In spite of the children’s attempts to corner the coal market, Santa arrived this year with gifts. A bounty of well-thought out, wrapped delights that said, “I know you. I love you. You annoyed the shit out of your parents this year. Miraculously, you still made the nice list. You’re welcome, Santa”. This year, my husband organized a brass quartet and sold their services for Jesus. He and three other horn players got the “gig” – playing 5 masses at the local, Catholic Church. When he initially booked the masses, I was relieved. It would help supplement the Christmas the red-suited, fat man was getting all the credit for. Well played, fat man. Well played. Sure, he would be gone the majority of Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, but, how bad could it be? Famous last words.
For those of you new to the blog, we have four, small children ranging in age from 6 to just shy of 1 year. I like to consider myself an experienced parent – NEVER an expert. I’m an expert at drinking wine and cold coffee, but, I will never be an expert at parenting. Ever. Never.
In what can only be temporary Christmas blindness brought on by cheesecake diabetes or the copious amounts of wine I’d consumed to make it through the holiday season, I’d failed to think this through to any semblance of a logical conclusion. The extra money sounded like a great idea. The children would, no doubt, be patient on Christmas morning. How hard could it be to sit though hour upon hour of staring at presents? Surely they were old enough to handle several more tortured hours of waiting for something they’d already been waiting an entire year for.
It hit me at midnight – the clock struck Christmas and a big pail of “Oh Shit!” hit me square in the face. I was blind, but, now I see. Dear baby Jesus in the manager, HELP.
Horn playing husband left our warm bed shortly after 6:00 a.m. to head out to play for and in the huddled masses. I heard the rustling of small feet. I heard the tears of the 2 year old screaming, “SANTA DIDN’T COME! HE DIDN’T BRING ME PRESENTS!” Still new to this whole Santa business, she’d assumed she would wake up in a bed made entirely of gifts, dressed as a princess, holding a candy cane wand.
They bounded downstairs. I followed sheepishly behind with every step, “Oh crap. oh crap. oh crap. oh crap.”
They were in Santa bliss. Foaming at the mouth. Like wild, Christmas attack dogs ready for the kill.
Then I said it, “Kids, we’re going to wait until Daddy gets home to open presents! Won’t that be fun?”
Record scratching. Turd in punchbowl. Nagasaki.
In unison: “When does Daddy get home?”
*Face melting, slurring words, slow motion – battery dying in toy voice* “Four hours.”
I’m not sure what happened next, but, we all mostly made it through unscathed and I’ve found a new friend in breakfast cocktails. To the first person who poured Kahlua into your coffee, you are a friend, genius and trailblazer. Marry me.
I have made peace with my epic, Christmas morning fail because as everyone knows, I don’t do perfect. True to form, what is a Christmas at my house without the ultimate Bad Parenting Moment. I’m a gal who loves consistency and Kahlua.
|“PRESENTS? WE DON’T NEED NO STINKIN’ PRESENTS!”|