There are few chores more depressing than taking down Christmas decorations. The task you celebrated in your couch pants with Irish-cream-spiked coffee and blaring holiday tunes on the Friday after Thanksgiving seems more like a wake when performed in reverse--minus the alcohol and snacks, of course. Drowning (or force-feeding) your sorrows so early in a new year would negate too many of those resolutions you recently formed in a 12-AM-haze of steak fries, Prosecco, and leftover Lindt chocolates. It's a damn shame, though--because a cocktail and a casserole could really take the edge off as you cope with the death of your holiday spirit.
As a kid, packing away the Christmas pageantry was just a big ol' buzz kill you were happy to leave to the grown ups. The amount of shit you gave your parents until they finally bought that goddamn tree was inversely proportional to the number of shits you gave about who made it disappear when the whole shebang was through. Dad's face and arms may be permanently scarred from wrestling old Tannenbaum to the curb--but the tree could just as easily have been pulled into "the upside down" from a mysterious sink hole in the floor for all you knew or cared. You had shit to do, after all. That new Nintendo wasn't gonna play itself.
As a young, childless adult, however, December's festive decor instantly dissolved into the crushing reality of your spent "paid vacation" the second you emerged from your hangover New Year's Day, when every pre-lit wreath and charming strand of icicle lights you once admired in the neighborhood immediately inspired a flagrant middle finger. The Grinch-like specters of work and working out were waiting for you on the other side of tomorrow and every hint of holly turned to poison in the wound of your waning freedom. You could not pack away that Christmas regalia fast enough.
Now, as a parent, you are the bearer of Christmas. You set it up, take it down, and personally manufacture most of the magic in between. At first, you were just going through the motions, taking pictures and talking up Santa for oblivious babies who just wanted to get the hell OFF that strange bearded man's lap. But those kids are now old enough to get it--and still young enough to ignore the inconsistencies in the flimsy story you sold them. Your awkward attempts at magic-making are starting to look and feel like traditions. You are basking "in the moment" of the memories they'll return to long after "Santa" loses his sparkle. They're happy. You're happy. There's nowhere else they'd rather be. Times like these are borrowed--and you know it.
So when it's time to take that tree down, it's depressing as all hell. Like always. But worse. Because it's like packing up your kids as they currently exist. The annoying-ass jingle bells they begged you to buy--in November. One of two wrapped candy canes that actually made it to a branch (because little brother ate the other one on the way home and then cried himself to sleep because he didn't still have it to hang on the tree). The ornaments they made themselves or got as gifts from friends and relatives--the kinds you never see on trendy trees but that bring smiles to the kids' faces and tears to your eyes when you unwrap them year after year. The next time you unpack these, the kids will be another year older and you, a little farther left of center in their universe...
Which is fine. It's all fine. 'Circle of Life' and all that. Kids are made to grow up. So they can one day have the privilege of sobbing internally as they box up the Snoopy snow globe. But for now, you're the parent. So you sneak away, strip the tree, and try to be stealth about trying not to cry, while they play Legos and watch superhero movies. You're less of a stickler for the details now, so you save a few things for later--the lights on the bushes, the last of the living poinsettias, and of course, the Nativity scene, that your mother always told you could totally stay out until January 6th. After all, you've got to give "The Old-Timey Miners" (your son's inexplicable name for the Three Wise Men) time to finish their trek to the manger--and you, a couple extra days to realize that the cherished visions of your sugar plums from this particular year can keep dancing in your head as long as you need--but here and now, it's time to move on with whatever's next.
So you charge forward into the bleak and barren landscape of January--where wishes and whimsy go to die--and hunker down until March. Maybe by then, the hope and excitement of oncoming spring might be just enough to keep you from rolling down your window at the neighbor's lingering lights and lawn ornaments as you pass while screaming, "Come on! It's f'ing MARCH already!!!"
