It’s Christmas time, and I nearly skinned my knee rushing to the local Target to peruse their isles of Christmas crap. It’s the season I like, not so much the actual day. I get so disappointed on the day, because in my mind my family is perfect. I imagine us all sitting together at the table and recalling fond memories of the year. We each take turns sharing what we’re thankful for and pass the mashed potatoes with warm smiles. In my mind there are no drunk mailmen that show up and try to hit on me–because my dad is friends with everyone. There are no drunk and unapologetic aunts who try to convince me that being a stay-at-home-mom is not a real job. No homophobic cousins that constantly push the limits of racial slurs and bigotry. I don’t much like the day of Christmas, but each year I secretly hope it will be different. And on top of all that nonsense, this year I have a baby. This makes me nervous. Here are just a few reasons:
- She’ll electrocute herself with Rudolph singing and light-up reindeer
- Christmas just got WAY more expensive
- She might eat a ornament
- One explosive poo, and her pretty Christmas dress is ruined
- My grandma will try to feed her a chicken gizzard
So, this year, I’m not hoping for a Marc Jacobs handbag, or a pair or Miu Miu flats, I am hoping for sanity…although the flats wouldn’t hurt.