Elf Baby

It's a commonly known fact that I really, really love the holidays. Since I am a semi-Christian raised white American, we can probably narrow that down to say that I actually really love Christmas. I say the holidays because it's politically correct and also because it encompasses (in my opinion) every single day between Halloween and New Years. My mother likes to tell people I am "part elf" or that I was switched with an elf baby at birth (I know this is false, because I doubt any elves have ever reached 5'6" and 170 lbs, plus I look an awful lot like her, and it's impossible that a woman who holds a "Christmas crying contest" with her friends every year to see who will shed the first holiday tears of frustration could have been born at the North Pole). 

Below, a photo of me on my first Christmas - evidence that I was always this excited about it:

           

I, on the other hand, begin plotting my homemade Christmas gifts starting in September, and send out the first "Christmas list" email of the season to my siblings and parents sometime between Halloween and Thanksgiving. They've grown increasingly cheerful as the years go on, as if extra holiday cheer in their inboxes will stop my family from rolling their eyes at the fact that I still demand Christmas lists. Incidentally, I also write a letter to Santa Claus every Christmas Eve and leave him cookies - in contrast to my cheerfulness, Santa's letters seem to have grown ever more sarcastic.

It might shock you to know that holidays were not all homegrown perfection for me as a kid. Christmas was always anxiously anticipated, but as a child of divorced parents, the holidays always involved the uncomfortable lead-up conversations about where my sister and I should be and when, who was going to "get" us for Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and the actual day. If memory serves, it seems my mother usually won this battle, with us waking up at 6 am for stockings, breakfast with Grandma, and the tree. Sometime in the early afternoon, we were packed into the car and driven to my father's house for Christmas: round 2.

My former stepmother was nothing if not a materialist. When we arrived at Dad's, there would be presents absolutely spilling out of the living room. It really makes me wish we had more pictures saved, because I am not sure anyone would believe me if I told them. However, the torture came first: a fancy meal was usually planned with family members or friends, hosted in the formal dining room with adjoining pocket doors to the living room. We helped with cooking and serving and clean up with the room full of packages staring at us. I will never forget the year that my stepmother hosted a dinner party on Christmas - we didn't begin opening gifts until 8 pm and were still at it at 1:00, when we decided we would rather sleep and finish in the morning than stay awake for one more second, presents or not. 

My over-abundance of Christmas cheer really kicked itself into high gear when I was in high school. My sister, due to circumstances involving the aforementioned materialist, was temporarily estranged from my mother, and Mom's holiday spirit really lacked for several years. At 14, while home alone during school vacation, I climbed a ladder in our front yard and hung lights in my stepfather's maple trees and also on the front porch roof. While happy with the decoration, my parents were not exactly thrilled about me climbing a ladder at the house alone. The same year, I collected family and friend's addresses and began sending my own Christmas cards, something I have now done as a single person for 16 years. I am always the one to remind the family to get a tree. Once (during this same time period), we still had no tree (two days before Christmas!), so my stepfather and I cut one from behind the house. To fill it out, I drilled holes in the trunk and glued discarded branches into the bare spots. 

As an adult, I have moved around quite a bit. Every place I have been, I have encountered new friends who live far from their families, have Christmas horror stories in their past, or who subscribe to the Charlie Brown doctrine of "commercialism has ruined the holiday". Get out of my way, Grinches- I will make sure you have a Merry Christmas! No one can be miserable with me around, throwing up lights at my places of work, assaulting everyone with carols and shoving homemade cookies down their throats. It's December 3rd and I have already watched every Christmas movie I own. Twice. If my cell phone rings this month, it plays Elton John's "Step Into Christmas" at top volume (which has now happened several times in crowded retail establishments - and once in the public library. Oops.). 

As I sit here in my apartment, admiring my fresh-cut tree and twinkling holiday lights, I honestly cannot think of a reason to be miserable- except that my cards aren't addressed, I have barely started my shopping, I have Christmas pajamas to sew, and I have only made ONE variety of cookies so far...