Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Oh, December. Sweet, deceptive
December.
For more than 11 months of the
year, I think of December with a nostalgia filter. I can't help but smile when
I envision all the happy memories I've made with my family over the years, and
all the happy memories I'm sure are to follow. In my mind the entire month is
some type of Hallmark movie with twinkle lights, lightly falling snow, and
apple spice candles burning.
Then, about a week after
Thanksgiving, reality bitch slaps me across my face and it all sinks in. Like a
horrible form of muscle memory, I remember everything that has to get done
before Christmas. So with the determination of a worn and weary Russian
peasant, I lower my head and get to work.
Lists are made and presents are
bought. So many presents. It seems like we always have to buy for more people
than we originally planned. And no ~ I don't want to be in your Secret Sister
Santa Gift Exchange or whatever it's called, so please don't even ask. I can
barely remember to put gas in my car at this point, much less buy and ship a
gift for some woman I don't know in Indiana.
And then there's the baking.
Facebook and Instagram are flooded with photos of these massive cookie baking
sessions. As far as the eye can see, it's row after row of dozens of cookies.
And everyone looks super happy and pleased with themselves. Like, no one's
yelling and there's this aura of happiness and butter and togetherness.
I don't get it.
Baking cookies is such a fun Christmas
tradition, and of course I want to continue it. But seriously, I don't know
what's more exasperating...baking with little kids or teenagers. Little kids
have less of an attention span and make a bigger mess, but teenagers have their
own challenges. I was so excited when all four of my kids were home on Sunday
afternoon and agreed to bake cookies with me. I was downright giddy. This
is going to be so great, I told myself. I am the Memory Maker
extraordinaire! My children will talk about me fondly and share stories of my incredible
nurturing tendencies for generations.
And it was a lot of fun for the
first hour. We ditched traditional Christmas music for some old school hip hop,
and everyone was laughing and getting along. I was deliriously happy. Sweet,
sweet December. But eventually everyone drifted out of the kitchen into their
own rooms, and I was left wrist deep in a bowl of sticky, marshmallow
nuclear-waste-green Corn Flake hell.
"I'm never making wreath
cookies again!" I yelled to an empty kitchen. "I mean it. I don't
care how much you want them. No one helps!"
After finishing up and cleaning, I
was still pretty impressed with everything they made. I warned them all that I
expected them to not demolish all the cookies within a week. "Use some
restraint, and try not to eat every single cookie when you get home from
school. I would like the $80 I spent in baking ingredients to last more than a
day."
And yesterday, not even 24 hours
later, I got home to a supply of cookies that could fit into a business sized
envelope.
Jesus, take the wheel.
I guess my currency for that
amazingly fun time with all four of my children was paid for with sugar, Rolos,
and a whole lot of almond bark. Eh, I'll take it. I know I'm on borrowed time
when it comes to corralling all of the kids at home with me for certain
activities. One's on her way to grad school, one's working full time, one's a
senior in high school and even my youngest is 15 and has a job. Time with them
is a precious commodity and parents know that all too well.
But that doesn't make what happened
to me Friday night acceptable. Before I explain to you why I am so absolutely
butt hurt and indignant, let me go on record and state I am a great mom when my
kids are sick, especially when they were younger (as long as I don't think
they're faking an illness to stay home from school). I coddle them, bring them
medicine, put a cool wash cloth on their foreheads and make sure I check on
them pretty regularly. And when they were really young I would catch their
vomit in my hands without even flinching. Even now that they're older and they
get sick, they'll still want to know when I'm coming home. Everyone wants their
mama when they're sick. I get it, I do. I'm not speaking for all mothers and
certainly not all women, but it makes me feel good to take care of
people.
Now let's talk about Friday and how
I was betrayed by the fruit of my loins.
About two hours before I left work
Friday afternoon, I started feeling like something wasn't quite right. My
stomach felt weird, and I didn't have an appetite for a single thing. Nothing.
That's how I first knew something was off. My fat ass is always hungry and I'm
never not up for a snack, especially during a workday afternoon. I kept walking
outside in the 20 degree temperature thinking I needed fresh air.
After work I ran some errands, and
by 6:30 I decided to just go home. I was feeling worse and worse. By the time I
got home, I walked straight past my 17 year old daughter Chloe and headed
toward my bedroom. "I don't feel so good," I told her. At this point
my mouth started watering like a Saint Bernard puppy and I crawled into bed.
"Remember what you always tell us," Chloe called after me. "If
you're not sure which end it's going to come out of, always always SIT."
Around an hour later I bolted up in
bed, with my hand firmly clamped over my mouth. I ran as fast as I could to the
bathroom and barely made it before I threw up. Over and over again. It was like
a bad movie. Just as I'd wearily lift my hand up to flush the toilet, I'd puke
again. Now I'm clutching the bathroom rug and barely able to get up from a
fetal position. I hadn't even had time to shut the bathroom door all the way,
and our house isn't all that big, so it's not like you can't hear what's going
on. The bathroom is literally less than 20 feet from the living room couch. In
my delirium I turned into Caroline Ingalls and told myself surely the
children will come looking for me.
After what seemed like an eternity
but was probably more like 25 minutes, I dragged my sweaty self back to my room and
prayed to the baby Jesus to spare me from such a horrific, literally
gut-wrenching experience. I eventually fell asleep, with dried vomit at the
ends of my hair and wearing one sock.
The next morning I felt almost 100%
better so I knew it wasn't the flu, and was most likely a nice little bout of
food poisoning.
I cornered Chloe in the kitchen not
long after she woke up. "Didn't you HEAR me last night when you were
watching tv? I had food poisoning and was in the THROES OF DEATH puking my guts
out and you didn't even check on me! I could have hit my head and been laying
there for hours unconscious and no one would have even known."
"Oh for real?" she asked.
"I heard you but I actually thought you had the soupy poopies so I just
turned the volume up on the tv remote. Because you know, gross." She
shrugged.
Any other time of year I would be
horrified at my apparent lack of instilling basic empathy into my children, but
in December I'm just trying to survive. Physically, financially, emotionally...
this month takes a toll on us parents but let's be honest - it can be brutal
for moms. We want our kids to have the best Christmases - not just with gifts
but with holiday experiences and memories - and we work ourselves to the point
of exhaustion trying to make it happen.
I don't know about you other moms
out there, but starting at 11 am on Christmas I am reclaiming my sanity. And
all of January is going to be about ME. I will not bake anything, I will not
decorate anything, I will not wrap anything and I for sure will not be holding
anyone's hair back when they barf. I mean it.
Not unless they ask really nice.
And then when I'm rubbing their back and putting a cool washcloth on their
sweaty little brows, I'll lean forward and whisper "See how nice it is
when someone doesn't leave you writhing in pain and despair on the bathroom
floor all alone?"
I'm sure they'll appreciate my
nurturing even more.
