I had memorable Christmas seasons leading up to the actual holiday.  The season  began after Memorial Day. I was in control, and I had stretched a budget of three hundred dollars into homemade gifts for all and a meal or two as well.  I played holiday music as I made ornaments for our Christmas tree.  I felt festive.

Then we had children.  Four children in nine years. The season after we had the four took on ominous overtones. It was frenzied, not fun. I tried to become Mrs. Claus, dressing the children in red dresses not to mention matching flannel night wear for all. I bought car loads of candy canes, and baked gingerbread cooked to hang on tree.

Our son, the fourth child, was hyperactive at that time.  Christmas sent him into overdrive.My previous penchant for hyping the holidays evaporated.  One year Christmas reached its apex.  Our son was three and I parented  him as I did the others.  “Just look at the tree.  Don’t touch!”  It used to work.  Our Christmas tree was decorated from top to bottom with glittering glass bulb of all kinds.  Gradually, the tree lost all decorations approximately the distance of our youngest son’s reach.  The tree, in half its glory, became the focal point of neighbor’s conversations.

I had taken the kids to many fast food places in the weeks leading up to Christmas, the happiest time of the year.  These places put different plastic toys in their fun meals.  One morning I squinted my eyes and looked at the tree.  It stood in the front window with all of its glory marred by the missing ornaments that were replaced by the gaudy plastic toys from the fast food joints.

I sipped my coffee and ate mutilated gingerbread men for breakfast. My eyes opened as the caffeine kicked in.  I saw chicken nuggets and french fries in the tree branches from top to bottom.  This made me see a red more intense than Rudolf’s nose. I lost all holiday joy and saw that we had completely lost all reason for the season.  All kids were in schools,except for the youngest on the couch licking a candy cane and looking at me My hair was unwashed, the pajamas mismatched and dirty, and circles were under my eyes. I gritted my teeth.The artificial tree,all eight feet of it, and got it to the door.  I got madder than a hatter as the cord stretched to its breaking point.  I threw open the door and stepped into a foot of snow.  I mutated with rage and locked eyes with the construction workers putting on the roof on the new house next door.  I found rekindled ire and threw the tree, ornaments shattering, toys and nuggets and fries into our front yard.  The tiny bulbs were still hot and sizzled in the snow.  The workers dropped their hammers, their nails, and the shingles. Their  jaws dropped. I mustered up all the dignity I could and went back into the house and slammed shut the door. The wreath fell off. My son sat  on the couch, licking the candy cane, silent.  He just added my performance as a new element in our holiday festivities.  I gathered all things holiday like and put them into garbage bags into the garage.  I choked the vacuum with shards of ornaments, etc.  My darling son had woken up and he began his day by climbing upstairs on the outside of the stairwell.  He arched his back at the top and did a perfect forward roll onto the living room couch and onto the narrow wood surround of the glass-topped coffee table. This activity lasted all day until he tired in early afternoon. I was in the parking lot loading four three-foot artificial trees, boxes of lights, candy canes, and unbreakable cheap plastic ornaments.

I just made it home in time to get the three-year old into what we called “the BIG BED.” I brought into the house all of the new things I’d just bought on sale. I had boots and a coat on over the pajamas.  My hair twisted in the frozen air and stayed that way.  The men on the roof looked over at me.  I did a curtsy, as dignified as possible. and went into the house.  I fell on my bum in the foyer, which was quite slick at that time.  The construction workers cheered!

The school kids came home and ignored the tree on the lawn.  Our oldest daughter stopped and picked up the wreath and put it up, after a fashion, on the door. They came in as I nursed my sore bottom. “What happened?” she asked.  “Christmas is now your holiday.”  I said.  The snow on their coat, boots, hats, scarves and mittens melted onto the carpet.

I handed each a three-foot tree, a box of lights, ornaments and little wire hangers.   Each of you can take your tree and do what you want with it.

I poured myself a festive drink as the kids did their things.  I looked out the window and saw birds and woodland animals feasting on the fast food bits of the tree. I had never seen a squirrel carry a candy cane up a thirty foot pine. That’s when my husband drove up to the house. Dinner was a carry out pizza. We all ate silently. Our three-year old son came down the stairs holding on to his Christmas tree near its top. He smiled at us all. That was Christmas returning back to our house that year.