Tales of a Goddess

Thanksgiving was relaxing for us – too relaxing.  Nothing got done, and yet again, after a teary good-bye to my husband, I shut the front door and turned around to a post-apocalyptic mess on my living room/dining room floor in my house.  The same house I had stayed up until 2am Thursday morning to clean.  ^%#*%#*^%#*!!!!!!  The best part: I now also have a hacking cough complete with chest congestion that would make tar look runny (and the headache/throat ache that goes with the constant cahck of my coughing).  Picked up no doubt from Cam, who yesterday had the same nasty cough but today is blissfully hack-free.  I love children and their early Christmas gifts.

Ah, speaking of the impending holiday, I’m letting it be known I’m now entering into full-time Bah Humbug Mode.  I’m sick of the songs, my eyes are tired of the blinking lights and glittery decor, and I’m chock out of wintertime cheer.  Not that I had any to begin with, mind you.  Twenty-three days until I get to stay up past midnight playing deranged, alcohol-deprived, putting-together-and-wrapping-presents-too-late Santa.  Twenty-three days of figuring out yet another excuse for not going to Christmas Eve service (no, I’m not pregnant, dear MIL!), of bellying up to a festive, over-flowing meal with my in-laws who seriously should just put the damn fork down already (I’m obese myself, but they’re twice my size apiece).  Twenty-three days leading up to Christmas Eve, full of noise and crowds and cards I won’t write and pictures I won’t take.  Twenty-three days until I turn yet another year older, souring any joy I might squeeze out of the entire month of December. 

I get over-looked, used, walked-over, even ignored the entire year by my children (and sometimes my husband) – the Christmas season just makes this worse.  In all the hustle and bustle, in my trying to make sure every one else is happy, fed, content, I tend to get left by the wayside.  Tim does try to avoid this, but it happens nonetheless – I know you did not forget my birthday that year, honey, but it was very close to the line.  The one day that should be an Annapalooza isn’t, never when I was a child stuck in Mass or at Christmas parties, and now that I have kids, it never will be – never can be.   Christmas and all its revelry, its over-the-topness, its infuriating madness, drives me crazy.  If it were a simple day, limited in scope to maybe Independence Day, maybe I’d be more fond of it.  But it’s too much, for too long, and too invasive.  I see no way of celebrating it the way I’d like to without alienating our relatives or without becoming hermits for the last few months of the year.  So I’ll let it trample on my birthday, on my life this time of year, and let it into my home – I won’t be the Grinch that steals Christmas from my young children – but I won’t like it.  Not one little bit.

And yes, I’m aware that I get Mother’s Day.  And I share that, with my mother and my mother-in-law.  That holiday has a pretty iffy track record in this house too.  What can I say?  I’ve sacrificed enough for my children, I have no intention of being a martyr.  I just want my birthday back, and no holiday wrapping paper or red/green on my cake, okay?  And a present, separate from Christmas.  That’s just cheap, people.

I’d say I felt better having that off my chest, but honestly, I swear my congestion is getting worse, and my chest hurts more!  Very auspicious start to December!