The Bitch Who Stole Christmas

Growing up, every year my father swore that this would be the Christmas that we would NOT be getting gifts. Of course, there was no room in the manger for a well-meaning idealist like him—bless his heart. Pitted against giants like the JC Penney and Sears Wishbooks—and later, the big daddy of them all, the sacred Toys-R-Us Toy Book—he was doomed to fail. And he did. Year after year, after year.

Ultimately, I fear that this Christmas failure was what sent him careening into spending the prime years of his life as a weekend alcoholic. He was a living irony. In trying to save us from the consumerism of Christmas, we branded him a long-haired hippy scrooge. What sane parent could stand up to that kind of abuse?

Which leads me to the subject of this post. Last night I told a dear friend that I had decided that I would not be sending cards, stringing up lights, getting gifts or putting up a tree. “It’s too stressful!” I tried to explain…And, failing that, I attempted to conjure my father’s rhetoric about commercialism.

Silence on the other end of the phone. Then: “You have got to be kidding me. Are you sick? In the head? No, seriously, are you all right? Do I need to come down there?” Admittedly, I was caught a bit off guard. Stammering, I told her that last year, due to some weird change-related anxiety, I had S.O. get a REAL tree, we put up lights and garlands, did the whole pine potpourri thing, played Christmas music, put up all of my cute little Christmas teddy bear knick knacky things, sent gifts to all of my family members, wrote cards, bought gifts for co-workers, acquaintances and all of A’s cousins…and…it wore me out.

I spent the month of December flinging myself between Walmart and Target and the Dollar Store and Family Dollar and the Grocery Store (aka the one Kroger in our town—capitalized because none of the other stores here can really hold a candle to it, even if they do carry every pork product known to man). So I attempted again to convince my friend.

Again, silence (albeit a more brief moment). This friend, imbibed with the Christmas spirit verbally flailed me, stopping just short of calling me an irresponsible mother. “Think of your child!” she implored, “Christmas will be magical for her for just a short while longer and when that moment has passed, you’ll be wishing you’d put up a fucking tree because you will have given her the basis for years of therapy.” It was like she was performing some kind of holiday exorcism. As she talked I felt an unnamed power coercing me into dragging out the gingerbread house that someone gave us in 1998. “The power of Christmas COMPELLS you! The power of Christmas COMPELLS you!”

Anyway. Long story short: in the end, I folded, just like my father did. I understand now the true meaning of guilt Christmas. Now if I could only find my Alvin and Chipmunks record…