchased in the early 80s from Franklins by my Dad and whose hair smells exactly like my childhood home and who I hold up to my nose everyday to inhale the scent of long gone lazy summer days waiting for Christmas to arrive. The truth is, without the white noise of excessive shopping, car park fights and cranky family members, Christmas is a little bit of alright by me. Maybe, with more tree sniffing and light gazing, the pressure cooker starts to deflate. Maybe, it’s all about focus.
5 more sleeps.
5 more sniffs.