Where Are You, Christmas?

Christmastime can potentially be a Type A perfectionist’s nightmare.  I’m outing myself, so get ready.

For example (and these are clearly hypothetical)- the mantle needs to look just like that pin you recently added.  The Christmas tree has clumps of ornaments in various spots because little hands just. can’t. stop. touching. the. ornaments. PLEASE.  (You take a deep breath and vow to move them back once the kids are in bed and then by night three, you just give up).   You might even want the wrapping paper to coordinate.  (Don’t judge.  There’s a color palette, and NO, if you must ask, silver and blue just don’t go with anything else).   Then, of course,  there’s the shopping, the baking, and the making-sure-that-everyone-on-your-list-is-covered.  Errands.  Long lines at the post-office.  Back to the store AGAIN for the one thing you forgot to get the last time you were there.  Doctor’s appointments.   There are five more nights to do something with that stupid elf and you’re running out of ideas.

Sometime last week, I hit the “click to place order” button on Amazon and thought, “thank God that’s done.”

Which in turn, makes me even more frustrated.  After all, it’s time of year when, according to every ad and song, we’re supposed to have joy and peace and contentment.   (And if you want those things, you can find them for $39.99 each on Aisle 14 in Target).  Wasn’t there also something about a baby born in a stable?  The seemingly forgotten One who waits for me to remember that He came to save me, mostly from myself?  Instead, I’ve been running myself ragged and taken it upon myself to try and set the perfect stage for Christmas to “happen.” Because I actually told myself that if I have just the right settings, buy the right stocking stuffers, or do the same kinds of things that my mom did with me when I was little, Christmas and all of the accompanying warm fuzzies would just happen, too.   THEN, it would feel like Christmas.   Embarrassing to admit, but true.  Ironically, in all my efforts to re-create Christmas this year, I’ve been failing to recognize all of those warm-fuzzy moments for what they were.  My children’s unbridled (and yes, sometimes unruly) joy- in it’s many forms- has often been the target for my displaced, perfectionist frustration.  They’ve been inviting me into those moments with them, and I’ve brushed them off.   Mostly because it didn’t look or feel the way I wanted it to.

And then, there’s the reality that this time of year is sometimes anything but warm and fuzzy for so many, and for so many reasons.   I’m grateful this year that my reasons for turning somewhat Grinchy were all shallow and self-induced.   But for others, there are constant and painful reminders that only seem to be magnified at the holidays.. tragedy, death, divorce, financial strains, unspoken hurts, missing loved ones.  My perspective was forever shifted last Christmas when I had the opportunity to spend some time with a family who was preparing to say goodbye to their five year-old daughter after a brave fight with cancer (she passed away on Christmas Eve).   It rocked my cozy, safe world- as a mother, a wife, a photographer, and a human being.  I walked into my house after the shoot that day and it had never felt more like home to me than right then.   My children’s laughs were more intense and joyful to me than they had ever been.  Their warm, healthy bodies were beautiful in a way that broke me.   So it was no surprise that last Christmas was different for me.  I don’t remember the decorations, or the tree, even the gifts.   I just remember Ella and Milo.   Jake.   Our families.

I remember us.

With six days left and counting, I can officially say that I’m done.  Not with my to-do list.  Not with wrapping or baking.  I think my dense head and stubborn heart have finally realized that I’m done trying to make something that never needed to made at all.   The four- soon to be five- of us are here.   Excited.  Hopeful.  Thankful.  Tired (some of us more than others).  Forgetful (some of us more than others).  A mess, actually.  But, together.   Us. Odd as it might be to say, I think some of the best gifts I’ve given are the ones I give myself-  the ability to let go, let myself off the hook, forgive, slow down.  Stop forcing.   To realize that Christmas isn’t actually depending on me.   What a relief

“A thrill of hope,

The weary world rejoices

For yonder breaks a new and glorious ‘morn.”