To all the Christmas Joy Creators.
It’s 11:30pm on the 23rd of December. I am on the Walmart website frantically looking for one blue and one green scooter. For fucks sake why are there twenty five different types of something you stand and push with your feet? And how are there none available in the store within 5 miles of me, I had to scout 4 different stores before finding one that had 2 scooters for my kids. Panic is hitting, oh the thought of disappointing the kids. A fuzzy pillow, a leather notebook, a long iPod charger, doll dresses because not until a few hours ago did I think to ask my children what they think Santa might bring them. The scooter was the gift I was supposed to get them that I also somehow in the craze of traditions missed to buy earlier. Herein lies my love-hate relationship with all these holiday traditions. Christmas is a routine welcome to my bipolar mood swings in all its excitement.
We observe every single tradition you can think of. I came to America several years ago and was absolutely fascinated by the incredible number of traditions that everyone seems to abide by religiously to no apparent religious affiliation. I fell in love with all of it and so upon my persuasion, my sweet Daniel obliges. It all begins after Thanksgiving when we buy a tree from Lowes, the thought of not being able to drag a tree next to another to compare, gives me anxiety of not getting THE tree. So farms are out of the question for us. Then all the stuff comes down from the attic, I mean ALL the STUFF. Christmas decor supplies galore. We first trim the tree. Which when I first heard, I thought the tree was actually trimmed, like pruned.
“Is it ok if we don’t trim the tree? I like the way it looks.” I asked Daniel.
“It’s fine with me but that kind of defeats the purpose, it’s just a tree in the house without the ornaments.” He was as confused as I was.
“What does it have to do with ornaments? I want that.” I was even more confused.
“Trimming the tree means decorating the tree.” He tried to hold in a laugh that met us both in a ridiculous realization.
One of many things I would learn along the way. I learned and I did and I loved all of it.
Once we get done trimming the tree, which the kids make last as long as humanly possible, in slow motion. Then we pull out the inside Christmas decorations to fill every shelf, table and counter, then the bathroom accessories and the floor mats, all the floor mats, kitchen accessories and towels and Santa soap dispensers, then we move on to the outside lights and decorations, lit candy canes and blow-ups galore, all from my day after Christmas 50% off shopping sprees over the years. The wreath, the lit garlands and ok, then we are decorated for Christmas. Oh then we adopted an elf on the shelf, oh the fucking elf, the pain in the ass that needs to be moved every night stealthily, yet another way to ineffectively convince children not to be assholes just for some days before Christmas. Then explaining why Elfie didn’t move when we forget to. I have grown to suffer through this entire Christmas undertaking but there is a sigh at the end of it that reminds me why I do it every year. I sit with my Snowman mug as I have hot cocoa with a peppermint stick and take it all in. Christmas has arrived. The beautiful season has arrived, one that without the rest of the tiring mind crushing traditions would not be half as pretty. As I enjoy my cup of Christmas cheer, I feel the buzzing begin in my brain, the heart starts on a slow trot into hypomania or anxiety, whichever it is, my rational mind reminds me to brace myself and pace myself. Thanks for the heads up on something that’ll try to steal all the cheer from my cup.
Nevertheless, the traditions continue. Christmas outfits for Christmas portraits carefully picked for Christmas cards that get printed and may or may not be sent out to anyone because it fell into the wormhole of Christmas traditions. The pictures though we take with great discipline yearly. Then the photos with Santa that all fascinates me and weirds me out all the same. If Santa is everywhere, how do I explain real Santa?
“This Santa is not the one we saw at the mall mommy,” Elsa remarks one year as we saw another Santa at a Christmas lights show.
There’s no lying to this kid so I afforded, “They’re playing dress up to bring Christmas cheer, just like you do at Halloween.”
“So the real Santa doesn’t know I want roller-skates for Christmas??” She panicked.
“We’ll write him a letter, more secure that way.” I said, feeling rather clever.
Then the gifts oh man the gifts. The advent calendar, apparently good moms don’t give kids candy every day. I am a damn good mom. So I self impose a more complicated nuance to this tradition. We have a mix of candy and tickets in the advent calendar drawers. HOHOHO tickets award them a pick of a surprise from the HOHOHO sack. So I am to buy the right number of gifts and good variation, not to exceed a limited price because, Christmas. Then gifts for the stocking, gifts from mommy and daddy, gifts from Santa, and not to forget gifts for the fur babies. My anxiety rising with every item striked off this ridiculous list I created in the name of tradition. The gingerbread house, the Christmas cookies, the catching Santa photo app, the soot on the floor, the crazy measures I go to make sure we do all the American Christmas traditions. I loathe the managing and facilitating the flawless execution of a perfect Christmas but I manage through my skyrocketing anxiety and irritability.
Then Christmas comes and goes every year, and I spend weeks trying to find my way back to stability in my mind, working torturously to avoid falling into depression. Sometimes I manage and sometimes I ride the down wave.
As I rushed through my online pickup orders for the last minute gifts this year I contemplated my fervor in insistence of this all consuming keeping with elusive traditions I adopted. Perhaps I am overcompensating for being an immigrant, trying to create a perfect American Christmas for my American children. Perhaps also, I actually love all that comes of it.
The ambience of festivity in my home makes me feel at home here in my new home. The joy of celebration all around even within this pandemic, people smile and wish me a Merry Christmas. The smiles and jumping joy of my children as they retrieve a HOHOHO ticket before bedtime cannot be beat. Maybe only by the gifts they get from Santa. Those cards inconsistently sent and all the cards received brings a warmth in my heart that I have a place in this land where on many days I can feel the outsider, of the smiles on those cards, a welcoming warmth reaches into my heart.
Perhaps it is overcompensation, perhaps it is because of the love that comes of it, but most of all, it is because I feel home. The bipolar disorder and all the mood swings are made worth every bit of it. Every year I fight through them to hold on to all that I am gifted. Every fucking tiny detail, I’ll keep em all or rush to keep em two nights before Christmas. So to all with mental illness, living with mental illness or simply getting through Christmas, here’s to y’all, creators of Christmas joy. Cin Cin!
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays!