Christmas Bit Me

There is no denying the sorry state of my un-merry spirit this year. My hum-bugedness is palpable and thus far no onslaught of jingle-jingle festive song and seasonal pleasantries have succeeded in shaking me out of it. Christmas bit me this year - and I have yet to recover.

I am the first person to don a Santa hat, pump the Bing Crosby and crank the yule tide cheer up to pre-Thanksgiving obnoxious. This year was no different, and yet - I am neither holy nor jolly. Instead I'm sitting typing with sagging shoulders and a visible grimace with a bandage firmly wrapped around my middle finger to secure the injury Christmas so cruely inflicted.

I can trace it back to Saturday morning when our little family unit traversed to the local Christmas tree farm as per our holiday tradition. We elected to cut down our own tree rather than buy a pre-cut one this year - which we construed as an adventure. And it was. Though slightly more akin to a Griswold family hijinx than to a holiday season Hallmark special as we were envisioning. So we traipsed into the field, saw in hand, and lo and behold by the grace of God was a single but near blinding ray of light splaying through the trees and falling on it - our Christmas tree. So brilliant was this light that it was almost impossible not to believe that God, Himself, had elected this tree to shine brightly in our family room. So it was to my shock and horror that somewhere between unearthing this tree and depositing it back at our car that I realized I had, in fact, been bitten by Christmas. On the finger. My middle finger... (*Spoiler Alert* Some exaggerations may follow)...where the nail was split down the middle leaving my hand bloody and, now, bandaged and arguably appearing claw-like and generally sad.

Flash forward to Sunday afternoon as the family attempts to string holiday lights across the apex of the garage and down the path to our front door (disfigured claw and all). Whilst my husband struggles to attach the lights to the roof I, ever so gracefully, manage to crunch my fat foot over one of the sweet little Christmas bulbs and it explodes in over-dramatic "POP!" all over the gravel driveway. Que my son cheering and applauding Mommy's mistake. It'd been three days now and he still can't set foot on the driveway without exclaiming "MOMMY'S TAKE! MOMMY'S TAKE!" while gesturing wildly between the ground and the garage. Yes - the entire holiday lights effort was seemingly thwarted by my lead footed mistake. Because, you know, if you break one bulb the entire string doesn't work. Similiarly, if you break one bulb some unseen power will smite you for apparently defiling Christmas. Following the POP! heard round the world all the lights refused to go up on the garage and, oh yeah, I managed to snap off one of the fluffy snowflake lights from its peg while trying to stake it into the ground. I am officially the world's worst Christmas light decorator. Our entire neighborhood is a-glow with Christmas spirit. Our house is marked by a half string of functional Christmas lights on the garage followed by a trail of defeat embodied by an unopened package of Christmas lights left in the driveway, a ladder propped against the house, instructions to the snowflake peg lights and the dismantled plastic snowflakes themselves - a veritable graveyard of Christmas cheer - leading up to our front door (where the lighted garland I put around the door, too, refused to light this year..because it hates me).

