I was really happy about Christmas this year. I made a point of decorating early and staying organized so that I would be able to sit back and enjoy it. And I was doing a pretty good job of it too. Christmas day was quiet and pleasant, with just the four of us to work on our own (lazy) schedule and pass the time the way we wanted. The kids woke up late and we made our way into the living room and the giant pile of stuff that was waiting for all of us. The children were fantastic; Tee got a little overwhelmed at one point, but it didn’t bother me too much; in a way I was glad that she would still be affected by the muchness of it all.
Eventually we dressed up in big boots and snow pants and toques and took Dee’s new GT racer to the park for some sliding, but the conditions weren’t great and we were content to head back home early to hot chocolate and another look at the presents and generally just hanging out until Gee braved the temperature in the back yard to grill some steaks for a happily untraditional Christmas feast. All in all a great day. Maybe a day that would have disappointed, if we didn’t know that the big family party was coming up on the 26th, but we did know, and so we could enjoy the occasion at hand.
The family party was fun. Better than I expected, actually. The normal regrets and eye-rolling moments, but all in all pretty successful. The kids got more stuff, the adults got more stuffed, and by the time we got home and into bed, everyone was overfed, overtired, and generally just over-and-out.
Now I’m spent. I am battling have a nasty, frustrating cold. I’m done, just done.
Except I’m not.
We still have 3 more major parties to go to or host before this holiday season officially comes to an end. The trouble is, my interest in holiday parties crawled into bed with me on Boxing Day and never really got back out.
Gee feels the same: tonight’s party with his step-dad’s family feels like an obligation, not a celebration, and inviting friends over tomorrow night to ring in the new year seemed like a great idea at the time, but now I’d be happy to curl up on my couch with my Snuggie and let the kids eat chips until the ball drops, or they pass out, whichever comes first. Hell, I may still do that, company be damned.
And then, on January 2, my brother-in-law is getting married. It should be a time for joy and merriness, but instead it’s just something else we have to do, all wrapped up in wads and wads of really expensive wrapping. Gee is the best man; Tee & Dee are flower girls, and I’m the personal shopper, valet, hairdresser and accountant for the whole gang. It’s a lot. It’s too much.
I keep telling myself that the calendar is playing a trick on me: if all these events had occurred before December 25th, we would have relished them. But now, on the downslide of the holiday, it feels like we should be resting, hibernating, settling into our winter routine, not pulling on the nylon stockings and high heels for another night of excess, another morning of remorse.
However. It is what it is. I can either endure it, or make the most of it. And since I know that in the dreary days ahead I will be glad to have good memories in store, I better drug myself up, dress myself up, and get going.
But January 3? Really done. Really.