There is actually nothing truer than the Family Guy episode where Stewie is just saying, “Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom. Mommy. Mama. Mom…” Like, before you have kids you watch that and you laugh because it’s funny and absurd but when you have kids, that is an actual depiction of your life.
Every year around this time I decide that I am actually not going to survive the winter. I convince myself that my kids are going to suffocate me to death and I am going to die listening to the sound of my fighting toddlers and a crying baby. I feel like the walls are caving in on me and despite multiple rooms available for play and enough toys for a small army, my kids always find their way onto my body somehow complaining that they are “so, so bored”.
And the darkness plays to my advantage when I want to pretend it’s past their bedtime at 5:15pm, but otherwise it makes me feel like a lazy, trapped, confused weirdo. A week ago I packed everyone up as soon as Matt got home for a Christmas light ride! The boys were in Christmas jammies and I packed up some hot chocolate—the perfect solution to the witching hour! Well, on the way there Rex was such a massive Douchebag that we turned around before the lights and drove home with him and I both crying. ‘TIS THE MUTHA EFFIN SEASON, right?!
Some other yuletide moments have been me unsuccessfully trying to glue gun a failing gingerbread house together with screaming kids—(seriously, THAT FROSTING DOES NOT WORK!), forgetting to dress Rocky in Christmas Pajamas for his special school Pajama Day, sucker-punching Rex in public while he yelled, “THAT’S A FAKE SANTA!” to the toddlers on the Santa boat cruise, and allowing Rocky to eat ice cream before 8:40am twice because I have no fight left. I also think Bizzy ate at least half an ornament yesterday.
And I have started prepping myself for Christmas morning. I get a little Elfish and REALLY into the whole day. I just fucking love all of it. And now I have to prepare myself that despite all of my best efforts to make the morning magical, there are going to be so many unavoidable meltdowns over nothing that will make me want to throw all the gifts in the trash and declare my kids spoiled, crazy brats. Because really, I get overstimulated and whacked out on Christmas, and I am thirty-four. Of course all the excitement and gifts and sugar and cheer is too much for my tiny nutbags. And that’s okay. I need to know that it’s coming, know that it doesn’t mean that they are evil, and Namaste my way through the screams and fights and meltdowns. Maybe I will set a goal. Like, if they only have thirty seven meltdowns, that will be a win. Thirty eight and I will have an extra drink. Win for everyone, really.
And in case you missed my instagram post—the above pic is Rocky with an ENTIRE TUB of Vics Vaporub in his hair. He thought it was hair gel and was “tryin’ to look fancy for Santa.” Eight full shampoos later, it ain’t out. You can smell him from a mile away. MERRY MERRY, BABY!