By the time you read this, I’ll be joyful and grateful for all the blessings in my life.
I will be filled with laughter and love for those around me — and those who aren’t.
I will be at peace and attuned to the magic of Christmas Eve.
Well, we can hope.
Quite frankly, I’m feeling none of the above right now.
That freakin’ string of lights on the back fence keeps blinking out, the liquor store line-up is making me sweat, and I’m battling a nagging fear that I’ll fail to deliver “the best Christmas ever!”
I’m perfectly aware of the insanity of all this. Bombs are not dropping on my head, there’s plenty of food in the fridge (although my teenage son begs to differ) and I’m in no danger of dying from a fentanyl overdose
More than once in the past week, I’ve stopped and reminded myself to keep some perspective; life is good. My problems are of the first world variety. But no sooner does that thought enter my head than it’s nudged out by, “OMG I still haven’t got so-and-so something” or “Christmas morning will be ruined if I don’t find a gift with that ‘wow’ factor.”
I’m not sure when it happened — that I got so neurotic about Christmas. Actually, I do. It started when I bought into the hair-brained and ultimately self-centred notion that everyone’s happiness is my responsibility. This delusion can afflict all kinds of otherwise intelligent folks, but us mothers seem particularly susceptible.
The intentions may be good. In fact, it’s often seen as a sweet quality. “Aww, how nice, she just wants to see everyone happy.”
But it can have some sinister side effects. Thinking we’re in charge of others’ emotions is not only arrogant, it’s also insulting. It says, “I don’t trust you to be accountable for yourself” — hardly a way to build self-reliance.
And then there’s the glaringly obvious fact that frantically running around malls trying to buy joy sends completely the wrong message if we want our kids to understand this is a time of year to reflect on peace, love and the plight of others.
In other words, (note to self) it’s time for a visit to the doctor — Seuss, that is.
Clearly, a dose of How The Grinch Stole Christmas! is in order before I’m accused, not of stealing gifts from under the tree, but of robbing myself and my family of a deeper appreciation of giving.
The saving grace, as with every Christmas story, is it’s not too late. By the time you read this, with the help of the good doctor and a glass of eggnog, I trust I will be joyful, grateful and attuned to the magic of the moment.
So, here’s to wishes coming true. May all yours come to pass. Merry Christmas.
