'God bless Us, Every One'

'God bless Us, Every One'

Dec. 23, 2000

THE EDITOR'S JOURNAL
By Suzy Meyer

Christmas is a very few days away, and I’m not ready. Perhaps that’s the point Christ is trying to make in my life: that we never know when to expect Him. That’s a much more positive way of viewing the situation than confessing that my life has spun out of control.

Some of my Christmas gifts are concealed in various caches in my house; I’m sure they’ll come to light when I begin my spring cleaning. I suspect my children could ferret them out much more quickly, and for that reason, most of our gifts are stashed in the newspaper darkroom, awaiting the application of wrapping paper and bows. (I forgot to warn the photographer, and one of the most notable features of darkrooms is that they’re dark. Sorry, Bob.)

Most of the non-perishable food for the Community Christmas Dinner is piled just inside my front door. Another big pile of supplies waits in my basement. Turkeys have been distributed to willing cooks, pies and cookies have been solicited, and on Christmas morning, an army of wonderful volunteers will lovingly assemble these ingredients into a traditional Christmas meal for anyone who wants to join us. That’s a blessing in our lives — we are helping to ensure that no one will be hungry or alone on Christmas Day, and we’re teaching our children that there’s much more to Christmas than presents — but it also means that my Christmas decor consists primarily of a huge mountain of cardboard boxes. In my more cynical moments, I wonder whether how fake snow would look on top.

My daughter and a friend trimmed our tree. It looks lovely, and the dramatic tilt is especially artful. I admire the grace she displayed in accepting reality; her father and I would have struggled for hours before conceding defeat. Also quite innovative is the line of Christmas cards taped over the archway between the living and dining rooms. They’re displayed so high because I don’t want my mother and sister to read the notes that say, "How original of you to send Valentine cards rather than Christmas greetings each year!"

There are few guarantees in life, but I can declare with absolute certainty that long after the stores have closed on Christmas Eve, an adult will be stomping around our house demanding, "Who stole the tape?" This is a tradition my husband and I have adopted since we gave up arguing over "some assembly required" toys — not because we finally mastered the assembly, but because the children outgrew toys. Now we pretend that we’re having a romantic evening because I’m wearing nice lingerie and he’s drinking eggnog; bonking each other over the head with wrapping-paper tubes adds a special ambience.

Our family views this as normal, and the few times we’ve tentatively suggested we might go to Mexico for Christmas, the children have protested the change. They insist that this is how it’s done in our family, and they’re right, although the traditions are constantly evolving.

Last year, after my parents moved to Cortez, we adjusted the schedule to accommodate their rather narrow-minded unwillingness to open packages at 4 a.m. This year my sister and her husband are here, and so we’ve made more changes to welcome them. Yesterday evening, for example, my son and I concocted a wonderful homemade casserole to celebrate their arrival. While the sauce was simmering and I was trying to round off the corners of a so-called cheeseball, he was constructing an elaborate Hot Wheels racetrack from lasagna noodles. He’s not a toddler; he’s tall enough to look over the top of my head.

Those will be good memories, but sometimes the frenzy takes its toll. My sister’s house looks like Martha Stewart’s; mine looks like four very busy people live there. That’s how we want to live, but I can’t quite get past the notion that a good wife/mother would have homemade divinity and holly-embroidered hand towels. Because I’m incapable of making edible divinity and it’s too late to embroider towels, earlier this week I found myself doing the next best thing: shouting at my children to clean up their messes, their acts and then the language one of them used in response to my shouting.

Later that night, when I thumbed through a stack of old photos that had surfaced as we cleaned house, I found a picture of two lovable toddlers holding hands in front of the tree. I remembered that we used to celebrate firsts: first steps, first words, first Christmases. Now we’re venturing into the territory of last things, including the last few years they’ll spend at home. They won’t remember that during Christmas 2000 we couldn’t vacuum because the big-box discount store where I’d bought the vacuum cleaner had opted not to sell belts and bags for it. They may remember, though, that I was stressed and grouchy when I should have been counting my blessings. For the remainder of the Christmas season and for the waning duration of my children’s presence in my home, I resolved to keep in mind the words of Charles Dickens:

"...and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One."