It’s the most wonderful time of the year, my ass…

I’m trying not to be a scrooge. But it’s getting to be damn near impossible not to bah-humbug my way through the holidays.

It’s not like I’m trying to be Martha Stewart here. Our Christmas tree doesn’t even have lights or decorations on it yet — it’s just sitting there, naked and shamed. The kids have snotty noses and haven’t had a bath in two days. I haven’t even wrapped any of their presents yet. I’m not even sure I’ve bought all of their presents.

Then there’s the big C-bomb. I’ve gotta split Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with my newly divorced parents, and hear from various other family members and supermarket cashiers as to just how wrong it is for me not to host both of them in my home on the dear Lord’s birthday and the most joyous day of the year.

Bite me. Does newly divorced mean anything to you people? There’s a reason they’re not living together anymore. Because they hate each other’s guts.

You know what’s the worst part about the holidays? Getting momentarily seized by the holiday madness and working maniacally to serve up a brand-new, spankin’ Christmas in perfect ribbons, bows and confection. It would be so much better to accept on October 15th that it’s just not possible, and coast from there. It’s never perfect. It can’t be perfect. It shouldn’t be perfect. It should just be. To do otherwise would be the real injustice for my children.

If I teach my children nothing else in this life, perhaps I can teach them the value of just being. And being ok with that.

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