That would be women. Especially mothers. Both yours and the women you are married to, if you are among the male persuasion.
Now in my thirty-third year of responsibility for making Christmas magical for children, grandchildren and spouses (two, subsequently), I can attest that it never gets any easier or less hectic. It matters not how old the children are, because a mother is a mother, and once the second generation procreating begins, there are the grandchildren for which all stops must be pulled to create the miracle which is Christmas.
It is up to us, those of us with the ability to accessorize and who can tell the difference between pink and mauve, to clean and decorate the house, string lights on the bushes, buy and wrap the gifts, make the fudge, construct the gingerbread house, cook the Christmas goose, negotiate the peace between feuding relatives, schedule holiday social events, take the kids to sit on Santa’s lap, squelch any early rumors about Santa’s true nature, and get everyone ready and out the door for Christmas Eve service, all while working full time. Is it any wonder we are cranky?
When my kids were young, I put up at least five Christmas trees, the “big” tree in the living room where the nice decorations went, a tall, skinny tree in the den that the kids decorated with popcorn strings and construction paper ornaments, then tabletop trees in each of their rooms. My husband’s contribution was to advise me that I was putting the lights on wrong.
There was fresh greenery on the mantle among the 100-plus Santas that I had collected, and my Christmas village was carefully extracted from the bubble wrap and displayed on top of the bookcase. The ceramic nativity scene was unpacked and positioned on the window seat near the tree. Every picture in the house was taken down and replaced with either a Christmas scene or wreath. Outside, I entwined greenery around the porch posts, hung a handmade wreath to welcome visitors and blanketed every shrub with white lights (after untangling the strings and changing out any bad bulbs).
There were piles of presents under the tree, with each pair of socks or pack of underwear boxed and wrapped so that each child had more things to open. I not only bought all the gifts for the kids, my family, and my husband, but also for my mother-in-law, something I said I would never do, but which became words to eat. Meanwhile, I would need to either circle items in a sale flier that came in the Sunday paper or pick out my own gift at the mall and ask that it be put on hold so that Bob could pick them it later, because he would otherwise have “no idea” what kind of gift I might like, even though I advised him that anything in gold would always suffice.
Cookie baking began in early December, and by Christmas we were so overrun and tired of them that we would commence to export them to office, neighbors and family to get rid of them. We both sang in the choir at church, practicing for weeks on the Christmas cantata, which included numerous additional practices in addition to the regular Thursday night practice. We went to two or three different schools -- depending on which grades the kids were in – for holiday programs to see our darling boys perform as singing reindeer or snow flakes.
At Thanksgiving, I began planning the annual family Christmas picture in which everyone wore matching clothes -- to the chagrin and complaints of the family. One year there were handmade red vests; another year I made green velvet dresses for my daughter-in-law and me. Then I sent 200 Christmas cards stuffed with Christmas letters and photos.
There was church on Christmas Eve, not just the midnight service, but also the one at 8 p.m., since we were in the choir, then home to pay the sitter and play Santa, and grab a few hours of sleep before the early wakeup the next morning. Then on the day of Christmas, there was the 30 minutes of excitement, followed by hours of cooking the holiday meal and cleaning up the gift wrapping, then packing everyone’s suitcases to get ready to go to visit the Grandmas in southwest Virginia and western North Carolina. And after Christmas, there would be the mother-in-law’s gift to return because she didn’t like the color.
And now?
There’s no tree. Nada. No wreath. Not a light to be seen. I didn’t make it to Christmas Eve service, again. Just too much left to do to get ready for Christmas. The few gifts I’ve purchased – to supplement the gift cards – are in decorative bags, not wrappings. I intended to vacuum tonight, but didn’t have time and was too tired anyway.
I don’t know that woman who did all that stuff 20 years ago. It’s hard enough to do what gets done now. But if you are a mom, you know her. She’s busy whisking flour and butter together to make a perfect white sauce, or hiding behind a locked bedroom door wrapping one last present in the funny papers because she’s out of Christmas paper, or grinning and bearing an insensitive remark from a mother-in-law because she doesn’t want to ruin her children’s perfect day.
To that woman – you, if you are her – this Christmas is dedicated. For without you, this day would not gleam as brightly or taste as sweet. And even if all the trappings were taken away, as some would have it, insisting we have lost the true meaning of Christmas, let’s not forgot that without Mary, and her willingness to be used by God, there would be no Christmas at all.
If you are a husband or adult child, I hope you will appreciate this woman who is bringing you Christmas, and realize that the least you can do is help with the dishes. That, and give her a gift certificate for a massage and a pedicure.
