There are some people who pull of Disney-esque holiday extravaganzas. You know, the ones who get the presents wrapped by October 31? I bless them on their path.
There are some who pull celebrations out of thin air and run to the nearest gas station minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve for the last carton of sour cream and something for Uncle Lester who unexpectedly dropped in. I bless them on their path.
And then there are those of us who just wish that December would go away, except for a couple of very important birthdays. I bless my fellows on this path. Christmas lost its luster for me after my mom made her passage. It had been her show. But in the ensuing years, the memories of the arguments and my dad’s erratic behavior coupled with his inability to cope without Mom leading him to dump a lot of the responsibilities on my head by the time I was 12 make the holiday season a five week PTSD attack for me. In more recent years, the realization that I really did not get any satisfaction out of hosting holiday gatherings, that I was tired of listening to people hit buttons and argue, and Hubby feeling coerced into celebrating a holiday that wasn’t his made me reevaluate. So I quit.
But we do eat well. It’s just really scaled down. We acknowledge the ancestors on both sides with small batches of treats. We donate to the food pantry and make donations to Heifer International as gifts. We block out the noise of the outside world with a lot of movies. And we have a lovely time.
New Year’s we like, so we bide our time until then. And I sigh with relief on January 2, and look up into the night sky, and feel ready to start the wheel turning again.