Am I the only parent that finds the "decorating the
tree" night one of the most stressful nights of the year? Shit everywhere.
Kids bitching. Ornaments breaking. I mean really, am I the only person who has,
and is inducing, PTSD in my family around this event?
My OCD ass wasn’t able to attend the ceremonious tree picking
today (God knows, a girl's cut and color is more important). Without intense parental guidance
my three kiddos brought home a tree that even Charlie Brown would cringe
at. As the day went on the boxes of
Christmas bullshit piled into the living room.
Every year I lie to myself and swear I’m going to organize this
shit. After the exhaustion of the
holiday it’s more of a “fuck it” approach as I sloppily cram irreplaceable
collector ornaments into bins.
As the “mom” it’s my job to organize the shit out of this event
and make it look like Norman Fucking Rockwell.
The night starts with a simple pep talk to the kiddos explaining the
severe ramifications of not looking happy as I paparazzi the event with my keen
eye so I can post that shit to social websites and look like supermom. My youngest, who has turned “pissing Mommy
off” into an art form quickly decides he no longer wants to participate. The older boys take on the delicate task of
adding lights to the tree. Otherwise
known as “Throw that shit at the tree and light it.” This results in a clump of colored lights in
one corner and half lit white lights clumsily thrown across the top. After a few deeps breaths and understanding
that they have the decorating talent of toddlers we move forward with the
ornaments. That’s when shit starts
getting real. I can always count on at
least one ornament breaking and it’s usually the oldest and most valuable. Half way through the process my husband finds
me hiding in the kitchen with a bottle of wine (I’d go for shots but shit...
I’m breast-feeding). Then comes
dinner. I, of course, spent the day in
the kitchen making our traditional meal for this blessed event.
NOT.
As the kids start complaining we remember we have to feed them
more than once a day. Blackjack Pizza is
on speed dial. Our kids and our relatives visiting from China get pizza for the
second night in a row. “Fuck it,
order enough for breakfast too.” Fucking
genius: two meals in one.
Last year my blood pressure what so high at just the thought of
going to the tree farm my husband fed me a pot brownie left over from a
friend’s party. (I can say that shit now
that it’s legal… well, in a few weeks.)
That was the best fucking night ever.
My husband asked me to trim the tree so it would fit in the living
room. He wanted about six inches off the
top… three feet later I was in hysterics.
Never ask a stoned moron to do hedge work. That was one fucked up looking tree and it
was the funniest thing EVER. Kids didn’t
quite understand but someday they’ll figure it out.
So, Christmas 2012. Boo
fucking yah. I had the pleasure of
informing my delightful children that Santa is a sham this year. Since that façade is no longer necessary I
think gift cards are in order and mommy is going to spend this month on her fat
ass keenly awaiting the arrival of 2013.
Merry Fucking Christmas.
