Maintaining Mediocre

Ah, the Holidays. The time for peace, serenity, appreciating what you have and whoring yourself out so you can afford what you don't. It's that time of year where I want to curl up in a ball with my cocoa... liberally dosed with the proper cocktail of uppers and downers. There really cannot be people who actually have a simple, stress free Christmas. Even if someone claims they do, I'll never believe them. Holidays are more about lists, and obligations, and not forgetting that Great Aunt Margaret wants the RED $80 gloves, and not the black $20 ones. DON'T get the $20 ones... you'll be whited out of the will. You must strategically plan your travel so as not to fray the delicate balance of nerves between all sets of families. It is a fine tug-of-war, and if you misstep, you'll be sent careening into a sticky yuletide pit, lined in toffee and filled with curdled eggnog. Oh, and you're going to have to be a good liar to pull of Santa coming to your house on the 23rd Eve because there is NO way you'll actually be anywhere near your house at Christmas.

My oldest son is at that Golden Age where Santa and his ways are becoming clear: Ask and ye shall receive. We've tried manipulating him to cooperate with threats and bribes, we're telling Santa everything, but somehow he just doesn't care. He'll get what he wants. He must have a deal under the table with the jolly fat man. After weeks of preparation and coaching, I get the boys prepped, preened and psyched. We're going to see Santa! Yes, he's the real Santa, yes he knows where our house is, yes he eats chicken nuggets. I've even allowed the devil child to draw a picture for St. Nick. We arrive, and in typical fashion, my son grows horns. He's curled up in the fetal position with the picture up as a shield of defense. Of course, the baby things this is the greatest freaking thing since breast milk.. because really, what else does he have for comparison? There is a lady with blinking antlers... awesome. Lights, trees, and shiny wrapping paper... unbelievably cool. Guy in a rented suit with chin fur and gloves... whatever, he's wearing glasses so I'm sure those will come with a tug of his fat baby hands. As for the preschooler... Santa might as well be on the predator list.

Santa tries to coax, slightly. His helper is ever so sweet. I tell them I'm not expecting miracles... oh, the irony. The baby is happily staring at the stranger mommy has given him to. He's sure he'll like his new home at the North Pole. He could honestly care less what is happening. I plop the traumatized son into the man's lap and begin snapping away. I allow the elf to do her job and take pictures. I then begin to ferociously take my own pictures, as I will NOT be paying $40 for a variety of pictures of my children acting heinous. My limit on crap memories is $12.99. Finally, Santa beckons to me. He's whispering something that I can't make out of the din of my eldest son's shrieks. Ah, he suggests that I sit on the bench at his feet and hold the holy terror. Ok, we'll try it. It does calm the beast, but I'm not buying pictures of myself. I have plenty of photographic memorabilia from my years of servitude to the gods of holiday spending. Year after year of my and my sister in appropriately 80's jean skirts and she-mullets. I'm done with my Santa days. I put the toddler down and go to retrieve my clueless infant. Santa is playing with him, and cooing, and engaging him in activity. I'm still leaning over, attempting to unburden the jolly ol' elf... but he's not giving up the babe. That is when it strikes me: Santa is looking down Mommy's shirt. Filthy Sprite.

It is only AFTER the 5 minutes of hell, the forking over of cash, and the printing out of the most HONEST Christmas picture ever that my son tugs on my sweater. He wants to tell Santa what he wants for Christmas. Aw. Sweet. I lean down, and look into his twinkling, hopeful eyes and tell him to start saving because he'll have to for over the minimum photo purchase of $12.99 if he wants to see Santa again. The holidays are not yet fully upon us, but I'm already exhausted. Even I have no idea what turns lie ahead, so I'm as curious as anyone to see where this blog will take me in just 10 short (HELLISHLY LONG) days. It should be interesting if my kids have anything to say...

Merry Christmas... can't wait for the drinking on New Year's!!!!