More than one Christmas decoration sits on the floor waiting to grace our mantle, our front door, and our everyday decorations are piled together to be stored until January. I think of dinner and wonder if it would be outlandish to have a Hot and Ready pizza for the second night in a row. Quickly, I talk myself out of it though I am not above it.

It’s becoming clear why I’ve often heard from veteran mothers, “Put yourself on the list.” This Christmas schedule thing? I don’t think I’m doing it well.

Cards. Tons of cards. With snowflake borders and smiles that show only the pleasant and none of the frustration.
Fake tree needles. Everywhere on the floor.
Strands of light bulbs breaking from small shoes, not glowing after their performance last year.
A preschool program requiring something other than pajamas. Dang it. 
Croup at 1 a.m. and an unplanned ER trip with my son, contributing to the comatose-like stare I’ve carried since Thanksgiving afternoon when I ate that second helping of green bean casserole. So unhealthy, so worth it.
Bath towels becoming superhero capes well after bedtime.
Carols, which I assume are beautiful and nostalgic but I never hear above the arguing over who stole whose breakfast seat. When those familiar melodies are the backdrop to chaos, they just sound…chaotic.

Seriously disconnected from myself I curl up on the couch, my legs pulled in like a grasshopper’s. Milk turned chocolate from cereal is coagulating in the bottom of bowls on the table while warehouse-sized boxes of the food we eat in a two week period clutter the kitchen floor. And I. Don’t. Care. I’m taking this hour or I’ll never survive the next one. 

I love Christmas. Even more this year because last year it seemed too short. I love keeping Shutterfly in business, writing a recap letter, and baking homemade cookies for teachers. I love getting things for my kids because we hardly buy them anything the rest of the year. I love puzzles after waffles at my mom’s, and picture calendars for all the grandparents, and a hole-in-the-wall playhouse with actors who write their own material and have perfected the art of improv (especially when a balding man be present). I love it all.

Except I’m realizing duty can adulterate passion. And when it’s just about getting it all done, I lose what I love about this season.
So Bah, and Humbug. I’m having cocoa, a movie involving an elf who does the splits on an escalator, and perhaps a tickle fight. 
The cards? Maybe for New Years.