If I could control the moon, the sky, the sea, the stars and Ashton Kutcher’s wandering phallus I would.
Which means, every year when it’s time to decorate for Christmas my sphincter’s as tight as Hugh Hefner’s grip on his bottle of Viagra. (Apparently there’s a seminal theme throughout this post).
But something strange happened this year. Clare and Bridget wanted to do it all. Even more aberrant, I let them.
Every year Clare is desperate to unwrap our fragile, one-of-a-kind Oaxacan Nativity scene and I’m always yelling, “Don’t touch Baby Jesus!”
To which she replies, “It’s not like he’s the son of God!”
Ok. She didn’t really say that. I was just being perverse. As is my wont during the holidays. Rebeeeeelllllionnnnnnn!
I got sidetracked.
Thus far, I haven’t allowed my daughters to handle any of the fragile Christmas decorations which is about 80 percent of them. This year, before I could galvanize my forces, the girls had their sticky mitts all over Baby Jesus and his crew, cradling each piece in their arms like newborn babes.
Something truly shocking happened when I caught them.
I did nothing. I just …watched.
The girls arranged the Nativity scene in a different way than I do it. As soon as the realization hit my ganglia my mouth powered up. And then I shut it. Flomp. Not one word.
I sat on the couch pouring and imbibing a lovely Fetzer chardonnay with our fantastic neighbors Carol and Andre as my daughters and husband decorated the tree.
Henry did the lights all wrong. It took him forever. I didn’t care. I offered brownies.
The girls were too perilously high up the ladder to affix the star on the tree. I left their fate to the Gods (as it were).
Bridget was annoyingly needy and smart-alecky to which I was impatient and caustic. We got over it and ended up in a snuggle.
Nothing was perfect. But I sat in the audience of my life and watched this Passion Play. It was so real. And lovely. And all I had to do was take it in.
You also may want to read about a CHRISTMAS SURPRISE! xo
Have you ever had a Christmas Epiphany?
8 thoughts on “Christmas Epiphany: Sit On The Couch And Drink Chardonnay”
I just KNEW you were excoriating my light-hanging. I could feel your seething gaze scorching my pine-tar soaked fingers!
That was me just admiring your bottomless flanks mom petit amour.
For God’s sake, pass the wine.
We’ve held an annual tree decorating party for three years now. Essentially, assorted family and friends come over, I feed them chili, and they decorate the tree. I like this arrangement.
However, because I have an anxiety disorder roughly the size of Texas, this also makes me nervous. And with good reason, as this year Husband dropped (and shattered) the fragile glass ornament I gave him for his first Christmas as a dad.
I.need.that.wine.
Not Supermom — love this story. sort of goes along with — just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Did any of that make sense. just got home from watching “Shame” with Michael Fassbender’s bupkiss in my face for two hours and I’m a little confused.
Welcome to one of my favorite Christmas traditions. My daughter is always ready to drag all that stuff out on Thanksgiving day. The past couple of years I have let the kids decorate the tree, the house, and do whatever they want with the outside stuff. This year my daughter asked a neighbor (the one who has the AMAZING outside display synced to music) to put up our outside lights. And he did. God love him. We have “real” Christmas this year.
Yep, delegating is a miraculous thing, sistah!
If only I could get them to make their beds?!
Just sit, pour and imbibe.
And the more you do it, the better the tree looks.
Tonight I had a white Russian. And I’m not talking about the drink. (I just turned the corner into squeamishly corny)
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