I love the holidays. L-O-V-E. There's something about Christmas decorations and the smell of pine that sends me into a frenzy of circle-running and random holiday potpourri-snacking. Put me in front of a Christmas tree, and I will sing "O Christmas Tree" until people stop laughing and clapping and begin to cry and beg me to understand that there are more words to that song than "O Christmas Tree" repeated over and over and over.
Haters gonna hate lol.
Mom tries her best to teach me about Christmas. She set out this man and woman, wearing bathrobes and kneeling. She told me they were the Nativity her mom used when she was a kid. I got confused. It's your mom? No. My mom? No. Her name is Mary? Oh, like Nana Mary? No? Mother Mary...and Joseph. Okay. Who is Joseph? He's what? - That's too confusing. What are they doing? They're waiting for a very special baby. Oh, I get it - my uncle's baby that's on his way. No? Not that baby? Oh. Are you sure they're not kneeling to pick up Lego's? Still waiting, huh? And it's not my new cousin, right? Have you noticed that Joseph is shaped a little like a Dustbuster? Like if his head was the handle and his knees...no? Quit touching them? Fine. Maybe you should consider not having them in my reach. Amateur.
And then, on Christmas morning, it's my job to give them their baby. I do it like a total boss, too. I hold the baby Jesus in my hands, cupping him carefully...Jack, right? My new cousin? No? Jesus. That's right. I say "I have a surprise for you!" only I say it "pruprise" because that's cute. I put him down between Nana Mary and Joseph, the sort of dad. And then I turn my focus on what really matters, because frankly, despite Mom's tender and touching efforts to make faith a focus, I am just four. Very recently, as a matter of fact. And although I do find Nana Mary and Dustbuster Joe to be fascinating, I'm really most interested in presents. For me.
I'm at that age where I am still easy to buy for. Oh, you got me a bunch of cars from the Dollar Tree? THEY ARE FUCKING AMAZING AND I WILL LOVE THEM FOREVER OR UNTIL I RIP THE WHEELS OFF OR LOSE THEM IN THE SANDBOX! Oh, you dropped $65 on the latest electronic toy? IT IS FUCKING AMAZING AND I WILL LOVE IT FOREVER OR UNTIL THE BATTERY DIES AND MOM DOESN'T REPLACE IT OR I LOSE IT IN THE SANDBOX!
(The only difference is if you get me a vacuum. Then I will simply refuse to even consider any other gifts that are left to be opened. I'm done. Mic drop. Anything else will be anti-climatic.)
Anyhow, we have a lot of family. That means lots of Christmas. I have five Christmases every year. Mom usually ends up saying that's four more than I need, but she also screams she sucks at math when balancing the checkbook. Personally, I think five isn't enough. Twenty wouldn't be enough. Twelve might be, though - I'm not sure. I suck at math, too.
On top of this, my birthday is on the 22nd of December. (Remember how I said my mom sucks at math? Lol.) On my actual birthday, Mom and Dad always give me a little present and a cake to "mark my special day." Like I know how to read a calendar. Tell me it's April - I surely won't know the difference. I'm four. But anyhow, so between five Christmases, I have my "special day" and then I have my "party day." And guess what that means?
More presents.
Man, if there is one thing I'm good at, it's presents. Is that a talent? It should be. I fall on presents like a starving man on a cheeseburger. I rip off that paper with a savage beauty, like a primitive poem in motion. I shred, I demolish, I toss fistfuls of wrapping paper in the air like I'm the Cookie Monster of presents...I find something I love. (And I love everything, Diary!) I need it out of the box. I need it out of the box now. It won't come out of the box. Dad. Dad. Get this out. Dad. Dad. Dad. Get it out. Dad. Dad. Daddy, get it out. No, I don't want to open something else while Dad gets it out. I want that. Dad. I want it. Dad. Dad. Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God, he got it out. It needs batteries? Oh no. Dad. Batteries. Dad. Batteries. Dad. Batteries. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Batteries, Dad. He gets the batteries in. I play with it for 4.2 seconds. I drop it and move to the next gift. And repeat.
Amazing experience all around, for all involved, I think. Mom's job is noodles. Dad's job is batteries. My job is to demand everything. And it works.
But, Dear Diary, it's January. I had my last Christmas yesterday, and even though there is snow on the ground, Mom insists that it really is over. My birthday, too. I try to cheer myself up with one of the 184 toys I got this year. I do love them so much. I feel like some of them are missing, though...Mom tells me not to worry about it, but I do, Diary. I worry about my toys a lot.
I have the holiday blues, I am afraid. Post-present depression syndrome. I love my toys, but I don't feel a real connection to them right now. I can't even dustbust the end-table with Joseph because Mom put him up, and frankly, that's a real let down.
So tonight, I wandered over to the fridge, leaving a trail of Lincoln Logs, a remote control rattle snake, one skate, three vacuums made out of Lego's, one red Dirt Devil Junior and one small Dyson behind me. Perhaps there would be something in there to cheer me up - doubtful, considering how much I hate food, I thought, but maybe I just needed to cool off. I opened the door...and I saw it.
Daddy's empty cardboard box of Bud Light.
Diary, my soul had been crying out for something that I knew not what - until I saw that box. I seized it with hot, feverish, desperate hands. In joy, I put it over my head and ran blindly into the kitchen wall, scattering Lincoln Logs as I went. I sat on the box and crushed it out of shape, I punched it back into shape with my fists. It was a house. It was a vacuum. It was my new cousin. It was a car, then a boat. I reveled in the box. My parents looked at each other and said, "It never fails," and they were right, Diary - my box never fails me!
So, as I lay me down tonight, my room overcrowded with shiny new toys, my closet bursting with new clothes, I am thankful in my heart...for the slightly crushed Bud Light box that lays beside me.
I love you, Christmas.
Amen.
