Two days’ worth of evidence suggests that 2013 is not the year I have been rendered magically on time nor is it the year in which laundry does itself. Outrageously, it also appears that I still have to pack the kids’ lunches every morning.
WTF, 2013? If I wanted everything to stay exactly the same, I could have stayed in 2012. Poor showing thus far, my friend. We all had such high hopes.
I won’t bother to lie to you and tell you how I resolve to do it all differently this year. I kind of like the way I do it. Also, I spent the better part of today reading Game of Thrones and eating salt crystals, so, you know, 2013 and I deserve each other.
Do you have a set way you do the holidays? (Spoiler: I do. I know, me? Be rigid and difficult about scheduling? NEVER.) I really noticed it while browsing our holiday pictures this year. I can line them up, day for day, against holidays past. It starts with the tree-trimming Santa hat pictures, which were excellent this year if I do say so myself and you can’t even see that I’m still wearing my pajamas.
Then I ignore Christmas and pretend for a few days that I’m actually a Jew and I know how to do Hanukkah.
All lies because I’m lost without guidance from major chain stores. What do I do next, oh gods of secular religious holiday trappings marketing? Ah, of course. Mall Santa.
This picture is mildly illegal and represents a huge Mall Santa foul as I had already been advised by Skippy the friendly elf SEVERAL TIMES that they prefer that we not take our own pictures, but rather buy their over-priced version. As I pointed out, very kindly, to the teenager dressed as an elf, I understood the preference, it’s just that preference does not a crime make. I prefer if mall elves don’t talk to me, but that doesn’t mean they can’t talk to me. This is when Matt pointed out that I have already pissed off Mall Easter Bunny and if I continue to piss off Mall Beings, I’m going to be permanently banned from the mall.
What gives with you, dude? Why’re you putting a tree in the living room?
I don’t know, for fun. Why do you splatter the ceiling with blood?
Fine. Put a lighted toilet in the living room. What do I care.
Where was I? Christmas Eve. The kids get pajamas. This year I completely spaced and then found last minute thermal underwear at Costco. They were their favorite pajamas EVER. Of course. Ninja pee holes. For stealth peeing.
Obligatory, two-a.m., we’re finally finished wrapping; holy shit thank god tree picture.
Pretty. Until you notice the two bands of tree-darkness on the pre-lit, FAKE Christmas tree, which is all I can ever notice every time I look at it arrrrrggggghhhh. Still, pretty. Embrace the dark bands.
This one is entitled “okay, alright, yes! we can go down!” Alternatively, “did he come, did he, i can’t wait, i can’t stand it?”
Santa brings one big present in our house and it’s usually in the basement. They get to look at the bounty under the tree, but not touch. We make them play with whatever Santa brings until after breakfast. What? You don’t torture your kids on Christmas? Patience is a virtue. Besides, the family that plays with Santa’s foosball table together, stays together.
We do eventually, after egg casserole and coffee, let them open presents.
And then the real hell — fun, I mean fun – begins.
The joy just oozes from this picture of me, doesn’t it? I am SO excited to be putting together a plastic dinosaur matchbox car track without a child in sight.
And then there are only stockings to go. The fun is almost over for another year. But, there was the small consolation of stockings as big as they are.
Bedtime! I’m kidding. I let them stay up until almost 7:45. I’m so flexible, you guys, look at me bend.