29 Days and Counting

There are 29 days until Christmas.

There. I said it.

Twenty-eight if we're taking shopping days.

That's right, I went there.

The holidays are breathing down our necks, and have been since four days before Halloween. (Don't tell me you didn't notice the green and red tinsel-y twiddly bits not-so-cleverly hidden behind turkey plumes and things labeled "pumpkin spice" at your local supermarket?) It was all right there in plain sight near the automotive section a hop-skip from seasonal.

I imagine you've heard a chorus of "It's too soon!" from someone, if not uttered the words yourself, at least once already.

My son, bless-his-You-Can-Just-Get-Me-Socks-For-Christmas heart, has lodged his objection to any attempt to play holiday music or screen It's a Wonderful Life before he's stuffed himself with turkey.

Thanksgiving greases the wheels, but it doesn't really count as a holiday.

Not in our house, anyway. Even if the furnace went out or the Bumpass' dogs carried off the turkey, we'd find a way to celebrate even if we had to rely on burnt toast and popcorn.

Food holidays are different than gift holidays, or holidays that mark the passing of time.

Food holidays lack the hefty helping of angst that gift holidays and celebrations that mark the passage can wring out of even the most willing participants.

Too much pressure.

But every year I have hope. ...

Hope that I will find the perfect thing.

And that everyone I love will be happy, and healthy, and at peace.

And for once, I won't get bogged down in register tape and regret.

This year is no different. I make the same pledge to be truly present, not just a slave to the presents, fully expecting to fail.

I vow not to feel sad at the passage of time, and that this is the year the reindeer will trample the neighbors' roof and leave ours unsullied. Or that our Santa's elves no longer make toys.

So what if gift cards don't cause nearly the same heart swell as true gifts once did? Here they are ... a necessity of the age and a joy for the receiver.

And before I know it, I am able to anticipate the Capital H holidays without the nervous knots.

I am looking forward to snow.

And to my kids having days off from school.

I may not be so jazzed about staging a blackout to pry my kids from the isolation of screen time and drag them kicking and screaming the intimacy that is family time.

The memories, I tell myself, will be worth the battle.

I am looking forward to baking cookies with them. And making paper snowflakes. I'm even at peace with losing games of cards, and checkers, and chess to them, too.

Who could forget the snowball fights? Or dragging the Christmas tree home from the farm?

Or the farm store? That's memorable, too.

Christmas doesn't have to be perfect. It doesn't even have to be the same every year. Maybe it's best if it changes.

Especially when we're missing something or someone important.

A mother. A husband. A child.

I will see my father and my sister, and we will remember our mom.

And it won't be nearly as sad as it sounds.

She loved this time of year. … And she hated it, too.