The collective exasperation of giving up on the Christmas lights was bookended by our son, overtired and not willing to give up his station next to his beloved lawn mower while he watched his father and I fail at decorating the house and calling out my mistakes...over and over...refusing to nap. Instead, he insisted on screaming himself hoarse from his crib into his bedside monitor (I believe this was because he sensed my weakness). The thing about toddlers, I've come to determine, is that allowing them to forego their nap quickly results in a vortex of all things good being sucked into a black hole of unending tantrums and maternal desperation. So, for the moment, I was letting him scream in the vain hope that he would settle and get some much needed sleep - and all would be right in the world if only for a moment. My husband determines that this would be a good time to erect our Christmas tree (which had been stationed overnight in the garage) in our family room so we could surprise our son after his nap. Murphy's law being what it is (or perhaps just stemming from the afliction of being bitten by Christmas) the tree would not go up straight. Standing back and regarding our tree, cocked ever so ridiculously to the right, I watched the life drain from my husband's eyes and replace itself with the anger, frustration and wicked fed-upedness lit with the energy of a thousand suns. I love my husband dearly and for that reason I will not delve into the subject matter of the tyrade that followed (and, equally, because I shared every sentiment of that rage-fueled monologue) but suffice it to say it had much to do with a lamenting of why things can feel so damn hard at times. Why is work so hard? Why does our son fight so hard? Why does it feel as though there's no time for anything (let alone time to stand still or think for one abbreviated second)? Why does it feel as though I can't do a single thing right? Why can't an Ivy league graduate figure out how to string a set of bloody Christmas lights? AND WHY DID CHRISTMAS BITE MY DAMN FINGER??!!!! That is the particular moment I'm tagging as the point of no return. At least, it's the point I'm not sure I've returned from - and it happened days ago. It's not that I don't recognize how incredibly fortunate I and my family are - in a time of year when people want for even the most basic of living essentials. Where people are sick. Where people are separated from their families and loved ones by time, space, tragedy and war. I know all of these things. And still there is a part of me - a sad and frazzled part - that feels entirely defeated. I have been convinced (or convinced myself) that there isn't a single thing that I can do with particular expertise whether it be my job, parenting, keeping a clean house, being a good wife or preparing a piece of toast. I feel like a disaster. And I am so consumed by that thought that I have wrapped myself in a shroud of it. A swaddle of dark, dank thoughts so thick and oppressive that I have seemingly forgotten my way out of it.

Every day I try to re-set and adjust my expectations and push through. I try to allocate my time. I try to forgive myself of the things where I fall short. At work I often feel as though I'm a tourist in a foreign country where all of my colleagues are fluent in the local language and I know how to ask where to sleep, where the bathroom is and for a beer. And while the basics will sustain you for a short period there inevitably comes a time where people expect you to do more than sleep, shit and drink. I feel as though I've hit that point and my lack of conversational ability in this foreign country is making me feel like an idiot and like deportation is imminent. It's a bad place to be - and it makes me sick most days.

I watch my son try to figure his way through things. How to insert puzzle pieces into the correct holes. How to connect legos. How to assemble things. And I watch him, at times, reach a level of frustration that devolves him into a trembling, screaming mess - I know he gets that lack of patience from me. I know it, in particular right now, because there is a vibrating, mess of a child inside me right now - desperate for someone to come along and help me to put my puzzle together. Work tasks here in the round hole, Family over there in the square hole. I've been here before - and I know that there just isn't a person in the world who can pull back that dark shroud but me. It's a lesson I don't want my son to know for a long, long time. Because right now I can still sit next to him and build that tower. And turn keys and press buttons and make all of those niggling frustrations disipate. Because I can help him learn how to do those things. Because I can try to teach him patience - in allowing time and effort to master skills - and in forgiving oneself when it takes time and effort to master them. Somehow that level of patience becomes much harder to achieve in adulthood - and when the gravity of one's job and one's family unit are dependent upon the success of mastering those tasks efficiently and expertly.

Patience. Something we could've used when tackling those Christmas lights. And, I suppose, something I could really use some of at the moment. Because if my spirit were a display of festive lights - right now it'd look a hell of a lot like our front yard. So, at the moment, I'm going to try to untangle the unruly ball of blinking depression wound up inside of me and hang it up right. The lights aren't going to be perfect. Because parts of me are burned out. Parts droop. Parts are flaking and off-color. But the sentiment is still the same.

Things will never be perfect. I'm not sure I'd like them if they were. Life is full of Mommy's mistakes - as I'm sure my son will happily point out to me as we go. I don't know how to navigate these inherent errors right now - how to be ok with my shortcomings absent becoming a full time mother or a full time attorney. Neither seems like the lit path. Sadly, it doesn't seem often that a ray of light parts the trees and shows you the way in life like it revealed our little Christmas tree.  But this is the time of year for giving. For forgiveness. For joy and thankfulness for the people and things you have in your life. Maybe my little injury isn't rooted in malicious evergreen trees at all - maybe Christmas bit me to wake me the hell up so I'd take a look around and see past everyone else, past all the perfectly decorated yards, experience co-workers and expert Moms and pay attention to what's really important in my life. To be thankful for who I am. And patient with who I'm not. To believe in myself and in possibility - to embrace the imperfections - and to create the light that takes you the first step out of the darkness. To find a way to go from Bah-Humbug to

...God bless us...every one.