How I'm Reframing Christmas

I don't like Christmas. 

It's kind of a lot.

To begin with, the holiday is so very obtrusive. It rushes at me from every direction, demanding that I pay attention, saying I should feel joyous and bouncy and excited every waking hour. Christmas wants me to be an inexhaustible toddler, dazzled by everything, rushing around filled with glee. 

Amid the lights strung high and low, the incessant holiday songs, and the numerous celebrations on my calendar, I'm drowning in forced merriment. 

Every year it overwhelms me. Instead of feeling joy, I'm distressed. Like trying to wade through a kid's ball pit, it looks fun until you can't make any headway through all the obstacles so you sink down and decide this is where you live now. 

And then the to-do's come calling.

This time of year there's a huge burden - most of which falls on women - to make the season magical and special, on top of existing jobs, household duties, and family needs that push us to the limit already. We buy the gifts, address the cards, bake the cookies, choose the special outfits, fill the stockings, decorate the rooms, sing the carols, and attend the events. We turn ourselves inside out, but young children aren't designed to be appreciative - that's a skill honed over many years. The end result is so much of this work is answered with a chorus of "this is boring" and "it's not fair" and "what else did you get me?"

I want to rage and sob at the same time. 

So this year I'm trying to reframe Christmas. I want to see it as an opportunity rather than an obligation. I get to take my children to see Santa at the mall and experience the magic of his bringing a special gift each holiday. I indulge in filling the kitchen with special dishes, from fudge to caramel corn, that we look forward to all year. I am privileged to perform Christmas music that my fingers have memorized after years of performances, and I am honored to watch my daughter sing for the first time songs that are brand new to her. I am granted the gift of buying too many presents for those I love, and organizing, wrapping, and placing those gifts under the tree for excited eyes the next morning.

I'm trying to put my struggles and stress aside, because these memories are the gifts my kids will take with them into adulthood. That's important to me, because I didn't get that opportunity. Growing up I had Angel Tree Christmases and community pantry dinners. I sat on Santa's lap only once, during a festival at a local church, and he wore a cheap nylon beard that I knew even then was too white to be real. My holidays had small magic, but I knew how much my parents struggled to create it, and I felt guilty for of it. I wish I could say what my family lacked in money they made up for in love, but that's not quite accurate either. I just didn't know it at the time. 

To quote Bunmi Laditan, "I will not cut my child against my broken edges." They don't need to know I don't like the holidays or how much the season takes out of me. I won't tell them Christmas leaves me feeling melancholy rather than merry and left out rather of joining in the joy. I'll ensure their Christmas is brimming with wonder and love, because their future matters more than my past. 

Hopefully, our togetherness and shared experiences will provide them happiness that lasts long past these Christmases.