In the meantime, if your 3-year-old spends the whole first week of the new year crying like his dog died every time something doesn't go his way--just go ahead and acknowledge that you feel it, too. Winter is a long, tough season once the holidays are done, whether you enjoyed them or not. At least there's only 352 days left til next Christmas. Fingers crossed that many more will be as merry as this one.
*
As a kid, packing away the Christmas pageantry was just a big ol' buzz kill you were happy to leave to the grown ups. The amount of shit you gave your parents until they finally bought that goddamn tree was inversely proportional to the number of shits you gave about who made it disappear when the whole shebang was through. Dad's face and arms may be permanently scarred from wrestling old Tannenbaum to the curb--but the tree could just as easily have been pulled into "the upside down" from a mysterious sink hole in the floor for all you knew or cared. You had shit to do, after all. That new Nintendo wasn't gonna play itself.
As a young, childless adult, however, December's festive decor instantly dissolved into the crushing reality of your spent "paid vacation" the second you emerged from your hangover New Year's Day, when every pre-lit wreath and charming strand of icicle lights you once admired in the neighborhood immediately inspired a flagrant middle finger. The Grinch-like specters of work and working out were waiting for you on the other side of tomorrow and every hint of holly turned to poison in the wound of your waning freedom. You could not pack away that Christmas regalia fast enough.
Now, as a parent, you are the bearer of Christmas. You set it up, take it down, and personally manufacture most of the magic in between. At first, you were just going through the motions, taking pictures and talking up Santa for oblivious babies who just wanted to get the hell OFF that strange bearded man's lap. But those kids are now old enough to get it--and still young enough to ignore the inconsistencies in the flimsy story you sold them. Your awkward attempts at magic-making are starting to look and feel like traditions. You are basking "in the moment" of the memories they'll return to long after "Santa" loses his sparkle. They're happy. You're happy. There's nowhere else they'd rather be. Times like these are borrowed--and you know it.
So when it's time to take that tree down, it's depressing as all hell. Like always. But worse. Because it's like packing up your kids as they currently exist. The annoying-ass jingle bells they begged you to buy--in November. One of two wrapped candy canes that actually made it to a branch (because little brother ate the other one on the way home and then cried himself to sleep because he didn't still have it to hang on the tree). The ornaments they made themselves or got as gifts from friends and relatives--the kinds you never see on trendy trees but that bring smiles to the kids' faces and tears to your eyes when you unwrap them year after year. The next time you unpack these, the kids will be another year older and you, a little farther left of center in their universe...
Which is fine. It's all fine. 'Circle of Life' and all that. Kids are made to grow up. So they can one day have the privilege of sobbing internally as they box up the Snoopy snow globe. But for now, you're the parent. So you sneak away, strip the tree, and try to be stealth about trying not to cry, while they play Legos and watch superhero movies. You're less of a stickler for the details now, so you save a few things for later--the lights on the bushes, the last of the living poinsettias, and of course, the Nativity scene, that your mother always told you could totally stay out until January 6th. After all, you've got to give "The Old-Timey Miners" (your son's inexplicable name for the Three Wise Men) time to finish their trek to the manger--and you, a couple extra days to realize that the cherished visions of your sugar plums from this particular year can keep dancing in your head as long as you need--but here and now, it's time to move on with whatever's next.
So you charge forward into the bleak and barren landscape of January--where wishes and whimsy go to die--and hunker down until March. Maybe by then, the hope and excitement of oncoming spring might be just enough to keep you from rolling down your window at the neighbor's lingering lights and lawn ornaments as you pass while screaming, "Come on! It's f'ing MARCH already!!!"
In the meantime, if your 3-year-old spends the whole first week of the new year crying like his dog died every time something doesn't go his way--just go ahead and acknowledge that you feel it, too. Winter is a long, tough season once the holidays are done, whether you enjoyed them or not. At least there's only 352 days left til next Christmas. Fingers crossed that many more will be as merry as this one.
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| Our Old-Timey Miners (aka, The Three Wise Men) |
What a sad time. Putting away all the decorations is very sad, but at least you and your family enjoyed them while they were out. Just think. ..you'll have new decorations to add next year.
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