It’s Not Even Christmas Yet, and I’m Already Disappointed
When I was a kid, the most magical time of year was between Thanksgiving and Christmas. It started the day after Thanksgiving, when we pulled the Christmas decorations out of the closet. My mom would put on a Christmas record while my dad started untangling the lights. It never occurred to them back then that they could store the lights in a way that didn’t cause them to become a giant knot.
After my dad finished with the lights — complete with a lot of swear words we didn’t normally hear from him throughout the rest of the year — my sister and I would put the ornaments on the tree. In my memory, we did most of the tree decorating ourselves. Now that I’m an adult, I’m sure that’s not how it happened. My mother is far too particular to let anyone, let alone children, have that much control over the Christmas tree.
My mother decorated the whole house for Christmas. The dining room table, the fireplace mantel, the bathrooms, the hallways, the coffee table and every end table— so much garland and tinsel. So many candles. Santa Claus everywhere. Many of the decorations were from the late sixties and seventies. I still have some of them.
Once the house was decorated, the waiting began. But it was a good kind of waiting. My memories of Christmas are warm and soft, full of twinkling lights and sugar.
I still like Christmas, but it isn’t the same. The time between Thanksgiving and Christmas tends to be busy at work, with lots of reports due at the end of the year. We decorate the office, which is nice because a). I spend so much time there and b). my cats are jerks so I don’t get to decorate much at home. But it’s not all twinkling lights and sugar — it’s harsh, fluorescent lights and office supplies.
Shortly before the day arrives, I’ll drive four hours to my parents’ house. It’s not the house I grew up in, and they’ve modernized their decorations (I have a lot of the original decorations in my office). Most of the nostalgia is gone, really. Part of the glory of Christmas is tied up in using the same decorations year after year — they each become a part of the holiday. It was quite upsetting when my mother decided to get all new decorations. This year, she bought a slimmer tree.
I’ll end up watching too many Hallmark Christmas movies with my mom. My dad will have made fudge — chocolate fudge with walnuts for my sister and peanut butter fudge for me. I’ll eat enough sugar to make my teeth feel gritty and my head feel weird.
The twenty-fifth will arrive. At noon, everyone will gather. We’ll tear into presents, then it’ll be over. Just like that.
I guess the difference is that, when I was a kid, I got all kinds of new toys to play with, stuff I couldn’t go out and buy for myself. Barbies and Dream Houses and such. We’d spend the day putting toys together and playing. Christmas vacation seemed eternal back then — eternal and full of magic.
My mom asked me what I want for Christmas this year. You know what I asked for? Petco has an extra large litter box that’s as big as two litter boxes put together. It will simplify my life, so that’s what I asked for. Also, it’s $40, which is a lot for something that my cats are going to crap in. I’d rather someone else shell out the money. And that, dear readers, pretty much sums up why the magic is gone. Adulthood is just so darn practical.
If I had children, I suppose Christmas would be more fun. But that never happened. Instead, I have a lot of cats who know nothing about Christmas except that there’s a Forbidden Tree with Shiny Things hanging on it. I’ll get them some kitty treats and probably a couple of new toys.
Christmas vacation will fly by, then it’ll be time to go back to work. I’ll start a new diet. Winter will drag on with nothing to look forward to.
Speaking of holidays — and cats — enjoy this story by one of my favorite Medium writers Dakota Duncan.
